Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (17 page)

I didn’t understand. Had my Voice changed? Had the testing
revealed a truth I’d never wanted to see? Was
I
broken?

§

Nine months went without a word. I caught sight of her on
the news. Never her face or form, only what she’d built. A statue of another
country’s goddess, a museum that would soon be filled with the treasures from
an archaeological dig, and so many others. They were all so beautiful. So
perfect.

I was proud of her, proud of her Voice, or so I told myself in
the quiet hours after waking with the memory of her touch still on my skin.

Then I bumped into her at a coffee shop.

“Lucia?”

She turned slowly, too slowly, her face curiously devoid of
emotion. She offered a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“When did you get back?” I asked.

“Yesterday, but I’m leaving early in the morning.”

I wiped the hurt from my face, but I knew she saw it.

“So soon?”

“Yes.”

The word came out sharp enough to sting.

I convinced her to come to my house. We made love. When she
kissed me, her mouth was hard, and her fingers left tiny marks on my skin. A
punishment, perhaps. But for what?

We said I love you; we didn’t say goodbye. But I tasted the truth
in her lips, hidden beneath a cold chill.

In the morning, I found a new bridge across the river. It was
beautiful, all shimmering cables and delicate scrollwork. I hated it on sight.

IV. ARCH

The news broke the story of a new prison in a country I’d
never heard of, and when I recognized its shape, I turned off the television
with a snarl. The Lucia I once knew would have refused.

And why didn’t she leave? Contracts, like hearts, could be
broken. I waited for a call. A letter. Anything at all. I wanted to hear her
say it was over. I deserved that much.

Standing by the river, I sang broken bits of stone and cables
that untwisted as soon as they were made. My Voice was only strong when it was
entwined with hers.

I poured over satellite imagery and found traces of her in a
sweatshop, a brothel, another prison. Pretty things that could not hide the
ugliness of their intent.

Did she want to build such things? Had she been building them all
along, even when the news showed the statues and museums? Did they force her?

I hated her.

I hated that I still loved her.

Strangers with long hair and
laughing eyes filled my bed. I drank wine and vodka. Smoked cigarettes. Ate
chips with vinegar. Turned on the music and sang with my regular voice until it
was hoarse. Screamed until I couldn’t speak. Exposed myself to anyone with a
cough or a labored breath. Spent weeks with inflamed tonsils and a fever.

I visited all the places she’d loved to go, hoping for a glimpse
of her face, yet dreading the same. No matter how hard I tried, I could not
forget the scent of her hair, the way her body felt next to mine, the way her
lips always tasted of honey.

§

Our third bridge was narrow with no railings, just a shining
sheet of marble that spanned the river. We sang our initials into the stone,
stood at its apex, and made a wish on a shooting star.

§

I saw her in the city square the day of the spring festival,
half-hidden by the crowd. She was standing with her arms crossed, staring at
the buildings built by others a long time ago. I saw a hard glint in her eyes
and a strange twist on her mouth. A ghost of someone I once knew.

With a heart full of broken hope, I called out her name. Her head
turned in my direction, our gazes caught and held for one quick moment, then
she vanished into the crowd.

I ran to the space where
she’d been and thought I saw her again, but when I called her name the second
time, she didn’t turn around.

Maybe she hadn’t seen me.

I almost believed it.

§

When I saw a palace built in a country known for its
subjugation of women, I unplugged my television. A light rain was falling as I
walked to the river with my hands clenched into fists. How could she? Why would
she?

I recalled the distant, dismissive look in her eyes. That wasn’t
my Lucia. She wasn’t hard. She didn’t hurt.

But maybe I’d only seen what
I wanted to. Maybe I always had.

Our bridges stood like silent
soldiers. I took a deep breath and sang discordance. Destruction. The night air
filled with the high-pitched screech of metal on metal, the twang of sprung
cables, and heavy thuds. Steel curled away in ribbons from the framework. The
cables tied and twisted into complicated knots. The sheet of marble crumbled
into pebbles to line the river bottom.

I left the first bridge alone.
It didn’t need my Voice. Time would take its own toll. My tears tasted of
honey, of loss, yet buried deep within, a hint of steel and stone. Of strength.
And when my sorrow dried to salt upon my cheeks, I walked away and left behind
all the pieces I’d unmade.

§

I slept with a records man in the government office in
exchange for information. The stubble on his cheeks left red marks on my
breasts, and afterward, I stood in the shower until the water turned to ice,
trying to erase the feel of his weight from my body.

I plugged my television back in and watched countless hours of
plastic-faced newscasters. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the look on
Lucia’s face. Felt the empty space in the bed. Felt my hands become fists and
my chest tighten.

I packed my suitcase.

§

No grand ceremonies had been held to celebrate the camps
Lucia built high in the mountains in a country with a sordid history. I read
documents that stated the camps were to help with prison overcrowding, but I
didn’t believe them. New monsters often wore old monsters’ faces.

They were no guards, no prisoners. Yet. I touched my hands to the
outside wall and felt Lucia’s song buried deep within. Why employ Lucia, why
call for her talent, her beauty? Did they need it built quickly, or did they
want the discretion? I took a deep breath and sang my destruction. I kept my
Voice low, but my notes were steady and sure. They rose and fell and crept
inside, hiding within hers.

If the government found out what I could do, I would be quietly
removed or perhaps put into service destroying on command, like a trained
puppy.

Would I become a story? Once upon a time, there was a woman who
sang of hurt and broken things. Who tried to fix her heart by shattering the
one who tore it to pieces. It didn’t seem like the sort of story that came with
a happy ending.

I walked away before the stone collapsed, but I heard its echo. I
swallowed my guilt. I’d have more than enough before it was over.

§

The news said nothing. What she built, I destroyed. Out of
love? Out of anger? For justice? Did it matter? I watched a thousand stones
crumble, a hundred walls collapse. I waited for someone to discover what I’d
done. I waited for someone to discover what I was.

It was too easy. No one ever noticed the lone figure slipping in
and out of the shadows. Surely if what I’d done was wrong, someone would have.

At night, alone in strange beds in one hotel after another, I
closed my eyes. Saw the look in her face. Would she smile now? Would she hate
me?

Would the hurt fade away?

§

And then I was done.

V. SUSPENSION

On a warm day in April, I stepped outside to check the mail,
and Lucia was sitting on the porch with a wine bottle in hand, no scarf around
her neck. My lips parted, but only silence emerged.

“They terminated my contract,” she said, her voice husky. “Vocal
instability.”

I kept my face still. “I’m sorry.”

Her face no longer wore a
stranger’s expression, but there were shadows beneath her eyes and hollows
under her cheekbones.

She lifted the bottle of
wine. “Do you have any plans for dinner?”

Her voice wavered. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to tell her
too much time had passed and I had too many secrets, but instead, I wrapped my
arms around her. I’d destroyed enough.

We talked about life. We didn’t talk about bridges or Voice or
building. We drank the wine and laughed and pretended the laughter wasn’t
strained. I searched her eyes for a sign that I’d saved her. Instead, I saw my
own guilt looking back.

Later, when the sun set, I asked if she wanted to stay. She put
her arms around me, but like old spoons in a drawer, our shine was tarnished,
our hollows empty.

She didn’t look back when she left. I wanted to call out, to tell
her the truth, to beg her forgiveness, but my mouth would not make the words. I
watched her disappear into the darkness until tears turned the world to a blur.

We should have ended on a
different note, a fading trill in a minor chord, perhaps. Something more than
silence. But for all we built and destroyed, neither one of us had the voice
for goodbye.

Inside each grief is a lonely ghost of silence, and inside
each silence are the words we didn’t say.

§

I find the first photograph face down on the mat outside the
front door. In a rush to get to the office, I tuck it in the pocket of my
trousers, thinking it a note from a neighbor. An invitation to dinner maybe.

I pull my car onto the highway, into a mess of brake lights and
angry horns, and shake my head. Morning traffic is always the same. Not sure
how anyone could expect otherwise.

When I reach for my cigarettes,
I pull out the photo instead—you, with a lock of your hair curling over one
cheek, the trace of a smile on your lips, and your eyes twin pools of dark, a
touch of whimsy hidden in their depths. Beautiful. Perfect. A spray of roses
peeks over your shoulder, the blooms a pale shade of ivory. Far in the
distance, a faint strain of music, your favorite song, echoes away.

The surface of the photo is
slick beneath my fingertips, and when I lift it to my nose I catch a hint of
perfume. Sweet and delicate, but with an undertone of some exotic spice. I will
never forget that smell.

I close my eyes tight against the tears. Yes, tears, even after
all this time. I knew you’d find me. I’ve always known.

§

Please let me go. Please.

Never.

§

In the middle of the night I wake to the smell of flowers. I
move from room to room with a dry mouth and a heart racing madness, turn on all
the lights, and check the windows and doors. Locked
or unlocked, it doesn’t matter. If you want to come back, they won’t stop you.
Nothing will. The photographs are proof of that. Still, the locks are a routine
that makes me feel as if I’m doing something other than waiting.

I peer through the glass to the backyard where moonlight is
skittering across the grass. The tree branches sway gently back and forth like
a couple lost in the rhythm of a dance. I whisper your name, my voice breaking,
and only house noise answers. I rake my fingers through my hair. I don’t know
if I can go through this again, but I also know I have no choice.

I never did.

§

The next photo appears face up on the coffee table in the
living room. Same smile, but with your hair pulled back in a ponytail. A thin
chain of silver circles your neck; the fingertips of your right hand are barely
touching the small medallion hanging below the hollow at the base of your
throat. A trace of dark shadows the skin beneath your eyes.

Baby
, those shadows say.

Yes, I still remember the sound of your voice.

I fumble a cigarette free from
the pack; it takes three tries before I can hold my lighter still enough to
guide the flame where it needs to go.

When my job transferred me from one coast to another, I thought
the distance would be too great for you. Even when I still lived in the old
house, it had been over a year since you left the last photo. I’d thought you
were gone.

I know it won’t be any different this time, no matter how much I
want otherwise. This hope is a strange thing, a wish wrapped in barbed wire. Or
maybe delusion.

§

The smell of flowers again in the middle of the night. I
stay in bed, the sheet fisted in my hands. Heart full of chaos; head full of
images.

§

My coworker catches me at the end of the day when I’m
slipping into my coat. “Hey, a bunch of us are going to happy hour. Want to
come?”

“No, maybe next time.”

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “That’s what you said
the last time.”

“Sorry, I already have plans.”

“You said that, too.”

I shrug one shoulder, step
away before he can say anything else.

§

I sit with the television on mute, listening to the silence.
A book sits unread on the sofa beside me; a glass of iced tea long gone warm
rests on the table. Condensation beads around the base of the glass like tears.

The minutes tick by. The hours pass. I listen to nothing. I wait.

§

Another photograph. On the bottom step of the staircase this
time. You, captured on a blue and white striped blanket, shielding your eyes
from the sun. Even in the frozen bright, the shadows under your eyes are
visible, and your skin is too pale. Next to you on the blanket is a crumpled
napkin, a plastic cup on its side, a bit of cellophane wrap holding a rainbow’s
arc on its surface, a few grains of sand. I hear the rush of a wave as it
touches the shore, then another as it recedes. The salt tang of the ocean
hovers in the air, but only for an instant.

§

I smell flowers in the night. Maybe it’s my imagination, but
the scent is growing stronger. A promise or recrimination?