Toxic love

That’s the thing about this city – nothing ever truly changes.

Crystal-like dew has set on leaves and petals, alike. Shadows passing come creeping over to our open window, slide into the room and leave in a blink. The chilly air of early morning smells like pastries and perfume and plight. 

The sound of something crashing makes me jump. I reach for the knife I have hidden in the mattress, blade dressed in thick cloth so it doesn’t pierce it through. Jumping lightly over creaking boards, I make my way towards the door. Silence hangs heavy around me as I walk into the hallway. Back pressed against a picture-less wall, wearing nothing but a sleeping robe, clutching the knife tightly to my chest, I make my way downstairs. 

A man in a blue suit is sitting on the sofa, examining the room. Staring not at me, but at a picture with a broken frame, he says with an accent – one mimicking my own. “You look well.” 

And his husky voice and charming eyes and hair like molten gold make my chest ache with stupid hope. Just like they always do. I hold the knife, gripping it tighter, with its tip pointing towards him. Looking at it, he chuckles. “You never did know how to take a compliment.” 

“It’s not your compliments I want,” I growl, taking half-a-step forward.

He chuckles once again, the sound so painfully forced, and pulls out a vial of brownish liquid. It bubbles and fizzles against the glass trapping it in. My stomach drops and coils and churns at the menacing sight. “I’m done with mithridatism.” But my mouth almost waters as I say it. 

“And you have lied before.” He smirks. “I know you.”

He throws the vial and without thinking, I catch it. It feels small and heavy; it pushes against my palm. 

I don’t want to, but my hand works on its own. My fingers twist around the cap; the air turns dense when I take it off. 

A shiver goes down my spine the moment I see his eyes on mine. Waiting. Watching eagerly with something like amusement dancing in the space between us. “If you truly stopped,” he says, “you wouldn’t be considering it. This dose could kill a person twice your size.”

Sweat is pooling on my brow. The sweet scent of painful death is creeping in my nostrils. I look at him and shake my head. “I don’t even know what this is.”

“Sodium cyanide and apple juice.”

He must’ve noticed my raised eyebrow, since he adds, “You’ve always complained about the taste.”

“How considerate.” I sigh and look down at the vial.

I know I shouldn’t, but I crave it. I crave the bitter taste of poison and the rapid beating of my heart, the headaches and the dizziness. I crave it all. 

Bringing the vial to my lips, I lick the rim. Adrenaline, hot and cold, painful and not, is running through my veins. My heart is pounding, pulsing through my temples. But with shaking hands I pull the vial away moments before the poison kisses my tongue. I place it on the table between me and my husband. His eyes like melted chocolate gaze into my own. “I don’t want to die, Cassian,” I say, then look down at the poison, “I have truly stopped.”

The man’s face is twisted in an expression of utter perplexity. “But you did consider it!” He jumps from the couch and stumbles on his words, “Why? Why would you consider it, even for a second?”

I sit down on the floor, mumbling in my chest, “I got caught up in the moment.”

“Liar.” He sits next to me and sighs. Touching one of my cheeks, he turns my head to look at him. “Why?” His voice is so calm, so soft it kills me.

I examine his face – every single inch of it – then shake my head with a smile- phantom on my lips. I stop to order racing thoughts. “It truly is you, is it not?”

Narrow eyes, arched eyebrows make up his expression, but he nods nonetheless. 

“They told me you’d been caught and killed. I left The Organization shortly after and mithridating became useless. I changed my name. I ran away “.

“I did get caught,” he interrupts, but I don’t care. I just want to hear his voice. “I got caught hours before I was to end my mission.” A cheeky smile spreads across his face. “But I escaped.”

I nod. He couldn’t have come to me before. He must’ve been followed – on the run - for all these never- ending years. His explanation does make sense and I know it must’ve been nightmarish for him, but all I can think about and wonder is ‘Was he as lonely as I was? Sitting in his bed and thinking of our borrowed time? Thinking of the blue of my eyes and the red of my hair and my laugh and my voice as I used to do with his?’ I don’t dare ask, but I don’t have to, for he answers it before I get the chance to talk, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I left.” He chuckles once more, forced or not, I cannot tell. “I’ve never imagined I could almost kill you, though.”

“How come you’d brought me poison?” He was never alright with my peculiar line of work and its training - spies were us both, but I mostly dealt with conversations, dinners and diplomacy, rather than his snipers and war. He had bulletproof vests; I had a tolerance for poisons. 

“It’s still early so I figure you haven’t taken your dose yet.” He looks down and fidgets with his fingers. “I was trying to be helpful.”

“Oh,” is all I say. But I can feel my heart swelling every second he’s by my side.

 “Why didn’t you lower the knife when you first saw me?” he asks, forcing me to focus on him instead of bitter-sweet emotions. 

It isn’t a question out of sadness or of angry mockery – just a simple curious question with an answer I do not exactly know. I close my eyes and try to think.

“I was scared. . .”

He raises an eyebrow, but stays silent. “I was scared of hoping it was truly you.” I sigh. “It wouldn’t have been the first time you were one of my mirages.” My cheeks flame and redden from the truth. 

“Does the knife help with the illusions?”

An unexpected laughter claws at my throat. “That was in case you were a clone from The Organization. They sometimes send them to try and give me new assignments.”

“Why don’t you move if they know where you live?”

“I did. . . many times.” I shrug. “This is my fourth house in five years and so far, so good, I guess. It’s been twenty months since I last had to pull out the knife.”

Smirking, he whispers in my ear, “And are you sure I’m not a clone?”

I grab his chin and whisper back, “You would’ve already been dead if you were.”

 His eyes sparkle as if he were drunk. I’m sure mine look the same – drunk on love and happiness and freedom to finally live the happy life we’ve always dreamed of. 

That’s the thing with this city – nothing ever truly changes, but the lives and the people living in it. The dew won’t care that we were together, the shadows will still slither in and out the room, pastries and plight will still perfume the air like on any other day. But from now on, I will have him by my side.