Lacerta

Night falls the same way it always does, and my time is passed the same way it always is. The sun disappears in his orange-red painted farewell, and the moon takes the place her lover left. I always imagined they were in love, anyway. A forbidden, never-to-be, romantic in a sad way kind of love. I lean against the windowsill to watch the display and wonder if the moon is as in awe as I am of her sun’s ability to paint the sky like that.

Once the black-blue covers the horizon and the stars start to poke through, but before I can find the constellations, I stand for a moment. Just long enough to stretch any more stress from my body so I can truly enjoy the show the sky is about to put on. If the moon and sun are in love, maybe the stars are their children. But something about the glory of a star renders a strange feeling when you call it a child. It seems they deserve more respect than that.

The dark is soon lit by them, cluster by cluster, constellation by random pattern. The shine and the glow the burning points create is something that always seems new to me, no matter how many times I see it. I never get bored of it, and it never fails to comfort me. 

I pull open the top left drawer of the desk sitting just beside the windowsill and pull out the notebook and star map. A light pink pencil that seems as if a toy ballerina belongs on the top of it is laying oh-so-straight above the drawer, and I tuck it behind my ear. 

The night always goes like this, before I have to begin a day. I’ll spend as much time as possible watching, tracking, and observing. I love seeing the sky, the subtle differences night to night as the earth moves around these fixed points of light. The day is interesting as well, with the clouds and sun patterns, but something is just…different. About the night. Mystery, dark, whatever it may be. I don't need to know. Just enjoy.

The moon is full, the summer night is humid and warm, and I have a beautiful view of Lacerta, my favorite constellation. My calculations were incorrect, I predicted I’d be seeing it clearly the day after tomorrow. Tonight is the brightest I’ve ever seen.

“What about the night fascinates you?”

I startle when the voice unexpected and out of place sounds from somewhere outside. I go as still as possible, my mind running over a billion possibilities and minor panic starting to rise. But, I doubt a robber would be asking me about my interests.

“I apologize if it’s a forward question,” the voice chimes again. There’s a pause before it rings out, “or a sensitive topic.”

“Are you alright?” I ask, not moving from my place at the windowsill. I don't want to disturb whoever - or whatever - is discussing my nighttime habits with me, “you do realize you’re talking to someone on the 17th floor?”

“I do indeed.”

“So how?” I resist the urge to stand up and take a look, “some sort of climbing gear?”

“What would I need that for?”

I decide to give up on the idea of self-control, and I stand slowly to gaze a little below the windowsill.

“What’s your name?” I ask while edging closer and closer to where I’ll be able to see who owns it.

“Amaryllis.”

“It's pretty.”

“Well, it’s the name you’ll understand.”

That gives me even more pause. It sounds a little on the edge of crazy, one more sentence away from tipping off the edge and meeting a harsh death. 

“What’s one that I will not?”

The voice speaks a few syllables like nothing I’ve heard before. It reminds me of bells ringing, I hear rain or a waterfall, it feels like peace, and it sounds like silence full of memories.

“Could you teach me?” I ask immediately, to which the voice chuckles. I then decide that it sounds distinctly female. It was unclear before.

“Perhaps later,” she says gently.

I feel, then, a distinct sense of being left. It’s a loss so quick that only someone looking for it will feel it. Unfortunately, as with everything, I was looking for it.

I barely slept, my energy spent on wondering. I didn’t feel nearly as unnerved as I should have by an invisible voice hovering just out of sight of my 17th-floor apartment. In reality, it just intrigues me, which was the cause of my wide-open eyes all night.

I regret it immensely now, trying to enter and copy the numbers from paper to digital. I spend my days here, painstakingly doing work that likely could be done by a child. I turn myself back to the computer by sheer force of will, lifting one of the papers and hitting a few keys. The first of pages upon pages of data has been entered.

I walk home in a daze. Everything feels wrong. 

My skin hurts.

It’s not a paper-cut hurt, not a bump or scrape or bruise hurt. I don't know if I could explain it.

It feels like I’m growing too big for my body. Like something is stretching and growing but nothing else is growing with it. Growing pains for a grown adult.

I think, maybe, I just don't fit anymore. I’d love to be something else. Like a flower, or a poisonous mushroom who’ll always be left alone. I don't want to think.

I don't intend to be pretentious or overly poetic. I’ve been accused of both - and more - throughout my life. Saying my skin hurts because my soul is outgrowing the physical aspect of myself is a little dramatic. That’s what I would be told. But I don't know. It’s an explanation that feels exactly right.

I try my level best to simply enjoy the night, to stay in my routine. The only one I don’t hate. But I find myself leaning out of the window instead of settling on the sill, watching and waiting to see if the...creature from last night will make another appearance. I hope she does.

The night passes without a sound beyond the noise of traffic.

The next day is the same.

“Kit, you are something else,” I mutter to myself on the third day. It’s 2 AM and not a sight nor sound of anything out of the ordinary. I’ve stayed up entirely too late the past few nights, and for what reason? A fantasy. I’ve questioned several times what I saw and heard, or rather what I thought. It wouldn’t be unimaginable for me to have used too much imagination. I don't know what I was hoping for, or why I thought something like this would change anything at all.

The clock on the wall with the etching of my Aries constellation strikes for three. I can’t help but glance out the window again; the witching hour on the third day has to have some sort of effect. But nothing. I turn my back to make my way to my bedroom.

A slight tapping on the glass of the now-closed window.

I freeze immediately, I could very well be imagining it. It could be nothing, it would certainly be nothing I’d have noticed if I wasn’t so vigilant tonight. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

I turn to the window and barely restrain myself from dashing to throw it open. Instead, I force myself to sit calmly in the chair I always occupy. I decide to follow my routine as closely as possible - even though it feels wrong to repeat it once completed - and not try and snatch her attention.

“I had thought perhaps you’d be a bit more inquisitive.”

I grin at the sound of the voice, all relief and muscles loosening. Even so, I force myself still. It feels risky to do anything else. Like I could lose her at any sudden movement.

“I knew you’d eventually show,” I lie smoothly, “never a doubt.”

“Hm,” the voice hums as low as a whale, yet still distinctly feminine. 

“An interesting opinion,” she purrs, “for an interesting girl. May I have a name, dear?”

Something gives me pause. I think immediately of the books I would read as a child. The tales of fae and their tricks.

“You may,” I respond, “though it will not be mine. Tik.”

I wonder if spelling my name backward like that is still giving mine. But every name is just a combination of the same letters, isn’t it?

“A fascinating name, child.”

If that was the right or wrong answer - or if it even mattered - the voice doesn’t give an indication. 

“Now, what interests you so much about the night sky?”

I sigh, leaning my elbow on the windowsill and resting my chin in my hand. It’s a move to get me closer to seeing, I just hope it was subtle.

“The difference and the sameness. It’s always something new but never so new that you become uncomfortable. You get to see all brand-new sights that you already saw the night before.”

The light laughter that comes is a startle. Not that it’s harsh, just unexpected.

“I don’t understand what’s funny,” my tone is a bit more biting than I thought it would be and I wonder if I should apologize and take it back. 

“Nothing, my dear, not a thing in the world,” comes the cheery reply before I have a chance, “merely an adorable sentiment from an adorable girl.”

“Now, tell me, what are you missing that you hope to find in the night sky?”

“What?”

“I could help.”

The voice is so happy, so giving, so entirely ready to do anything for me. But I’m nearly certain it’s a trick, that’s how fairies work, isn’t it?

“How?” I ask, wondering if I should.

“Well, Tik,” the voice says with a hint of amusement, “I simply need one promise.”

“Like what?”

I’m startled when a head suddenly pokes up from under the windowsill. Only up to her completely white, glowing eyes so I can’t see her mouth. Her blue skin shimmers and her pointed ears have many chains and hoops hanging from them. I don’t know how long her hair is, but it’s shining silver as bright as a star.

“You’re beautiful,” I say suddenly, hardly knowing the words are coming from my mouth. I’m compelled to be honest. Not that I’m a frequent liar, but I think she would know anyways.

The laughter like bells and charm rings out again, “Thank you, child. Now, for the promise.”

She rises completely to where I can see her. She’s small, though bigger than I thought a fairy would be. She has four wings that sparkle the same silver as her hair, and her dress is a deep, rich black. Looking at it instantly reminds me of the far reaches of space.

“In order for me to show you,” she continues, “you must invite me in.”

“Are you a fairy?” I ask immediately. I need to know what I’m inviting in.

“Some would say so, I suppose,” she laughs, “I am a star keeper.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out.”

She extends her hand, barely large enough to hold three of my fingers. 

“Well?” She asks with a bright smile.

I consider for a moment, but really, what do I have to lose? I bring my hand to meet hers, and she grasps it with a strength I didn’t expect from such a small creature.

“Please, come in.”

She grins again, and my vision goes blank for a moment. It should scare me, who knows if I fainted, if I’m now blind, who knows what just occurred. Perhaps I died.

“You can open your eyes again.”

I do, painstakingly slowly, afraid of what I might see. 

My apartment looks the same. The only change is the star keeper, now fully inside and standing before me, reaching my height and glowing. I watch quietly as she paces my apartment slowly, crossing the short floor to the kitchen directly beside the desk. Her pure white eyes scan the entire room and its contents, modest as they are. I simply watch her, and the smile that forms on her face.

“You have a lovely home,” she says softly. The look that washes over her is something I can only describe as awe, and perhaps, a bit of longing.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don't know how else to respond.

“Are you happy, Kit?”

I close my eyes for a moment. I knew the backward spelling was a silly idea. But, maybe she would have known either way.

“I am.”

“You are not.”

Amaryllis paces the room again, turning in slow circles and letting her gaze drag over the sink, fridge, desk, table and single chair, bedroom door, and back again. 

“But you should be.”

“What is there to be happy about?”

The break in my voice startles me as every emotion I’ve ever felt rises to the surface. Or so it feels. Because it’s true. 

What do I have to be happy about?

“What do I do when it hurts to be alive?” I ask in barely a whisper, “How should I be happy in a place like this, my entire life contained in a space hardly big enough for a bedroom?”

It feels like my feet are suddenly released from whatever must have been binding them. I take the opportunity and practically race across the room back to where I had been before I blacked out. Where I always am, where it always feels a little less suffocating.

“I just can’t do this anymore.”

The sky is more glorious tonight than it has been in a long while. It surprises me that I hadn’t noticed it. But then again, I was busy looking for a silver-shining girl.

She comes to lean against the windowsill beside me. She looks at peace here.

“But what is there for you to love?”

She leans her head back against the upper part of the window that doesn’t open. She’s still scanning the room, and I know for a fact now that the look she wears is intense longing. I recognize it so well.

“You can find a million things to hate and to wish were taken away from you. It’s easy to find them. But who wants something easy?”

The thought hadn’t crossed my mind before. My expression must have changed because hers does into a small smile.

“I know how difficult it is,” she assures, “but you’re already well on your way. I’ve noticed how well you love my stars. What in your life could you love as you love them?”

She strides across the room to where an old plant has withered and died. I used to be better about it. This place used to be clean. I used to love it.

“Surrounding yourself with death does not make it easier,” she says gently before crouching down to level herself with the pot. She smiles again before exhaling, her breath glittering as it settles over a few leaves near the bottom of the plant. I watch in awe as color is restored, a slight shade of green emerging from the black. 

“I can’t do all the work for you. But I can help you begin.”

I watch her glide back to the window, this time sitting on the open sill and swinging one leg out, her obsidian dress billowing.

“Why did you come here?” I ask.

“Because I see the way you look at my stars. And I wanted to make sure you would be around to keep looking.”

With that, she disappears. No grand gesture, no sparkle left behind. Like she was never here.

I woke up the next morning unsure if it was a dream. I am nearly too afraid to look at my plant, afraid I’ll see nothing but black and death. 

But the green sprouting at the base of the shrunken stems is a beautiful sight.

I get a little water, making certain that I won’t drown the poor thing. All the years I spent cultivating my green thumb come rushing back to me. The memories of the failed gardens dismay me a little, but it’s quickly dissipated by the recollection of the first time I sprouted a flower, my first house plant that made it to a year. I’d like to try it again.

I remember, now, that I named this particular plant Harold.