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I remember running to the sea
The burning houses and the trees
I remember running to the sea
Alone and blinded by the fear
And the river flows beneath your skin
Like savage horses kept within
And all is wasted in the sand
Like breaking diamonds with your hand
Octavia sits in a hard plastic chair, her hands folded in her lap, waiting. The reception area is unusually empty this afternoon, just a bored woman on duty at the front desk and a wizened lady snoring in her seat.
There’s a high, buzzing sound in her ears. She doesn’t know if it’s some ambient noise or coming from inside her brain.
For the hundredth time she wonders how she got to this place.
Because I’m stupid, she thinks.
*
That night she returned home a little tipsy from two martinis, flushed and pleased with how her second date with Josh had gone. It’s all going to work out, she thought as she walked up the stairs.
She found him leaning against her door, his hat tipped over his forehead. “Miller,” she sighed, feeling her hands ball into fists. “What are you doing here?”
It had been more than a month since she’d last seen him, since she’d transferred to the Juvenile Unit, housed halfway across the station from HQ and far away from him. Tonight he looked paler and skinnier, probably the result of too much booze and far too little food and sleep. She imagined him becoming thinner and thinner each day until he finally faded away into nothingness.
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Loitering,” he said.
Octavia squared her shoulders. “I think you need to leave.”
He shook his head. “I think I need to stay.” His fingers brushed loose hairs off her forehead.
Like the idiot she was, she unlocked the door and let him in.
*
The nurse confirms what she already knew.
The buzzing sound grows louder in Octavia’s ears, drowning out the sound of the nurse’s voice. She stares at her hands, gripping the paper on the examination table, as if this handhold is the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.
“Do you give your consent?” the nurse asks, a strange compassion in her eyes.
Octavia nods. “Yes,” she says.
There’s more talk, instructions and warnings, but Octavia can’t really hear the nurse above the buzz. A thin thread of nausea curls in her belly, making her mouth water. She signs several forms on a clipboard, the pen unsteady in her hand.
“Take both pills when you get home,” the nurse says, handing over a small, white bottle. “And call us if you have any issues.”
The bottle is curiously light in her hand.
*
She’d only lived in her new apartment for two months. It still felt empty, unfinished, boxes stacked in the corner, shelves yet to be assembled.
“It’s going to be different this time,” Miller said. He tossed his coat on the sofa. “I’m going to be different, Tavi.”
Octavia wondered how many times he’d told her that—drunk, sober, in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. And she wondered when she’d finally stop believing him. Not tonight, though, not when he shoved her against the wall and kissed her, deep and slow and just the way she liked it. He tasted like cheap moss whiskey and strangely like blood, the tang of iron filling her mouth. She imagined dark blood dripping from their mouths, running down their bodies to pool on the floor.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear, his hands cupping and squeezing her breasts, pressing his erection into her belly.
She knew better than that. Miller didn’t know how to love anyone.
But while her brain had stopped responding to him months ago, her body traitorously remembered. It remembered him all too well. For more than three years, it had belonged only to him, was programmed to respond to his fingers, his mouth, his cock.
“Nothing will change,” she whispered in his ear, gasping as his fingers found her wet for him, only him. Only Miller knew just how to touch her, to make her spine feel like it was dissolving.
“This time is different,” he whispered, unzipping his trousers. Her leg wrapped around his body, ready for him.
No, it isn't she thought, her head uselessly thrashing against the wall as Miller slid deep inside her.
*
She walks home from the Tube, feeling paradoxically better than she has in months. This situation isn't something she ever wanted to experience but it's closure in a strange sort of fashion.
Just a few blocks from her apartment, she spots a gaggle of kids in crisp blue and white uniforms, some of the lucky ones who get to go to school. They’re running and shoving each other, laughing, all skinny knees and missing teeth. She smiles, remembering what it felt like to be free after a long day of classes, ready to go home for snacks and vids.
One of the boys is smaller than the rest, perhaps just kindergarten age. His backpack seems much too large for him but he trudges on, tagging behind the other kids. His skin is a clear, light olive and his eyes a curious amber, his hair a halo of tight brown curls touched with gold.
She stops, her hand covering her mouth. She remembers all the dreams she’d once had for the two of them.
The little boy passes out of her field of vision and she starts walking again, this time slower, memories weighing her down like gravity.
*
They lay together in her bed, breathing hard. Octavia touched his chest, just bones and sinew beneath the skin and hair. She felt rushes of emotion—love and pleasure, sorrow and regret—coursing through her nerves.
Nothing will change, she thought. Because he can’t. Even for you.
She sat up, hugging her knees. It's now or never, she thought.
“What’s wrong?” Miller said, his voice hoarse.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, look at him. To look at his face would mean losing her resolve.
“Get out,” she said, anger rising in her chest.
Miller rose and touched her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She pushed his hand away. “You heard me. Get out and don’t come back. Ever.”
For a long time, she sat in bed, willing herself not to cry. At least, not until she heard the door closing behind him as he left.
*
Octavia sits at the edge of her bed, holding the bottle in her hands. A glass of water waits on the bedside table. Her mouth is dry and her hands can’t stop shaking.
It feels so final to do this. There’s no going back.
She knows it’s the right thing to do, the only thing. There’s no future for them, no happy ending, and she can’t do this alone.
Shaking the two pills out of the bottle into her hand, she discovers they’re a dark red color, almost brown. How appropriate, she thinks, taking a deep breath.
Octavia swallows the pills and curls up on the bed, waiting to bleed.