You were called an angel today. Prove it to yourself.
In the colorful garden of green, grey, and violet seeds, there are a few pink ones. You pull out one pink seed and a pocketknife and close the vault.
You play some classical music and meet Karl in the living room, joining him on the floor while the cat scratches the couch’s armrest. Your flute of chardonnay already awaits you on the diamond-shaped coffee table, as is routine in your household. You sit on the outrageously overpriced Oriental rug you bought simply because you could, kicking one boot off your foot on the spot where you tracked in mud last week and the other where you spat out Karl’s favorite red wine. You’re positive the seller would die of a heart attack if they saw the carpet today.
You fall flat on your back, staring at yourself in the ceiling mirror, and let the music calm your pounding heart.
Karl inches toward you with your chardonnay. “You okay? You seem a little on edge.”
“Do you think I’m an angel?”
The mirror doesn’t show you as an angel, but what the hell does a mirror know? Mirrors only know what you show them, not the other way around.
Karl hovers over you, blocking your reflection, and smiles down at you. “I would have to be a clown’s ass to think the girl who saved me from a burning bridge is anything less than angelic.”
“Would you love me if I didn’t save you?” You’re not sure you want the answer, but the question is out there.
But Karl’s smile doesn’t break. “No shit, Slate. I was just too busy thanking you after you saved me to fall in love with you.”
“When did you fall in love with me?”
“You know the answer,” he says.
“Maybe I forgot,” you say.
“Been dipping into your supply of Daze lately?”
“Tell me why you love me or I’ll make you forget your parents,” you joke.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Karl says. He laughs. He stops hovering over you and lies beside you, taking your hand in his.
You both look at the mirror above, the you-shaped constellations gazing back at you. The cat runs across the room like a shooting star, staring at its own reflection through the closed window.
“I love how hard you work at creating a better world,” Karl says, massaging your palm. “I know everyone doesn’t get it. I sometimes struggle with it, too. But the police and mercenaries will eventually wake up to your good one day. I can’t wait until we don’t have to sneak into masquerade-themed proms just so we can dance together in public. And I hate how our first kiss at that Korean restaurant was in the dark corner instead of under all those lit lanterns. I wish everyone could see you for who you really are. They will soon enough.” He sits up, pulling you with him by your wrists. “Once you’re done fixing the world.”
He wants everyone to see you for who you really are.
But he should see you before everyone can.
You press one hand against his broad chest and gaze into his green eyes. Your other hand reaches for the pink seed in your pocket. He closes his eyes and leans in to kiss you, and you swiftly put the seed on the tip of your tongue.
The kiss lights you up with the same electricity that it always does—victory as charged as a lightning storm and high-voltage love. The pink seed rolls into his mouth, dissolving on his tongue before he has the chance to realize it’s there. The kiss twists within moments. You open your eyes when he goes still, beaming when he opens his own. You find terror, as expected, from someone who’s no longer under Trance and kissing someone he doesn’t actually love.
He rips himself away from you as you laugh.
“You.”
“Me.” You tilt your head and blow him a kiss.
“Wh-wh-where am I?” Karl looks around, confused, and the only thing he recognizes is his cat. Well, there’s you, of course. But that’s obvious: you’re unforgettable. You watch Karl’s eyes as they scan the room. He spots the four-pronged candelabra, which would actually be a decent weapon in the hands of someone who wasn’t scared of a fight or at least knew how to make a fist; that person is not Karl. Not before, not now.
You draw your pocketknife and flip it open, twirling it between your fingers.
“I wouldn’t,” you warn. You tap the flat of the blade against your cheek. “Unless you want a mask, too.”
“You drugged me,” he says.
“Ah, there’s that astute scientist brain of yours, Karl.”
“What? That’s not my name,” Karl says.
“Yeah, well, Franklin is an old man’s name.”
“It was passed down to me!”
“I didn’t care for it.” And you refuse to call Karl by that name.
“It’s all about you.”
“So what if it is?” You step toward him, the pocketknife dancing between your fingers, and corner him between two oversize prints of modern art. “You have a good thing going for you here, Karl. You and Retrieve kept getting in my way, but I’m merciful. I let you live and, more important, I gave you a new life. You haven’t even said thank you.”
“You’re an egomaniac,” Karl says.
“And you’re unappreciative,” you say. “You’re alive, for starters. I also let you keep that damn cat.” You thought the cat would grow on you, but it’s hard to love something that tries to scar your face further, leaving scratches on your cheek like tally marks. You take another couple of steps toward Karl, closing the space between you two, and press him against the wall with the hilt of your pocketknife. You roll the knife around and drag the tip of the blade up his chest and stop at his neck. “Would you be happier dead?”
“You won’t kill me,” Karl says, avoiding your eyes.
You grab his arm and whisper in his ear, “I already have.” He tenses with your breath against his face. “I resurrected you, but you will die again. I don’t have to shove a knife in your throat to do so. The city will forget about you. Without Daze. All they need is time and they’ll forget about you the same way they do when airplanes vanish without a trace, or when children go missing.”
“My friends will find me,” Karl says.
You shake your head. You’re sure that tacky brute will have gunned down many of his friends by now. He’s probably already on his way to drown himself. “Corpses aren’t exactly known for their detective skills, I’m afraid. You’re missing, Franklin Ladeaux, and there won’t be anyone around to find you by the end of the night.” You laugh in his face, which an angel wouldn’t do; you know this, but you can’t help yourself. You create hope for many, and you’re stealing it from the person who tried to undo all your work. You’re not one for poetry, but you can stomach it this time.
He tackles you—while you’re laughing, like a true coward—and he actually manages to take you down. You clutch the pocketknife, ready to swing it across his throat in self-defense, but he pins your arm down with his knee and strikes you in the face with his elbow. He punches you—flesh on dead flesh on flesh. He goes for your mask, peeling it off your face.
Your face disarms him more than your mask ever has.