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We’re laying on his bed. He’s bright, and warm, and absolutely everything. He has his hand on my face, holding it there, although he’s sure to know I would not go anywhere. Or, at least, not very far. He has this lovely, crooked smile on display for me whilst he stares. He makes me feel like an art piece, sometimes, based on how often he does that. The staring, I mean. I’m not sure I’d be a very good painting. An incomprehensible thing – A wonky canvas attempting to show angst and emptiness with no such luck. He’d admire it all the same. He’s devoted, like that. Very hard-working, very thoughtful, very much in love with me.
He and I have been seeing each other for quite some time now. We were friends for a while, but eventually became more intimate as time progressed. I’m not sure what we are, really. I have never called him my boyfriend, mostly because it feels quite small and insignificant. I cannot call him my husband, legally, so technically I have no title for him. He’s just Simon. My Simon.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I reply, despite knowing he sees right through me. I am sure he understands I was thinking about him, anyway. He winks at me. I furrow my brow. It frustrates me endlessly, that charm of his. I always happen to fall prey to it.
“I’ve got to go soon.” He tells me, and I put on a slightly more aggravated expression. “Mage’ll be expecting me.”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes. I don’t want to, though…” He sits up, and I copy him. I just have to— I’d follow him around, aimlessly, like a dog if it was socially acceptable. However, I’m not sure I care much about other people anymore, so I may take myself up on that. He cups my cheek, muttering ever so quietly: “I thought maybe, when I come back, we could make up for the lost time?”
“How so?”
“Maybe a bath.” I raise my eyebrow at him. “Together.”
“Oh, yes. Please.” We bathe together often. I’m sure we would have done it regardless of the aim to make up for lost time, but it gives me a warm feeling to know he suggested it. These baths, to understandable surprise, are not erotic. We’ll stare at each other, talking, on opposite ends of the tub. I will admit, it has occasionally turned carnal. And I will also confess that I derive a certain, unfathomable pleasure from these encounters, both the conversational and physical versions. It’s unstoppable, with Simon gazing longingly at me, his bare chest heaving with his breaths, the rest of his body deep below the surface yet well within reach.
“Good, good.” He squeezes my cheek. “I think I could hold off for a few minutes, though.”
“Thank Circe for that. You seem too tense to deal with the Mage…” I nod, reaching my hand up to his and pulling it down from my face. Regrettably, however, as I immediately long for his touch.
“Ah, yes, my back is absolutely aching with tension.” He teases, putting his hand on his back as if he were in pain. I can’t stop myself from smiling at him.
“Would you like a massage?”
“Oh, would you? Could you also figure out the cause of this strain?” I get on my knees and position myself behind him, and my hands begin to push into his shoulders. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Feels good…”
“A presence is troubling you.” I say, as if I’m reading his thoughts via his muscles. And I certainly did not know this information because he told me–– Of course not. I hear him laugh, before letting out a noise of agreement. I continue. “An incredibly disturbing and powerful presence.”
“You’re right!”
“I can read you like a book, Simon.” I laugh, before continuing on: “Someone very close and very, very loathsome… You cannot become what you’re meant to be due to this obstacle.”
“He wants me to join his little army. The Mage’s Men.” He mocks, and I can’t help but let a quite shocking noise escape from my throat. My hands stop moving, and I feel him strain beneath my touch. “Keep going.” He beckons.
“What about school?” I frown, listening to his command and beginning to kneed his arms.
“He doesn’t care. He has my life all planned out for me, whether I like it or not.” His shoulders quickly become more tense, once he finally addresses the gravity of his situation. “I don’t know what to do, Baz… We’re broke. We can’t run away from him.” Oddly, it makes me slightly happy that he’s including me within his grand scheme. Using ‘we’ instead of ‘I’.
“Perhaps my Father could—“
“He hates me.”
“I’m not sure he likes me much either.” I sigh, digging my palms into his shoulders. He lets out a small groan. “But, could we steal the money from him?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re above it.”
“Right, okay; I’ll do it then.” I say, rather calmly. “I’ll rob my Father.” I did not mind this strategy, as I had quite truthfully come to resent my Father. However, it is unclear to me whether this hatred stemmed from his own contempt towards myself and the way I live my life, or if it was his own behaviour that drove me towards deep and utter abhorrence. Either way, I cannot stand him. Even the simplest of things, such as his walk, angers me to such an extent that I begin to boil with rage like a kettle.
“We’ll rob your Father.” He nods.
“But I—“
“You think I’d ask, then force you to do it alone?”
I stay silent for a moment. Of course I hadn’t thought that, but I’d merely assumed that he would not be interested in manipulating an old man for his fortune. I kiss his shoulder blade, before shuffling back in front of him on the bed. “No, no, not at all.” He raises his eyebrow at me, a trick which over the years he has developed which I tend to credit myself for. I nod, as if to confirm our malicious plan to exploit my Father for his heavy funds. He smiles, tilting his head to be kissed on the lips.
Just then (awfully timed, might I add), I hear a horrible voice crying outside our door:
“Simon? Simon!”
“Bloody hell––” Simon groans, instantly recognising the cry. It was the Mage.
“Get off my bed, quick!” I whisper, giving him a harsh shove.
“What are you doing in there?” His voice is closer now, and he raps violently at the door. As if he isn’t a Mage, and couldn’t simply spell it open. Simon’s on his feet now, rushing to the doorway and turning the lock. The Mage, who still holds such an incredible alikeness to Robin Hood, saunters into our room as if he owned it. He pushes poor Simon to the side, examining the bedroom.
“Nothing. What would I possibly be doing?” Simon blubbers, as the Mage squints at me. It’s uncomfortable, to put it in plain words. I squint, or possibly glare, right back at him.
“Hello, sir.”
“Mister Pitch…” He declares, and I force myself to swallow my pride and not correct him. “If I had half a mind, I’d tell your father about you and your shenanigans.”
“What shenanigans?” I ask dully, crossing my arms firmly over my chest. I never could have quite predicted how awkward it would feel for the headmaster of my school to converse with me whilst I was laying in bed. The Mage gestures between Simon and myself. I think I get the hint — Does he know about us? Did Simon let it slip? “He doesn’t care if I talk to Simon every once in a while.”
“He’d care if his son had a little school-boy crush on him!” He points his finger at me accusingly.
“I do not.” I reply calmly, which only emphasises how crazed he sounds.
“Sir, do you mind? I’ve got a headache.” Simon says weakly, from the dim corner he is standing. It’s quite pathetic, the way Simon behaves around this joker of a man.
“I’m not surprised–– Cooped up in this bedroom all day… Talking rubbish with this poofter!” He yells (He’s always had a problem with raising his voice. I suppose no one taught him manners.). At that point, Simon grabs his shoulder and aggressively escorts him out of the bedroom. When the door slams, I laugh. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more. What a vile, and meagre man. He has not yet realised that his own boy, his golden boy, could also quite eagerly be described as a poofter. Or a queer. Or, and this one is entirely accurate, a cock-sucker. It makes me overwhelmingly giddy to imagine the look on that repulsive bastards face once finding out about Simon’s queerness. I shouldn’t find joy in it, I know. But it is so, so tempting…
–
“Basilton, please turn that music off.”
Over break, whilst Simon and I had unfortunately become separate, we’ve been forced to turn to only writing letters to one another as our form of communication. The Mage sent him off to yet another orphanage, and I’ve been sent back home to my gothic dungeon that I must call home. I spend my days writing. Listening to records and letting my room fill with parchment until I suffocate has been my pass-time. However, it seems today, Malcolm Grimm has decided to put an end to it. He’s standing over by my desk, lifting the pin from the record player despite him asking me to end it. I stare. He stares back.
“Well?” He finally musters up.
“Well what?”
“You’ve barely talked to me or Daphne these past few weeks, forgive me for wanting to connect.” Malcolm drawls, opening one of my drawers in one quick movement. So quick, I could not interfere. “Get up!”
“What for?” I sulk, sitting up in my bed and rubbing my eyes. “Stop rooting through my things.”
“We’re going out for tea. I’m finding you some respectable clothes–– Here.” He tosses me a button-down. Leisurely, I make my way out of bed and rid myself of my nightshirt. I get the shirt on my shoulders, just beginning to do it up, when father passes a pair of trousers over, and strides in my direction. He stomps on the pieces of parchment, and although they were rubbish, it irritated me.
“Stop it!”
“That shirt’s hanging on you.” He says, forcing me to turn to him and buttoning it for me. My hands curl into fists.
“No, it’s not.”
“You must be sick.” He adjusts my collar, before pressing the back of his wrinkled hand to my forehead. I do not know why he does this –– It’s not like I’ll be burning up. I’m dead, after all.
“I feel fine.”
“Your hair is limp.”
“I like it straight.” He runs his hand through my hair now. I do not understand why he decided to come into my bedroom and critique me. But, it seems to be quite difficult to ever understand my father. I occasionally hear Daphne struggle too. He scoffs, turning his back to me and heading towards the door. Thank Circe. “Thank you, Father. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“See you soon.” He says, standing in my doorway. I walk towards my vanity, now feeling quite insecure about my hair, not realising he was still standing there. I brush my hair out of my face, and jump when he goes on to say: “You received a letter this morning.”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten to go to the letterbox this morning. I was busy scribbling down love letters late last night, so I slept for the majority of the day. “Where is it?”
“In the dining room. You can come get it once you’re ready.” With that final note, he leaves, shutting the door behind him. With my newly found motivation to leave my bedroom, I hurry to prepare myself to see my family. I head to my drawers, where Father had not bothered to close, and find myself a pair of pants. I chose randomly, as I am in quite a hurry now: I do not want to risk one of my siblings opening the letter for me. The pants, unfortunately, are quite itchy, but I urgently needed to get a move on. I struggle with the trousers my Father provided me, and I don’t bother myself with mirrors as I race to my door and head down the hall.
I slow down once I leave the bedroom, just so I do not draw attention to myself. As I enter the dining room, I notice Daphne rearranging a vase of fresh flowers. She glances over at me, smiling. She’s always smiling, that girl. She picks up an envelope off the table and hands it to me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I wonder if her lipstick transfers.
“Basilton, hello! How are you?”
“Fine, you?” I mutter, reading the writing on the face of the letter. There, in Simon’s atrocious handwriting, is my name. Well, it’s just ‘Baz’, but that’ll do. I slide my fingernail beneath the seal, tearing the envelope open to reveal the cheap parchment inside. The orphanage does not provide decent writing materials. I ought to send him some of my own.
Dear Baz,
I strongly advise against our original idea of robbery. I’m not there to help you, so it just doesn’t seem right to me. And, as you said in your letter, he ought to keep the money to provide for your family. I miss your siblings, might I add. I would say I’d like to come back to the manor, but I doubt I would enjoy it much with Malcolm there. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he caught us snuggling on your bed…
I miss that. I miss you. I hear the Mage wants me to skip the first few weeks of school to do some project for him. Killing things, probably. Sometimes I feel like I’d rather kill him instead. It’s a crazy idea, I know, so don’t quote me on that. But, now that I’m writing that thought on paper, it doesn’t sound all that bad. Does it? Tell me if I sound insane, but would it really be that difficult? The Mage is impossible to deal with! But killing him would be possible! I’m sure I’ve killed stronger things!... Alright. I think I’ve gone off the rails. Forget it.
Tell me what you’re doing at home. This care home sucks. Whenever I see you, please make me feel better about this whole experience with kisses. The kids here are nasty, and they’re all younger than me. Can you believe that? The only benefit is I can be unsupervised… Every night and every day, I long for you. I dream of you. I can’t wait to see you.
Love you,
Simon.
“Basilton? Are you listening?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said we’ll be going out to tea later… Swithin is quite sick, so we’ll be tending to him first.” Daphne explains. “You may go back to your sanctuary now.” She offers me a wink, and I turn to leave. I had no time to deal with pleasantries. I hustle back to my bedroom, picking up a blank piece of parchment and a pen. I fling myself on my bed, getting into my typical writing position. Simon’s letter intrigued me endlessly: Murder! Really? Although he wrote to me to forget it, it seems to be impossible for it to leave my mind. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it. What a solution!
Simon, Dearest,
I understand. Stealing from my Father feels quite useless now, as we cannot seem to escape from the Mage. Does he not realise that we will not be parted? That I would follow you to Hell and back if you commanded? Your murder idea is not as far–fetched as you seem to think it is. You writing that, and admitting to it, made me realise how often I’ve truly contemplated and dreamt of taking that bastard’s life. I think we could do it. You are disgustingly clever and I believe if we caught him alone and vulnerable we could do it. He is a demented fool who wouldn’t know what hit him. Literally. He does not seem to have a lot of physical strength, so my (completely hypothetical) idea would be to beat him. I don’t doubt he would yelp like a goat, however…
Home is fine, by the way. You know my address, in case you’d like to sneak from the care home and hide away with me. I wouldn’t mind. Daphne’s made scones! It would be perfect! We could longue away, and I could feed you the scones very romantically along with some wine, and everything would be perfect. Our worries could disappear for a while. Or, we could plot on how to make them disappear.
Love you most,
Baz.
–
Simon made it back to school within the first week, thankfully. I was in our dormitory, studying, when out of the blue he came stumbling in. He looked quite rattled.
“Baz?”
“Hello, darling. You look puffed.” I stand, and we embrace one another. He’s thinner than usual, but that’s normal after the holidays. I ought to take him to the dining hall, after we snog. What can I say? I missed him.
“I have a meeting with him… This Tuesday.” Simon mutters, and without any context I completely understand what he was saying. He was talking about the Mage. “We’ll do it then. We’ll bloody well do it.” He squeezes me tighter.
“Don’t worry.” After he suggested murder to me through the letters, we began to rapidly expand on our interest in it and eventually agreed to it. It was hard, without being able to have a proper conversation, but we made do. I’m thrilled with the outcome.
“I’m not. I’m just a bit… A bit, well, night-before-Christmassy, you know?” I squirm out of his grip, and guide him to his bed. I sit down, tapping the spot beside me until he comes and sits. I place my hand on his thigh, gently.
“Alright, what will you be doing in this meeting?”
“Discussing something… I think murdering a few goblins. Stupid stuff.” He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking, how are we going to kill him? We need something grand, like, I dunno–– A knife.”
“Don’t be daft. It’s got to look like an accident. I think I’ll just cast something up and whatever happens, happens.”
“That’s unlike you.”
“What?”
“Not thinking things through… What if something goes wrong?” He stares down at his lap.
“Nothing will go wrong, trust me.” I rub his leg tenderly, attempting to soothe him. “After that, we’ll be free. We can do whatever we like. We will graduate, move off somewhere lovely… Perhaps start a family.” Still looking down, I notice him smile. A shy, thoughtful smile that completely delights me. He begins to nod.
“I’d like that. Being together.”
“Forever.”
“Yes, forever.”
–
We’re in his office, and Simon seems to be on the verge of a panic attack. He keeps asking me ridiculous “What if?” questions, and all I can tell him is that it will be fine. I’m scribbling down on a piece of parchment at the Mage’s desk, an old wooden thing that used to be my Mother’s. It used to fill me with untamable anger to know this fact, but at this moment I don’t seem to mind. Everything seems to be coming around. I’m writing a piece which will distract him, so we can attack him whilst he’s least expecting it. It’s written in almost unreadable handwriting, and does not stay on topic very well. It’s sure to mess with him.
Simon, without notice, clutches my shoulder and draws me back. He whispers: “The Mage is coming.”, and that’s when I hear the footsteps. Loud, booming footsteps which annoyingly announce his presence. He whirls inside, stopping short once he sees the two of us.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” He said briskly, stepping inside and slamming the door behind him. “Since when was the homo club meeting in my office?”
“Hi, Sir,” said Simon faintly.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you!” He points an accusing finger at Simon, who seems to only turn into himself, like a book closing. I cannot stand the Mage’s presence, but I refuse to behave like that. I watch him, cooly, tilting my head at him. “So, what’s the story, fairy? Did you just have to follow Simon up here?”
“Well, not exactly,” I regard him pleasantly, leaning upon his desk. He looks quite peeved. “He forgot to give me back a pen.”
Simon swallows loudly, and I hope that I only heard it because of my vampire senses, and not because he’s visibly nervous. Simon turns, glancing backwards at the letter, before squeaking:
“Sir, what is that on your desk?”
“Let me see.” He demands, shoving both Simon and I out of his way to get a proper look at the faux document on the table. I step back a few steps, near the door whilst he examines it. “Hm… this handwriting is impossible!” He shrieks. My heart races as I draw my wand from my blazer. Simon is standing completely still, like a statue, right next to the Mage. I furrow my brow. Why is he not moving out of the way? Does he realise he could be hurt if he lingers?
“Snow.” I call, and he snaps his head towards me. Ah, I see, it’s nerves. “Recognise the handwriting?” He slowly draws back from the Mage, and the desk, taking deep and long breaths.
“No.”
“Seems to be some kind of agreement…” The Mage says. I must admit, I do not remember what I wrote on that paper. Perhaps something ignorant about school policies. He’s nodding at the page, however, so it must be convincing. I silently raise my wand, aiming it directly at his back. His shirt, which is quite translucent, sticks to his back as if he had been sweating. It must be exhausting, being a horrible man.
Simon takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I feel a sudden course of power–– Oh. Oh. He’s sharing his magic with me. I inhale shakily, nervous by the abrupt boost in strength. I can do this. Circe, I could cast a song with this kind of force.
“Maybe some kind of complaint?”
“I’m gonna stick like glue, stick because I’m stuck on you!” I sing, and I watch with a smile as the Mage becomes stuck to the floor beneath him. He turns his head, staring at Simon and I. His eyes are wild and frantic, his face morphed to a look of utter confusion. I feel totally and completely intoxicated with power, perhaps that’s why I casted an Elvis song. I drop my wand, rushing towards him with loud thuds. I’m unhinged. I have no fear or doubt in my mind –– I am going to kill this man. I lunge at him, clawing at his head until I get a good grip on his hair. I lock my fingers around his locks and force his head into the desk below. He screeches like a cat. I begin to scream too: “Be quiet!”
I hesitate for a moment, watching as he pathetically raises his hands to his head, checking the damage he had just received. His hands shake from the pain he’s suffered, and his throat produces vile noises as if they’ll help him. I grab his head once more, slamming it roughly against the wood and ignoring his squawks. With my advanced hearing, all this bellowing is doing is giving me a nasty headache. I can hear Simon’s terrified breaths behind me, gradually coming closer. He walks past me, in front of the desk, so the Mage can see him. Simon stares at him, frozen. My grip on the Mage’s head weakens, and that’s when I begin to feel blood trickling down my palm. It’s disgustingly thick, and no matter which way I flex my hand I can still feel it pooling up against my palm.
“Help me, Simon, my boy…” He chokes out, sharply inhaling as he speaks. He sounded like a chain-smoker, with that growly voice. I can’t stop myself from smiling— What a fool! He truly believes Simon will help him!
“Let go of him, Baz.” My smile drops. I stare at him, dazed, yet I do not let go. No. There is no fathomable way I would let the Mage sneak out of this one. I watch as Simon extends his hand out to him, and I must admit I feel deeply disturbed. He’s breaking our promise: Our promise to stick together no matter what, and to go through with the murder… I feel pathetic. Without his magic behind me, I’m nothing. “You mustn’t do all the heavy lifting.”
He smiles at me. I never should’ve doubted him. Simon yanks the Mage’s head forward, copying my hair technique, and smashes it downwards. The Mage begins to scream again, and blood splurts over everything. The desk, the parchment, his books… I didn’t think there would be so much blood. The Mage lurches forward, attempting to grab Simon. He claws and claws, trying to stop him. It’s deliciously pitiful. Simon, likely uncomfortable with the fighting, shoves him backwards. He lands flat on his back, surely enduring more pain. With his feet stuck to the floor, he was in an incredibly awkward position. I tower over him, watching as he struggles to get up. He continues to yell, however there are no real words leaving his lips. It’s just whining with the goal of assistance or pity. He shall receive none.
Simon, who had walked back over, was holding a book in his hands. He tosses it to me –– A hardcover copy of ‘The History of Magic’, heavy and a completely unsuspecting murder weapon. I raise it above my head, then proceed to bash it down at his. The skin has split now, and the blood sprays in time with his heartbeat. I can hear it beating sporadically out of fear, and now I’m simply waiting to hear silence. He reaches up at me with his shaky arms and tugs at my blazer, ripping the terrible edges. I lift the book again, hitting him harder.
Sixty times, I hit him. Not once, not twice, but sixty times. Even after the screams stopped, and the beating of his heart ceased, I continued.
Blood, dark and thick, trickles down our uniforms and sinks into the material. Our blazers, ripped with the Mage’s efforts, laid in pieces upon our shoulders. I take in the morbid scene before me, feeling absolutely nothing. I am calm. Oddly calm. Simon is shaking all over. I take the book and place it on the blood-covered desk, turning to look at him. He seems disturbed.
“Remember: He fainted, slipped, and hit himself on his desk.”
“Yes, yes… the desk. It was the desk.” He splutters, and I squeeze his hand. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“We must account for the desk.”
“We really killed him, Baz, really.” It’s at that moment that I notice the slight disconnect between the two of us. He’s acknowledging it. I am not sure whether I simply have not accepted it, or I am ignoring it. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, we should run to the nearest professor and tell them there was an accident. And, we definitely need to charm these uniforms right.” I tell him, although I can tell his thoughts are elsewhere. He’s avoiding eye contact with me, his stare darting around wildly like a child lying to their mother. Then, suddenly, he starts laughing. Giggling — Chuckling uncontrollably. I smile. There’s my Simon, all deranged. “Darling, calm down.”
“I think I might be hysterical!”
“Someone could hear you!” I press my hand over his mouth, and he licks it. My blood covered flesh. “Circe.” He lifts my hand and pulls me in harshly, shoving his lips on mine rather violently. What an unusual scene! What a wicked picture we must be! Kissing in front of an old man’s corpse. A horrendous corpse, might I add. We hadn’t exactly accounted for how gorey it would be. If I’d known how much of a mess bashing someone’s head would make (A disgusting mixture of red and pink), I certainly would’ve changed out of my uniform.
“I feel grander and… and more powerful than Circe. You may as well start cursing my name.”
I oblige. “Oh, Simon! We must leave!”
He kisses me once more, although it is much softer and kinder this time around. I don’t know why. He does not need to be.
“I love you, Baz—“
“Simon—“
“No, listen. You did this…” He gestures over to the body, of which he does not look at. I do, however, not mind it. I much prefer him dead than alive. It gives me such a compelling feeling of serenity and impressiveness to know that I took part in his murder. “You did this all for me. And I can never thank you enough.” He leans in again, only this time he is not looking for my lips for comfort. Instead he grasps me tightly within his arms, my reward. And, in some way, it could be seen as his own reward too. He can finally be with me without fear of criticism.
“You’re very, very special to me, Simon.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
–
Simon and I, after speaking with several professors, decided it was best to head to the manor to figure out our next move. We set the scene perfectly –– I mended our blazers, wrapped them around his head, to leave proof of our heroic attempts of saving his life. However, what Simon and I did not account for was the Mage’s Men wanting to question us. For what reason, I’m not sure. Somehow, they had found the address and came unexpectedly. Simon and I only found out because my siblings ran to tell us that ‘scary men’ were at the door. We hid behind a corner, listening into the conversation Malcolm and Daphne were having with them.
“As I said, my husband brought Basilton and Snow home after the whole ordeal.” Daphne says, seemingly quite calm.
“What did the boys tell you? Did they say anything significant?”
“Only that there had been a terrible accident. Mister Cadwallader slipped and hit his head on his desk, the boys tried to lift him but they couldn’t. His head kept banging… I’ve repeated this story so many times this evening. Snow was quite hysterical about the incident.” My Father replies, in an exasperated tone. Simon was quite energetic, with crazed mood swings that even I struggled to tolerate. After I caught him banging his head against the wall in our hallway, I dragged him to my bedroom and kept him there since. This has been the only time he’s been let out since.
“And, uh, Tyrannus?”
“He was quite relaxed.” Daphne offers quietly. Simon stifles a giggle, and I have to elbow him to shut him up.
“Is that correct, Mister Grimm?”
“... More or less.” He grumbles, and I can literally hear him getting more heated by the second. He has had quite a bad temper these last few hours.
“Any chance we could speak with them?” The man tries, which was a foolish move.
“They’re sleeping.” My Father lies, completely displeased.
“Please, sir, really––”
“They’re sleeping!” He finally shouts, and Simon and I both jump once we hear the door slam shut. It excites me to hear him so hot-tempered over one of the Mage’s Men. I knew he would be, after all, as I know for a fact he shares a hatred for the Mage. He makes his way around the corner, unexpectedly, and stops right in front of us. “I forbid you to ever speak to one of those pathetic men again. The Mage was a very disturbed man, Basilton. Very disturbed.” Daphne walks past the three of us, keeping her head down and making her way elsewhere.
“Of course, Father.” I say, Simon nodding beside me. He goes to walk off, before turning back again sharply.
“You know, Basil, I can’t help but mourn the fact that I did not kill him myself… What a foolish way to die! Slipping and hitting your head!”
“You’re glad he’s dead, sir?” Simon asks, grinning mischievously.
“Certainly. Only, I wish he had been murdered, so I could give his killer a medal.” He cracks a smile at us, which feels quite odd and gives me a rather itchy feeling. But, it also reminds me of my childhood. How he’s still my Father –– A man, I believe, I should trust. My eyes dart to Simon, who’s already looking at me. He nods, and I feel oddly compelled to tell him. He seemed so pleased, and I wondered if he would praise me. Would he ever? He hadn't in many years. The last time he did so was likely over some useless art project, a stick-figure, something so small and inadequate compared to a large scale thing as this.
“Father.” I have no time to think anymore. I just do it.
“Yes?”
“I hit him. Over and over.” There’s an awful silence.
“Pardon?” He says, quietly, to be sure nobody in the house would hear this exchange.
“I hit him until he stopped breathing.”
“You… Circe.”
“Should we tell the Mage’s Men?” Simon butts in, his bipolarness kicking right back in. I take his hand, trying to ground him.
“Don’t be a fool, Snow!” Malcolm snaps at him, and Simon shrinks. It’s amusing, but people never seem to notice how big he is. Perhaps it’s because of his lame clothes, like a superhero’s disguise. He returns to his quiet and secretive voice. “Basil, you planned this act… with Simon?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any evidence?”
“No.”
“My boy…” He says quietly, before pulling me into a tight hug. I haven’t hugged my Father in years, and now that I am it’s bringing back a crazed whirlwind of emotions. Before I can get my head straight, he pulls away and pats Simon’s shoulder. “This stays between us.”
“Yes, of course.”
After our confession, we made our way to my bedroom and locked the door behind us. Simon climbed upon my bed, opening his arms to me with a thoughtful smile. Without warning, I had a vision of him –– twenty years later, or fifty years, tired with age. And of myself, too, at the same age. We’d be in our room, repeating this exchange for the thousandth time. I felt completely and entirely happy. I had never felt so certain about our future together until now. We were not an ordinary couple, but a till-death-do-us-part kind of couple. It’s a relief to have him fully here with me, instead of him constantly being ushered away by the Mage. With my Father’s somewhat acceptance of our relationship, I feel unstoppable. I feel free. Who knew all of this great emotion would come from killing a man?
Simon pulls me in, putting his hands on my shoulders and guiding me to his mouth.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I reply. He smiles, and that frustrating charm of his devours me. “Well, I’m thinking about you…”
“Oh, really?” He laughs, pressing his lips against mine.
“Yes. About our future together. Growing old, and all that.” I hum. “That’ll happen, won’t it?”
“Of course. I’ll make sure it does.” He rakes his hand through my hair. “Recently, I’ve been feeling like I can do anything.”
“Promise?” I ask.
“Cross my heart, and hope to die.” And with that great and everlasting promise, he kisses me once more.