The Animal Under The Fur

by E.J. Mellow

I shouldn’t need these at the gala, but a girl can never have too many knives.

These rare moments of openness are like seeing a shooting star in the sky, quick, mesmerizing, and as soon as it’s gone, I remain awake for hours, eyes fixed, unblinking, into the darkness, desperate to catch another.

The first time I saw her smile genuinely, I forgot to breathe for a moment, it was that radiant, and I’ve done my best to suppress the desire to make her grin like that every second of the day.

“I guess I just…didn’t know they could be like that.” “Who?” Blue eyes find mine. “Parents.” It’s like someone reaches in and knocks my heart loose.

All we ever have is the present. The past and future are nothing but intangible stretches in time. One we can’t change. The other we can’t touch.

If we didn’t ‘stop to smell the roses,’ as you put it, what would be the poultice to our souls? What would stop us from becoming the monsters we seek to kill? If we can no longer find or appreciate the joy in the things we are trying to protect, why continue to do any of this?

Her mouth opens to mine, the soft prodding of her tongue setting more kindle to this pyre of flames, and I completely forget that we’re in public because 3, for as prude and cold as she comes across, can kiss. Good forest nymphs, can she kiss, and I greedily take in whatever she gives, her plump lips molding to mine. More, I silently demand. Give me everything,

With a blink, the world goes from a deep midnight of touch and sighs to a bright cold day, and I sit frozen, watching as the room comes back into focus even though I remain a pixelated blown-apart mess. 3 kissed me. I kissed 3. And I liked it.

But this other thing…even with Christopher Waters it was like I was experiencing it buried deep within the earth. But with Carter…I’ve never felt closer to the sun.

What would stop us from becoming the monsters we seek to kill if we can no longer find or appreciate the joy in the things we are trying to protect?

“I’ve been running for a very long time from a lot of things,” he says. “And I can’t tell you that I no longer have issues about my past, because I do. I’m still terrified of…losing like that again. It’s not an emotion that’s going to go away overnight. Especially not in our line of work, but…” His gaze slides back to mine. “I’ve finally found something that has me wanting to risk it despite that. And my instincts”—he brings the back of my hand to his lips—“are telling me that’s okay.”

I swallow against the tightness that’s formed in my throat, not knowing how to respond. I can feel myself understanding his words, even agreeing with them, but I have yet to find such a voice to utter similar sentiments. This does feel right, but in its rightness, it feels extremely wrong.