With a Vengeance

by Freydís Moon

How could someone rested understand their sleeplessness?

But they’d gone home because home couldn’t hurt them when it was hollow, right?

You didn’t tell him you flushed last month’s dose. “Gave me brain fog,” they mumbled. Keep your body pure, mija. Their mother’s voice overlapped with Eli’s. God cures all.

You’re still you. Kye turned. They met Eli’s luminescent eyes and shrugged, unconvinced. “I could’ve made it easier on them. Could’ve been what they wanted,” they said. “Then you’d be dead already,” he replied, and it was the truth. The performance would’ve killed them. He beckoned them with a crooked finger.

“Give me all the faith God ignored and I’ll give you everything.”

“Living is a lonely thing,” he said, and dropped his hands to their waist, tracing circles on their tailbone. “And making a deal is sacred. It’s not something I take lightly.”

When they turned to blow smoke through the open window, their heart skipped like a stone across ice. The rabbit alebrije sat on the windowsill scented with fresh adhesive and beautifully whole.

“You shouldn’t have to be as brave as you are.”

“You asked what it’s like to fall from grace, but you already know the feeling. My father abandoned me—our father. But I could’ve stayed, could’ve been obedient. I chose to fall; you chose to leave. You asked me how that works, and it’s really fuckin’ simple. I saw the fault in something infallible—a lot of us did—and I thought I’d be better suited with the sinners. That’s all.” “You make it sound simple.” Believable. “It’s been for-fucking-ever, you know.”

“I think I’ll always want to die. Some part of me, the weaker part,” they mumbled. They braced on their palms and leaned over him, bumping their nose against his smooth cheek. “There’s nothing you can do to fix me. You get that, right?”

Depression was mean like that. It was the ultimate equalizer—a deadly separation device.

Because Eli didn’t want them. Couldn’t want them. He used them, yeah. Craved their devotion, their worship. Nothing else. The rest—niceties and concern—wasn’t real. Eligos, duke of Hell, caring for Kye, a nobody he’d found praying in a rundown apartment? No. They certainly wouldn’t let themself believe that. If they did, they’d have to face the love nestled like a wasp in their chest; hate chipped away and replaced by antennae, wings, stinger. “You’re

Eli almost choked. He straightened and jabbed his chopsticks at them. “Imagine grabbing a possum. Like, it’s fuckin’ vicious, snarling, foaming at the mouth, whole nine yards, and you throw it in a metal trashcan, shake the trashcan, and then lock the pissed possum inside a house.” Kye narrowed their eyes and chewed with their mouth open, smacking their lips rudely. “That’s what it’s like living with you.” He prodded the air with his chopsticks again. “I’m a possum,” they said coldly.

“Fuck you.” They hardly spoke, hardly glanced his direction. Just dropped the half-eaten rice container in the bag and left the kitchen. “I’m trying to,” Eli yelled.

Kye had always equated being wanted with being worthy. They allowed themself to be wanted on the surface. Selfishly, for a purpose. If someone intended to use them, fine. But accepting praise, or unearned pleasure, or gentleness made them uneasy. How could someone possibly mean it?

For as long as Kye could remember, they’d never believed in their own desirability.

Kye, who was more man than woman, and somehow, neither. Kye, who could bare...

“Giving yourself to another, making an offering, becoming an altar. It’s all devotion.”

“When the world was new. Everything was becoming. Raw. Uncomplicated.” I remind you of Genesis. They didn’t dare say it aloud. You do.

Ritual is an ancient thing. I doubt they like the term ritual. I doubt they like the truth. Period.

Kye snorted out a laugh. “Bye, Esther. See you at the whore house.” “We’re in church,” she shouted after them.

It wasn’t like they didn’t know how to manage themself. They did. They knew how to make autism look natural—a flick of their wrist, tapping a cigarette too many times, complimenting a bird when they avoided eye contact—and they knew how to manage their textbook trauma with more textbook exercises.

Grief is a lingua franca, sweetheart.

Gemma gave Eli a slow once over. “Oh, your wife was just—” “Partner,” he corrected, and squeezed them. “Are you ready?”

“Grief is fickle. You’re done with it, but it’s not done with you,” Eli said.

I didn’t choose you. I fell in love with you. His voice ignited in their mind, and he took their lips in a firm kiss. You chose me, little beast.