and sometimes

you think “this scene isn’t dark enough”, so add in a memory that might be.

Girl doesn’t look like a sneakSnitch, all telltale promise and trickery. She met a Snitch once in the copper market, in Ferrule. Oil-black and celadon paint. Fingernails the same green as decay. His name was Jonah. Lured her through a faeryDoor, rat-tat magic word, knuckles to brass and the metal wore dents, bits of skin and dried blood.

Memory works the same way.

Behind the door there were spiral staircases made of stained glass, liquid cobalt drained through vents in the floor. Shards of incandescent rainbow hung from the ceiling and tasted like paperlantern drops, the best parts of red sticky, sour and strange on her tongue. There was a boy over a boy and it was poetry.

There was a song inside a song and it was Jonah’s voice, lullaby surrender, arms and arms and how many fingers
at the time she didn’t think they were weapons.

By the end of the night her lips were swollen and her elbows ached. Sweat-slick sugar rush sour as sour and blood at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue was an opening, her skin wore the same indentations as the door and

Jonah’s hands

it was the way he flexed them, stretched them as if they were bigger than he was.

A week later she left Ferrule and that wasn’t why.