Page 26 of Malevolent Hearts
As I walk towards the bookshelf, memory after memory assaults my mind. Visions of long summer nights, curled up under chunky knit blankets on my daybed with Cadden as the moonlight bled through the floor-length sash windows. My head on his bare stomach while he read me stories of love, laughter, and bravery. Days spent with him singing in the car as we travelled the length of the country visiting old bookstores, searching for a thousand lives we could live together. Early mornings, watching the sunrise beyond the horizon while he whispered poems against my neck. One after the other, flashes of the years we’ve spent learning everything there is to know about each other, a love we kept secret, a sacred oath we made at the end of that first summer. Nobody but those closest to us knew the depth of our relationship. We pretended to be a transaction when in reality we were infatuated. For over two years, we hid our weakness, terrified it would be taken away before we could make it permanent. By the end of this summer, Cadden would be my husband. I never thought I’d be the one who wished that wasn’t true.
My fingertips tease the bookshelf before landing on Cadden’s old, tattered copy of Beauty by Robin McKinley, reminding me of the true beginning of our story. Instantly, I’m back in the lighthouse, reliving our first kiss. I remember that day all too well. How the dare fell from his lips, and my heart all but stopped. The expression on his face is ingrained in my mind. Then, he whispered “Kiss me” against my lips, and all bets were off. I didn’t have a choice, the breath he was holding belonged to me, it was mine to steal, so I took it without hesitation. I didn’t expect it to have the effect it did. I’d been kissed before, but never like that. Looking back, that moment was the last time my heart belonged to me—and if it wasn’t, what followed sealed the deal.
Teasing the first edition from my shelf, I trace the rose on the cover and then flick to the title page, just like I had the first time I held this book in my hands. Only now, there is an eighth name scrawled under Cadden’s in pink gel pen. Beibhinn Annabel Devereux, July 13.
My chest tightens when I recall how the book ended up in my possession. It feels like only yesterday when I found it on my bed in Cadden’s guest room the night after our first kiss. I’d just come back from the bathroom after having a shower, and there it was, lying on my pillow next to a red rose he’d made from book pages—which I’d later learn he’d taken the time to dye with food colouring so it matched the red rose on the cover. That night, after I’d climbed under the covers, I finally opened the book and a note slipped out, landing on my chest.
Placing the book back in its rightful place, I release a slow breath through pursed lips, then I cross the room to the small side table between the two large floor-length windows. Sitting proudly in the centre is a glass cloche like the one in Beauty and the Beast. In it, the very first flower Cadden ever gave me—a perfectly preserved red paper rose. My heart beats out of time as I reach for the little drawer in the wooden base. Then, carefully, I pull it open, revealing the note he’d left me that night. For the second time tonight, I reach for a piece of paper with shaky hands. Little did I know the message on this one would become a core memory, cementing my love for a happily ever after.
B,
Not all fairy tales are fictitious.
Lose yourself between these pages.
You might find our reality is a tale as old as time.
Cadden X
He’d sold me a fairy tale, disguising himself as a hero, only to spin our narrative into a tragedy. I should have known better. This is real life, happily ever after doesn’t exist. I crumple the piece of paper and let it fall to the floor, next to my proverbial broken heart. Then, lifting the cloche from the table—a symbol of the promises he made—I launch it across the room. The fragile glass hits the door with force, splintering everywhere as a curse flees my mouth. “Fuck you and your fucking love story.”
Regret washes through me the second I see the now-tattered rose, torn on the floor. At the same time I drop to my knees, trying to piece together the memory I shattered, Cadden kicks the door open and surveys the mess. Ignoring him and the glass littering the carpet, I crawl towards the delicate rose, ignoring the sharp sting of shards piercing my skin. Blood coats my palms and knees, but I don’t care.
“I need to fix it.” The words tear from my chest with a gut-wrenching sob.
Before I can reach the flower, Cadden scoops me up in his arms and carries me towards the daybed. “Fuck the glass. I’ll replace it.”
“But, the flower, Cadden. I don’t want a new one. I want that one.” I bury my face in his chest, and my words muffle against his suit jacket.
“Ssh,” he whispers into my hair. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”
“I broke it. It’s ruined. I destroyed it. Destroyed us.” I repeat the same thing over and over as he places me on the edge of the foam mattress before cupping my face in his palm.
“You didn’t break us, B. I did. But I promise you, no matter what it takes, I will fix this. I’ll fix everything.”
“You can’t fix this. This, us, Liam… It’s irreparable.”
His lips press against my forehead, and I don’t push him away. “I can try. I’m not the enemy, Pretty Poison. I’m still the boy who gave you that rose.”
Fifteen
Cadden
The Past
Two souls entwine on a stoney beach.
A love with a valent roar, they would unleash.
Amidst the rocks and crashing waves, the hate was no more;
for they would find a love so rare, it’s worth fighting for.
—Cadden James Connelly
Once again, I find myself standing on the periphery, eyes lingering on Beibhinn without her permission. Lying on a grass bed, her white-blonde hair is splayed wildly, blanketing the sea of green. Light bleeds through the trees as the fading sun paints her skin with a kaleidoscope of oranges, pinks, deep purples, and blues. Pulling my gaze away feels impossible, so I don’t. Instead, I gravitate towards her, cutting across the overly manicured lawn with my hands buried in my pockets.
As I draw closer, I recognise the book I left on her bed near the beginning of the summer. It’s cracked open somewhere past the midway point, covering her face as she spreads her limbs wide, resembling a starfish. I’m standing over her within seconds, and she doesn’t move an inch. Then, right as I think she may have passed out mid-chapter, she muffles into the pages, “Are you going to stand there staring like a creeper, or did you need something, Beast?”