You sank your teeth into the peach with the desperation of a dying star. You let the sweet juice go to waste down your chin; you ate like the fruit, just picked from the tree, would expire in your grasp.
That’s when I knew you’d come back cursed to keep walking.
Even in the moonlight, I could see the grass beneath your boots had withered to a crisp, dry brown. Where your body touched the earth, it left an outline of ruin. How hadn’t I noticed? For six days you slept in my bed, ate at my table, and lay down with me in my family’s orchard. That was the way it used to be, before war required your sword. Now it was over, and we had a country, but our enemies wouldn’t let you make a home in it. The grass would be your only reminder that your presence would drain the life out of things far more precious if you stayed.
Limned by moonlight, you wore the saddest smile. You didn’t look at me, but at the rows and rows of trees stretching farther than we could see. In their shadows I saw what you saw: the ghosts of our childhood selves still chasing each other, still climbing the highest branches so we could touch the sky. You could be my bride in the springtime, we’d sang, turning that old song into a promise, my bride in summer or fall; you could even be my winter bride, for it’s either you or no bride at all.
“I wish every night could be like this,” you said.
And that’s when I knew you’d be gone before morning.
#
Four shirts. Four trousers. Every pair of underwear I owned. Seven pairs of socks: three for me, three for you, and an extra for whoever needed them first. The letters you wrote me from the front. The bread leftover from what we baked this morning, and two jars of unfinished jam. Dried fruits and meats that would last, at least for a little while. One pillow. A box of matches. Two pouches of coin, and my grandmother’s silver broach.
My heart thudded in my throat. I’d never left home for more than one night. How could I pack for a lifetime in less than twenty minutes? Yet pack I did, listening to your footsteps pace the kitchen floor. You’d sent me to the bed with the promise you would clean the dinner dishes--and while you might do that much, I knew you wouldn’t climb the stairs ever again. You’d let me fall asleep waiting for you, and you’d go.
You’d go so I wouldn’t be the first precious thing killed by your curse.
The last thing I packed were the house keys, just in case we ever found a way back.
#
Seated on the porch step, I secured the clasp of my cloak with shaking fingers. I waited for you a long time before the door stuttered open, paused, then closed uncertainly behind you. When I stood and saw the shame wet in your eyes, all my words left me, the way you left me all those years ago. Years filled with blood and absence, years where the world made the worst of you and made me wait months for a scrap of news in the post. It wasn’t supposed to be this way; just yesterday we were children kissing for the first time under peach blossoms, making promises we had no idea would be so hard to keep.
You spoke first. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“It would be harder to let you go.” I picked up my satchel and slung it over my shoulder. “I did it once. I can’t do it again. I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t.”
“Because of the curse?”
“Because you shouldn’t,” you said. Pain made you look so much older than you were. By the time you swallowed it down, you were shaking. “I won’t ruin your life.”
“Then don’t make me live without you,” I said. The curse wouldn’t let you be a peach tree; it wouldn’t let you put down roots to grow strong and solid in the same place for the rest of your days.
But we could be blossoms.
As I took your hand in mine, and led you down the road out of the village, blossoms were what I made of us. There we were, my love, carried by the wind away from the life of our dreams. Goodbye house that watched us grow. Goodbye bed that kept us warm. From that moment on I’d say goodbye to a hundred homes and a hundred beds--goodbye to every village we passed through, goodbye to every family there wouldn’t be time to make--goodbye to people who could have become friends, in another life--but I’d never say goodbye to you again.
Part-time fairytale witch, full-time vampire, S. M. Hallow writes stories that are magical, macabre, and might occasionally make you laugh. Hallow’s stories, poems, and visual art can be found in Baffling Magazine, CatsCast, Crow & Cross Keys, Final Girl Bulletin Board, and The Lovers Literary Journal, among others. To learn more, follow Hallow on Twitter @smhallow.