Her eyes are so blue that I wonder if she sees the world as if it is all underwater. I wonder how she sees me, as someone drowned or drowning. But I know that I am all the way under. Desperation has swept me away and dragged me down. I have imagined her face on the pillow next to mine ever since I first saw her. I have imagined surrounding her face with flowers, dressing her in pale silk, tracing her palm with reverent fingers. She is all quick movements and sharp angles, flighty like a sparrow—but perhaps I could still her for a moment, allowing her gaze to settle on me for just a moment. I imagine that her attention would make me feel larger, better than I am.
I remember seeing her for the first time, drawing water from the well. I was new to this town then. I am still an unfamiliar face to many of my neighbors—and she seemed so fresh and lovely, so vibrant compared to me. Her hands were calloused with the scars of work, but she did not seem tired, lifting the bucket in one flowing motion. She carved space with her movements, walking past me with a swish of her skirt. I watched her as she left. The bucket, swinging but not spilling by her side, her hair, long tresses falling from her braid, the soft rose tilt of her mouth, not unfriendly but not quite a smile. I dreamed about her that night and woke up feeling guilty but also warm and light—the happiest I had been since arriving in this withered place.
I should be tired of feeling guilty about every thought, every image, every dream of her, but guilt has begun to suit me, to fit like a glove, to become something I will never get to cast aside. There is some soft, muted joy in feeling sorry for myself, in looking at others, even at her, and knowing that they don’t know how consumed I am by this infatuation. It is ridiculous, truly. We are something that is simply not meant to be. I know that.
I know that she cares for someone else. I have seen their hands interlocked. I have seen flowers at her door. And even in the moments where she is alone, there is a strange look flickering across her face, mirroring the one I see in my own reflection. I am sure she is thinking of them. In this enamored state, she glows, but if that loving look in her eyes was shattered, would she find me beautiful through her fragmented gaze? As I watch her from afar, I cannot help but feel like a hovering vulture, waiting to scavenge whatever is left from the carnage.
This current iteration of myself does not have the dexterity necessary to pull off such an act. But I certainly have the love.
Yesterday, one of my nightly dreams about her took a violent turn. I saw her suitor lying on the cobbles, bent at odd angles, silenced, perhaps by my own hands. I do not want to imagine such things. I do not want to think that I am capable of something so violent or so vicious. Those were surely the actions of a separate self, someone comfortable with the weight of a knife in their palm. This current iteration of myself does not have the dexterity necessary to pull off such an act. But I certainly have the love.
—
As I hold the bow, I see the twine under my hand is slowly turning red, reminding me of a moment on a hunting trip with my father. He had shown me how to sharpen an arrow, running its tip against a sharpening stone with a sickening groan. I had felt sorry for the stone, for the subtle silver fragments flaking away from its sides. When he held up the arrow to show off its thin angularity, I ran my finger over its tip, unsure how something so small could take down a living creature. I drew back my finger to find I had scraped myself. And he laughed, gave my head a rough shove, and quickly demonstrated its power. I watched the arrowhead drive into the chest of a deer, causing its nimble, graceful form to stagger and crumple.
Today, I scraped myself again due to incompetence, a slip of the stone leaving my finger vulnerable. But I still try to nock the arrow like my father did, pull its feathered tail toward me, squint one eye to try to block everything out but my target. The bird perches on a branch, a dark shadow against the green leaves, smaller than a deer but somehow just as intimidating. I am an intruder here, turning the leaves beneath my feet into dust, tainting the air with my shaky breaths.
It looks at the piece of flint pointing at its chest and then at me. I see its wings rustle as it prepares to fly off. I cannot allow that to happen. Releasing the string, the arrow whistles through the air, wobbling once, and finds its home. A screech. A snap. Feathers rain as the bird plummets, covering the forest ground in ragged, inky swirls. Its body looks strangely peaceful amongst the moss and roots, wings splayed and beak shining bronze. Limp and light as I cradle it in my arms, it seems to flutter as I remove the arrow. Within, I see a weaving tangle of nerves and veins and a ruby glimpse of what I seek.
Looking up, she is watching, her skirts in her hands. I have the urge to hide the creature, to tuck it behind my back or bury it under a verdant shroud, but it is too late. She turns and darts away. Though matted, the bird’s feathers are still downy and soft, but all I can feel is shame.
—
I know that I am wrong, that surely, there is a better way. I know it is not too late to turn back, to give this bird a proper burial. To swear over its little feathered figure that it was just a casualty in my futile attempt to play with fate.
I do not like the way she looked at me. It was the longest she had ever held my gaze, and now I feel small and shriveled and useless. I look down at the bird on my table, its chest a gleaming scarlet brooch, its neck a bent willow branch, and know that I am cruel. The stiffness beneath its feathers and the slight heft of its form are sickening as I pin its wings. I know that I am wrong, that surely, there is a better way. I know it is not too late to turn back, to give this bird a proper burial. To swear over its little feathered figure that it was just a casualty in my futile attempt to play with fate. Swear I have learned my lesson. Perhaps I am just meant to stand idly by and watch and wait and want but never act.
When I take the blade and filet its sides, I imagine that I am no different than any other hunter. I see my father at his workbench, carefully cutting away the parts of his kill not fit to consume. He was his gentlest in these moments, every swipe of his knife smooth and inevitable, his knife a glinting silver dolphin leaping in and out of a stained sea. My father would place the vitals in a shameful little parchment bundle to cast aside or feed to the dog. Those grim reminders of his victims’ lost lives were hidden and ignored, though many of our neighbors would put them to use in moments of great hunger or difficulty. It was a glimpse of humanity, more strange and disconcerting than his violent tendencies.
I have tried to imitate him, though I lack his agility and technique, but when I hold the bird’s heart, yielding and intricate, in my fist, I feel myself breaking away from his path. Now I am somewhere darker, stranger than my father had ever been or I’d thought I wanted to be. The next step will send me tumbling down a hill that I doubt I will be able to scale if I try to turn back. But I shiver when I remember her footsteps back in the forest. I do not want her to ever feel like she needs to run from me. I want her touch and her love and her presence, always. This is the only way I know to ensure that.
I shove the bird aside and place the heart in the center of the table, ringing it with five tallow candles. Though it is nothing more than a mound of feathers and flesh, the bird is looking at me. No matter how I arrange its form, one eye is always trained on me, a small image of my face swimming in the glassy darkness. And the beak is slightly ajar, as if about to speak before I silenced its tongue, a spear aimed toward me. I roughly grab it and fling it into the bushes, leaving it to be picked apart by the wild.
The flickering shadows cast by the candlelight make the heart seem like it is beating erratically, fluttering with a whisper of new life. I use the tip of my knife to make a small slit in its center. Then I turn my back for a moment, though I am almost afraid to, and open the chest at the foot of my bed. Beneath a pile of clothes are several dark, glossy hairs tied together with a ribbon. They curl limply around my fingers as I carry them to the table. The heart beckons. She beckons me. I listen.
Somewhere, in its scarlet depths, lies a shadowy sliver of her.
I take a single strand of her hair and thread it through the cavity. Only three stitches are needed to close up this wound. The world outside has darkened, but the heart glimmers in the light. Somewhere, in its scarlet depths, lies a shadowy sliver of her. When I cup the heart in my hands, I sense a hint of warmth. I start the incantation, my voice a whisper at first but slowly gaining strength. The words flow easily, loosely, like I am built for this, like everything I say holds power.
When I finish, the room is still, but then I feel a shudder. At first, I am certain that I imagined it. Perhaps it was just a product of my own nerves. I wait. A moment later, the heart quivers. I hold it to my ear and hear a clipped, labored beat. Then another. And soon, another, the interval between each pulse shortening. It is no longer a bird’s heart. It is her heart, in my hands, beating just for me.
—
I should be happy. It is foolish that I am not. After all, I control her heart and her affection. That is what I had wanted. The first time I left the house with the charm strung around my neck, she was at my door, still except for the grin spreading across her face. I looked at her face and marveled that her smile is mine to behold, that I could observe her beauty without guilt. When she reached out to take my hand, I expected that I would experience some grand shift in purpose or affect, that life would seem brighter because of her proximity. Yet, even with our fingers intertwined, I felt further from her than I ever had before. There is a boundary between us where I feel as if I am looking at her, touching her through a sheet of gauze. I’ve wanted her to say that she has loved me for so long, so why am I sorry to hear it? I should only be concerned about the look on her face, the feeling of her hand in mine. But when I hold her to my chest, the charm vibrates against her throat. I wonder if she knows what that rhythm spells out. I wonder if she knows what I have done.
This morning, her smile seemed fainter, her face paler. Perhaps she is merely ill. Perhaps she is just tired. I am afraid to let her out of my sight, afraid that the thread connecting us will shatter, afraid that she will shatter too. These are my thoughts as I walk home from the well, thoughts of dissolution and destruction and the death of a love newly blossomed. These are my thoughts when the heart sputters and slows.
Surely it is a mistake, a momentary lapse. But when I clutch the charm in my fist, every tremor is languid and shallow. Every moment of silence is longer than the last. I fear the worst. I run. Home, toward home, the bucket spilling, my steps growing faster and faster as the heart slows. I imagine her stiff and motionless. Not now. Not after all I have done. I will fix this, make this right, impale every bird in the forest, chant spells until my tongue crumbles from overuse. All for her. Anything, everything for her.
The bucket is empty when I reach the door. The heart is still except for a pitiful murmur. I am clutching it so tightly that my nails have left indents in its sides. I call her name. I slam my fist against the door. I scream and hope something will answer. All I can hear is the soft, taunting lilt of birdsong in the trees.
At her feet lies a little pile of bones and fragments of shadow, freshly recovered from the loam. In the other, she clutches my bow.
I can barely breathe when I step inside. She is there. Standing upright, as alive as ever. I should be relieved, I should be grateful, but I cannot even look her in the eye at first. I am too focused on her hands. She is holding a feather in one, a wispy tendril of darkness held between her fingers. At her feet lies a little pile of bones and fragments of shadow, freshly recovered from the loam. In the other, she clutches my bow.
She lets the feather glide to the ground to join its brethren, and finally, after I watch its slow, twirling descent, I meet her gaze. Though I have admired her countless times, I had never noticed the halo of silver around her irises until now. At any other time, I would’ve found such a detail enthralling, but she has lost all beauty to me. Her very face seems unfamiliar, a distorted echo of the woman I had known. She cocks her head and raises the bow. Her aim is certain, her hands are steady, and her expression is stern. I stare at the little piece of stone aimed at my soul, and for a moment, I cannot believe that something so small could topple me. I am no bird, no deer, no lost creature in the forest. I try to imagine that I am larger than this room, larger than this town even. I can bend the world to my will—she is living proof. And yet when the arrow flies, it is a straight shot. I feel my own heart falter, and I fall to the floor.
