To The Fire

Chapter 2


Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.

-Mark Twain


She had disappeared before the library closed at 2 AM. She had told him more self-declared lies about her wicked stepmother, and then somehow they had started talking about religion. He didn't think his mother, who was a simple but devout Christian, would take kindly to the mysterious girl's views, but he wasn't his mother and he hadn't minded hearing the girl's opinion. There was something serene in her voice when she talked, something honest yet far away in her faint smile.

She had the kind of eyes that made him wonder what she'd seen.

He thought about her a lot, in the days and weeks that followed. He had reported the encounter to his friends, who had all laughed and applauded their campus for its weirdness. Maybe the school was built on an ancient temple or burial site, or maybe she had been high. Maybe he had been hallucinating, had imagined the fairytale girl with the bright green hair.

His studies continued to occupy his time, but whenever he paused to take a break—either for a snack or just to flex his hands in an attempt to avoid carpal tunnel syndrome—he found her face appearing in his mind's eye. She had nothing to do with hidden assets or anything else in his casebook. His studies were filled with banal, dry lines of text about court rulings and legal definitions. She had been the complete opposite—an ethereal, nighttime visitor with a lilt in her voice and a Mona Lisa smile. The more time that went by, the less sure he was that she had even been real.

And yet… whether or not she had been real was slowly ceasing to matter. Real or not, it seemed as if something had changed within him. Not that he wanted to end his legal studies, needed a girlfriend, or desired to start playing some kind of interscholastic sport. He was still perfectly content and motivated to move between his apartment, his classes, and the law library with his few best friends and fellow students. He was in the habit of going to a local Irish pub every Friday night, and sometimes he went for a brisk walk or a slow jog around the lake on the weekend. His was a good life, filled with everything he needed. He wasn't opposed to meeting a girl, but he didn't feel that one was necessary. He didn't hate the idea of joining the soccer club a few of his friends were in, but he wasn't sure he had the time for it. He really was living his life the best he could and he was happy with it. When he finally graduated, he'd have to pay back his parents and his student loans, but he was going to be a lawyer for crying out loud, so he could make it work out. His summer internships had panned out really well for the past few years.

So why was he thinking about his life on a grand scale so often lately? Was it just that time of year, that point in life? Or was it… the girl? His life, which normally felt so full and rich, had suddenly seemed to be missing the mark by just a hair's breadth. She had shifted some kind of axis that his life revolved around, had changed his world into something that wobbled slightly, that even if it didn't approve of her or include her, at least was aware of her existence.

He thought about her when his mind was relaxed, when he wasn't trying to think of anything at all. Was she somehow infiltrating his mind through the collective unconscious she had spoken of? Of course not, because that was ridiculous, and he didn't buy into organized religion, anyway.

And yet… there was a tiny, hairline fracture there, in the mirror that reflected his world. She had placed it there, and now that he knew he was looking into a reflection, a tiny part of him wondered what was on the other side. What did the real world look like? What would happen if the entire mirror shattered?

Nearly a month passed with these thoughts running idly through his head during the moments he least expected it, though they did pass through his mind with less frequency as time wore on. And she appeared again.

"You," he said, realizing that he had never known her name, despite wondering so much about her existence.

She was dressed this time in black, though her belt and jewelry were silver. Her long hair was entirely unbound, just as it had been last time. "Who else," she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

He had been right about her figure. Her breasts were large to the point of distraction, especially when clothed in the stretchy black material she was wearing. Her jeans were skinny, her wide silver belt slung across her hips. She gave him a bemused smile and slid onto his table as she had done last time.

"You haven't changed," she said, cocking her head to the side. A bright silver earring flashed before disappearing behind her green hair again. "I like that."

He wondered at her meaning, and then found himself disagreeing for some reason. "You don't know if I've changed or not," he said, his hands continuing to hold his book open as if he were only a few seconds from returning to his studies. He wasn't. "And I think people are only interesting because they can change."

She laughed, and her voice reminded him of a smooth, worn bell. "You haven't changed enough for me to notice, boy."

"Well, we've only met once before…" he replied, trying not to stammer as he defended his statement. He was never like this in debate, and there were a few hotties in his class to distract him just as her body was distracting him now. But it was more than just her clingy outfit and her well-proportioned hips and chest. There was something otherwordly about her very nature that seemed to throw him off guard. "And I don't even know your name."

She slid her arms behind her, leaning back like some kind of Playboy model. Her hair was touching some of his reference books. "Do you find me interesting, boy?"

He blinked. Normal people responded with their name when it was brought up. "Certainly," he said. There was no point in lying, especially when her posture conveyed the idea that flattery might put her in his dorm room in the next few hours. He wasn't the kind of guy to sleep with a complete stranger, of course, but she had been on his mind a lot, they had talked about religion even, and all he really needed was her name.

"How ironic." She rolled her back down onto the table, her head coming to rest on his binder and the book on top of it. Her hair fanned out to the sides, splaying across his open book and brushing against his hands. He wondered if he'd have the courage to have sex with her in the library, or if the courageous thing to do would be to say no. It was late, past midnight, the lighting was rather low and there was no one else there.

"What's ironic?" he asked, his voice pleasant and curious.

"I've been this way for a very long time," she said, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered if she saw the same one he saw when he stretched and looked up. "All of my fairytale existence, I have been just like this."

"I doubt it," he said, looking at the green of her hair on top of the faded black and white of his book.

"But you don't believe in fairytales," she reminded him, sighing. She pulled her booted feet up to rest on the edge of the table, and the studded straps on the black leather gleamed.

"It doesn't matter," he said seriously. "I don't believe you've always been like that, fairytale or no."

She peered at him with her distant golden eyes. He knew she was scrutinizing him, but what she was looking for was beyond him. The moment was lasting much longer than normal, but he remained calm and serious. Perhaps he could use this moment to discover her, as well?

Her eyebrows were the same green as her hair, her lips slightly parted, somewhat moist. She thrilled him in a purely sexual way just as she was—sprawled carelessly across his schoolwork, as if she were some kind of law student fantasy come to life. He imagined she would be the kind of girl who would do kinky stuff in bed, and could talk about sex openly without embarrassment. She also sent a shiver into his belly when he considered her on an intellectual level. He wasn't sure if she was high on drugs or profoundly wise, and it irked him a little that he couldn't tell. She was definitely an enigma, and one that walked on heeled leather boots.

She dropped one leg and sat up, her eyes widening slightly. She never took her gaze from him. "You're right."

He blinked, having forgotten what they had been talking about. Ah, yes, fairytales and whether it was possible to stay the same.

She laughed again. "I'm wrong, and you're right."

He shook his head slightly, finding her laughter contagious. "If you insist."

"I have changed. I just… forgot it for a while," she said, smiling broadly. She hopped off the table, and he wondered if she was going to leave. She hadn't been there for more than ten minutes. "Thank you."

Perhaps the girl was more crazy than anything else. He shrugged. "I'm not sure what you're thanking me for," he said honestly.

"For reminding me that I don't live in a fairytale anymore," she said. He shook his head at her and shrugged.

Twenty minutes later, he had enough confidence in the mood and he had finally built up his courage. The walk back to his apartment was quiet, but it was one of those spasmodically breezy nights that made him hold his breath when he glanced towards the stars. She walked a few steps ahead of him even though it was clear she didn't know the way, as if she were some guide from Faerie to lead him astray. After climbing the stairs to his apartment, she had suggested they order pizza. After eating with as much abandon as a male her age and even more delight, she dragged him by the hand towards his own room. She was playful to the point of roguishness and straightforward to the point of boldness. Pillow talk centered on the nature of humankind and whether wishes really could come true. The next morning, she smiled and told him she had had a good time. She seemed more human in the cloudy 9:00 light, with her hair not yet brushed.

She rose before him, and thoroughly teased his roommate simply by walking into the kitchen without pants. According to him, she had seemed unconcerned and amused at her own sex appeal. She shared the cold, leftover pizza with his roommate, talking without the usual awkwardness belonging to a roommate's one night stand, and then returned to the bedroom to throw a pillow at him.

"I bet you're skipping class, you naughty boy," she said, and then proceeded to dress herself fully. If not for the empty box of pizza and the incredulous look on his roommate's face, he could have dreamed up the second encounter just as he had thought he had imagined the first.

She told him she didn't have a name, and he… while he hadn't believed her, he had accepted her. Theirs was a strange relationship, if it could even be given that name.