Nothing But the Truth
There was a sword in her chest, and it surprised her sometimes to think that no one could see it.
The wound itself was deep, and struck straight to the core of her being. Contrary to whatever physical truths that Sarah might have put stock in previously, it bled little after the initial penetrating thrust. Besides the occasional twinge whenever she turned too quickly, or tried to slouch over in her desk, it was easy to forget that it was there.
It was awkward, of course, trying to sleep with it so firmly imbedded. She could only rest on her back, and on her side, if she was careful. The first few weeks had been disastrous, as she had been accustomed in the past to rolling onto her stomach in the dead of night—needless to say, it had not been a practice that had survived long.
And, mornings were a chore as well. It had been difficult learning how to dress herself around the plain steel—
For it was not an ornate sword, it had none of the trappings that would mark it otherworldly or extraordinary in nature. It was simply steel, bent into a simple hilt at the end—perhaps a beginner's sword, or a sword for an poor aspiring knight, so Sarah felt foolish, sometimes, trying to pay attention to her calculus teacher while the sword teased and twitched and tingled in her chest, forcing her to accept and never forget what it represented, to her.
He had stood above her the night he had thrust it into her chest. It hadn't been dark, and it hadn't been storming, and she had felt like the world had cheated her.
Because this is what I feel, he had told her, cruelly, and she had wanted to confess to him every one of her thoughts—
But the look on his face and the chill in her heart told her that confessions would be too feeble of an effort made far too late. So she had stopped breathing instead, writhing around the sword pinning her to the mattress beneath her, and she had stared up at him with—
There was no use admitting to it now.
He had laughed at her, when he saw the metal grow from inside her. He had laughed, and in that she had heard his contempt for the two of them, the fine pair that they made. He had crawled onto her bed, every inch the villain that she had always believed him to be, and had bent close to her ear, the tips of his hair brushing against her hypersensitive skin. He had bent close, and whispered—
You did this.
And then she realized that he had never been there, and she alone, in fact, had indeed done this.
She had dreams, sometimes. In those dreams, she always chose up, rather than the path down to that deep and dark part of her mind that refused to forget, despite all titles—oubliette, oubliette, what would the French say to remember always? In those dreams, she always said yes, and danced away from mirrors and forgot the importance of time— two hours or thirteen, it never really mattered because when she dreamed she was in his arms and in those dreams common sense smiled from the sidelines, amused at their expense—
And in those dreams he always mocked her, because they both knew that these were only half-truths and half-hopes, because when it came down to it, she had made her choice, and it had never been him.
She had always known that the path left untaken was forever the more alluring—it was the nature of things. The What Ifs and the What Could Have Beens would always haunt her, would always ghost through her dreams with phantom whispers and phantom promises and phantom lips, brushing and brushing and brushing—
Robert Frost knew, she would tell herself, trying to believe that it wasn't unusual. Trying to believe that hers was a common malady.
But she always knew and she always feared the day, until it rose upon her quickly, and when the moment and years had passed she would be breathless remembering the day that she had come home from school, dusty, desperate, and doomed, and she had thrown down her backpack and she had pushed her face into her pillow and she had slept until he lay before her, eyes cold and cruel and calling her to finish the job that she had started—
So she had crawled onto his bed, every inch the villain that he had always believed her to be, and had bent close to his ear, the tips of her hair brushing against hypersensitive skin. He had lifted his head to her ear and whispered his words of love—
You did this.
And she plunged the sword into his chest and had twisted it, angrily, wanting to hurt him because he was wrong, had never been able to get it right, had never seen things clearly, because the reality was so much more damning—
No, she told him. We did this.
It was their ruin; theirs to hate, theirs to share—it's only forever, she'd told him, mocking him—and she'd be damned if they didn't shoulder it together—
—forever.