Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

A Killing Sort of Love

Bryony ran.

She ran for many years, bouncing in and out of school, and discovering that she did not care for (in this order): journalism, engineering, dancing, creative writing, psychology, or dirt biking. Dirt biking was more of a fluke, a class that she joined in an out-of-this-world moment of sheer whimsy, because she wanted to do something fun and free and different. The bike itself wasn’t a problem, but a bike plus dirt equaled a hot, cranky, sweaty Bryony, and that is never a good thing. So, no. Dirt biking was right out.

But a degree is a degree, regardless of what it is in, and all of the world looks fondly upon said degree, so Bryony slogged through her psychology classes. She also briefly considered Criminology, but figured that most of the people there weren’t as interested in capturing criminals as they were about criminals learning to avoid being caught. She was a butterfly, fluttering around joyfully. She was not stupid.

But she was also curious about love. She wanted a real, true love that accepted what she was and how she was going to leave this earth, and didn’t run screaming into the night from the crushing madness of it.

She tried on one young man after another, and it was a fun and happy time for all.

Oh, she tried on Brandons and Jordans and Nathans and Jeffs. She tried on a Raoul and a Rhett and even a Perry, but neither one of these fine gentlemen was exactly right for our diligent Bryony.

“I’m sorry,” she said to each one, patting their cheek. “You are not for me, and I am not for you. Let us move on and be happy, yes?” And yes, each young man wanted to be happy, and each young man let her go, and some were actually quite relieved to shrug the burden of responsibility off their shoulders. Bryony was joyful and she was kind, but it couldn’t be forgotten that death was constantly ruffling its fingers through her hair, and this was a difficult thing to accept. Still, one of the Brandons clung for a bit, which is to be expected every now and then, but when this particular Brandon met an especially dewy-eyed Matilda, everything set itself to rights.

Her first real boyfriend should have been a warning to her, but he had charm and, more importantly, he didn’t immediately cut his eyes to Bryony when a girl from her dorm went missing, or when a young man from her study group was discovered hanging from the shower head.

His conversations started with, “How are you doing, love?” but after a while they changed to, “Are you all right?” and “Did anything dangerous happen today?” and “I had the most horrifying dream about you last night. You don’t happen to be severed at the waist, do you?” When they embraced, he’d squeeze her so tightly she couldn’t breathe, and then he’d run his hands down her shoulders and arms, checking for bruises and gaping knife wounds.

“Your neck is so very fragile,” he murmured one evening, and Bryony had enough.

Really, she ought to have learned her lesson there, but love is ever so shiny and desirable, and so desperately worth pursuing, we are told, and so two Kens, a Nick, and a Johnny later she came across Jeremy, who was tall and darling.

“You’re going to die, Star Girl,” he said. His thick lashes dropped over his eyes.

“Yes, I know.”

“That’s cool.”

They went on dates and to dances where he spun her until they both laughed. He hung his arm around her shoulders like he was hanging up a coat, and Bryony wondered deep in her heart if this was it, if this was truly how love was supposed to feel. Enchanting and giggly but somehow darkly lonely, as if Jeremy’s breath stole a tiny bit of her soul each time they kissed.

One day she walked into her dorm room and found him sitting on her bed, holding a gun.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” he said before she even had a chance to open her mouth. “I can’t stand the waiting.”

Bryony stood still, her arms full of flowers gathered from the gardens outside. The breeze from the open window moved her hair and made the flowers dance gently.

“Run,” the lilacs seemed to tell her. “Have you forgotten how? Have you forgotten what you do? Run, my girl, run!”

“I fantasize about killing you,” he whispered. “I have done it a thousand ways. Poisoned you. Torn you apart with my bare hands. Snapped your bones and heard you sigh as your life ends.”

“Run!” shrieked the lilacs again, and one threw itself from the bouquet and onto the floor.

“I think about it because I love you,” Jeremy said. The gun twitched in his hand and Bryony saw his eyes were wild with rage and torment and, yes indeed, a killing sort of love. This nearly made Bryony smile.

“I mean,” he said, standing and pointing the gun to Bryony’s cheek, “if you are going to be murdered, shouldn’t it be by me? Wouldn’t that be kindness? Is it possible to love somebody any more than that?”

“You’re stronger than this,” she said, but even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. It was a lie, oh, it was a lie, but she didn’t know what else to say. “Please” or “Jeremy” or “I could maybe love you if you gave me more time”, perhaps, but no, she said none of these things. She only said, “You’re stronger than this.”

“No, I’m not,” he said sadly, and his finger moved on the trigger.

Bryony closed her eyes.