Because You Love to Hate Me(62)

A girl with blond hair escaping its braid and a streak of ash on one sharp cheek.

It is a cloudless fall day when she wakes at the bottom of the well, uncurling like a leaf in spring.

One hand is smooth fair flesh; the other, crisp white bone.

Slowly, she gets to her feet, smoothing her skirts from habit, though habit is a thing that comes from memory, and she cannot remember anything.

She tips her head to the sky far, far above, one simple truth beating behind her ribs.

She is awake, and so she is hungry.

She is hungry, and so she is awake.





JESSE GEORGE’S VILLAIN CHALLENGE TO VICTORIA SCHWAB:

Hades Wakes Up after Being Unconscious at the Bottom of a Well in Ireland





DEAR DEATH





BY JESSE GEORGE



Dear Death,

You scare me. You’re something that has taken me a long time to accept. I struggle coming to terms with what you’re capable of. Sometimes you’re expected; other times unexpected. You’ve taken people from me when I needed them the most. I have a few questions that I hope you can answer. Though I know deep down you’ll never be able to.

What is it like to wake up with a hunger that can only be cured by someone’s life? I can’t blame you for doing what you have to do, but I find it difficult to understand you. When you see the burning aura, do you ever question fate? Do you ever attempt to resist? Or is the raging hunger inside you too difficult to contain? You give in to your cravings. You’d think you’d be able to let your prey live a little longer, but at the end of the day you can’t show them grace, because you’re on a set track. Hand in hand, you walk them down the aisle to their destiny.

It must be difficult to perform your act when you begin to know the life you’re taking, though you make it seem effortless. You watch them before you cling to them. You observe who they are and what they’re all about. As you drink them away, do you see a slide show of their life? I can’t imagine that being an easy thing to partake in, yet you perform your act often.

Do you ever question yourself when they tell you “I’m not ready”? Does it ever slow down the process? They resist lacing their fingers with your bare-boned hand. They run from you, because in a way they feed on life, too. They’re fueled by moments, memories, experiences, and people.

They don’t want their time to end, so they resist you.

They resist their last dance with death.

Do you ever regret it? Do you ever look back and think you’ve made a mistake? That maybe they had a little bit more to give, a little more life to live? I often wonder if they stain your dreams. When you look up at the stars from the depths of your well, do you ever look at it as a display of the lives you’ve collected? After the sacrifice they’ve made for you, they still find a way to shine for you.

Do you ever stick around to see the aftermath? You climb out of the well and stroll out of the woods. The aura burns for you, and you feed. You feed on hopes, dreams, and memories. You feed on life. Do you linger in the shadows?

I’ll never forget the time I received the news, when you decided to make a strike on someone so close to me. I was taken aback. I fell to the ground breathing in the question “why?” Were you watching then? As tears streamed down my face and my heart shattered? The bond that once was, beginning to fade? I wish there were some way I could go back in time and intervene. To get on my hands and knees and beg and plead for another way. Any other way. Take me instead, let her live. Would you have even heard me? Or is the call of death too strong?

You inhale life but exhale chaos. You set off a ticking bomb of emotions. Loved ones of the taken receive the call of hard-hitting news. They’re taken aback as they attempt to come to term with the news. Reactions vary from cries of shock to overwhelming sadness.

When the church bells ring, do you ever wonder if it’s the start of the funeral of the life you fed on? Do you ever consider attending? I always wondered if you attended the funerals of my loved ones. If you snuck in and found a seat in the back. To pay your respects to the lives you took.

Even though you wreck hearts, you have a way of bringing people together. How do you do it? Do you even realize you’re doing it? People who’ve spent years apart come together to unite over the loss of a beautiful soul. I’m not sure I could ever grant you the title hero, but there are positive side effects to your madness.

Have you ever realized how many people fear you? Because I know, truly, that I am not the only one.

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure we’ll meet eventually, but hopefully not anytime soon.

— Jesse





MARIGOLD





BY SAMANTHA SHANNON





Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?

My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;

My daughters by night their glad festival keep,

They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.

— JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE, THE ERL-KING, TRANSLATED BY EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING


This is a tale of a prince and a princess, two men on a quest, two queens, and a maid named Marigold.

You might reasonably assume that these are the perfect ingredients for a fairy tale.

It begins in 1850, when the Erl-folk were in England. (History holds that they originally came from Scandinavia, but they have a habit of turning up in all sorts of places, at all sorts of times. Their royal family, like any, moves its court between seasons, and seasons, for erls, can last for generations in our world.) Some people said they were faeries. Some said they were men and women who had stretched their natural lives with alchemy, or by making pacts with the devil that had left them twisted beyond recognition. Some said they were the offspring of demons, while others declared them to be the vengeful spirits of the dead.