Page 11 of Magpie

“ Y ou’re not supposed to be in here,” a voice snaps at me, startling me awake. The dream of gloved hands and flapping wings fades from my mind, but the uneasy feeling remains.

As I blink the fog from my eyes, my brain begins to catch up with my surroundings.

I am seated in the out-of-order cabin on a train headed east. Glancing out the window, I realize we are no longer moving.

I slept the entire long journey. A bustling station sits in front of me, crowds of people scurrying about, hurrying to get to their normal jobs, in their normal lives. My heart aches to be like them.

“Miss,” the frustrated voice says. There’s the distinct sound of a foot tapping on the floor in impatience.

“Sorry,” I croak. My throat is dry. It feels like I have been screaming. Swallowing against that thought, I grab my bag and toss it over my shoulder, standing up and quickly glancing at the conductor.

“Dear god…” he says, taking a step back.

“Are you alright?” he whispers. I was expecting him to recoil from me, his primal mind alerting him to a predator, but his eyes are not focused on mine, and he doesn’t seem to be inching away from the deadly aura surrounding me.

His shaking hand is pointing toward my legs.

Looking down, I notice a spreading bloodstain, starting around my hip and trailing down the leg of my jeans. I gasp, looking at my blood-crusted hand, the scab oozing droplets of fresh blood. It must have bled the whole time I was sleeping.

“Uh…paint. I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, rushing past him and sprinting to the closest exit.

He is more than happy to let me go, his relief at my departure washing over me in an icy wave.

He will be shaken, unable to get the image of the bleeding girl out of his head as he scrubs the stained fabric of the seat.

By the time the stain is cleansed to nothing more than a faded pink spot, he will forget how it came to be, thinking nothing more of the stranger in the broken cabin.

I will be gone from his mind as night sets in.

A twisted smile tugs at my lips as I pull the hood of my jacket low over my face.

As I weave in and out of the bustling crowd, my smile fades to a grimace.

How cruel, and yet how fitting, that the only time I am remembered is in fleeting images by strangers who were smart enough to see me for what I am.

A predator, a monster, and then a ghost. No more than the faded outline of a girl on a deck of cards.

The price of your freedom, Magpie .

His words echo in my mind, chasing my racing thoughts and nipping at my heels as I rush out of the train station.

The morning sun is blinding, flashing bright white on the side of the gleaming train.

Wincing, I pull my sunglasses out of my backpack and quickly put them on.

The bright rays are hard to stand in, and I know it is withdrawal from my key.

Soon, I will be like him, unable to step into the sun at all.

Darkness has a way of claiming what it wants, refusing to let it roam freely in the daylight.

I walk aimlessly, vaguely following the commuters, but keeping my distance from everyone.

I let the soft choir of the bustling crowd consume me, sweeping me away as I try to calm my racing heart.

I’m yet to form any type of plan, moving on instinct alone as I wait for my feeble brain to think of something, anything.

He has my key, and I need to get it back, and I somehow have to do it all without entering the House again.

“It’s time to stop fighting, Magpie.”

“Leave me alone!” I scream, spinning around and startling the group behind me.

A man in a suit stumbles a step away from me, swearing as he spills his coffee over himself before he bustles by me.

A mother flashes me a worried look, guiding her young daughter away from the crazy lady yelling in the train station.

I barely notice them. My eyes are darting around, scanning the crowd as I heave in uneven breaths.

I am searching for any hint of that black top hat, that shining ace of spades.

Spinning around, I grip my backpack and begin to run.

My hand throbs, the wound cutting against the strap of my backpack.

I need to do something about that, and about my appearance.

I can’t risk getting the police called on a blood-soaked woman screaming and running around a train station.

The last thing I need is to be trapped behind bars when night falls.

Blending in with the crowd spilling onto the city streets, I step quietly into an alley, getting my bearings.

I spot a line of storefronts across the street.

A cell phone store, a coffee shop, a souvenir shop, and what looks like a vintage clothing store called “A New U”.

Pushing my way back into the crowd, I cut through them and sprint across the street.

A buzzer chimes as I open the door to A New U, glancing quickly at the bored worker standing behind the front counter.

She is flipping idly through a magazine, giving me a halfhearted wave and a cheerless greeting without looking up once.

I tug the hood further over my face as I walk the length of the store, unable to stop myself from peering into the dark corners.

My fingers trail over clothes, tugging items off hangers at random.

“Where is the changing room?” I call over my shoulder, careful to keep my face as hidden as possible. The clerk waves another dismissive hand toward the two doors situated at the back of the store. My stomach lurches. I hate the idea of being so far from the only exit.

The sun is out. You’re safe.

I tell myself that again and again, clenching my teeth as I hurry to the back of the store, trying to not jump away from every shadow.

I have never been more thankful for lackluster customer service than I am now as I slide quietly into one of the changing rooms, completely forgotten by the store clerk.

Taking in my reflection in the full-length mirror, I wince.

A rust-colored stain covers most of my side, running down my jeans and soaking into the hem of my shirt.

I look like a car crash victim. I don’t even look at my face; I can’t make myself meet my own eyes.

I want to blame it on the emptiness I know I will find there.

But, if I’m being honest, it has been a long time since I’ve been comfortable looking in the mirror.

I don’t recognize the girl who stares back.

I cannot seem to pinpoint the exact color of her eyes, and try as I might, the shade of her hair fades from my mind before it can find purchase.

I am nothing and no one. He made sure of that.

Tugging my ruined shirt off, I toss it to the ground before stepping out of my bloody jeans.

I open my backpack and dig around. Pulling out the bag that holds my small collection of toiletries, I find a bottle of hand sanitizer, squirt a glob of the stuff into my hand, and begin scrubbing away at the dried blood on my stomach and legs.

I then turn to my split palm and hiss, holding in a series of curses, as the antiseptic burns in my open wound.

I briefly wonder how pointless the action is.

This wound could grow infected, and that infection could spread to my blood and head straight to my heart, and still, it wouldn’t kill me.

Nothing can kill me. Not anymore.

Forcing that thought from my mind, I make quick work of ripping my old shirt into long ribbons, wrapping the pieces into a bandage around my palm.

At least it has stopped bleeding…for now.

Turning from that task, I focus on the bundle of clothing I snagged from the clothing racks.

Having grabbed clothes at random, I find myself pulling on a pair of black jeans and a flowing white tank top that has a red ribbon tied in a bow on the collar.

I glance at the mirror, stilling at the sight of myself clothed in black, white, and red.

The image on that card rises to my mind: the bird with its wings tied down.

My jacket is still covered in bloodstains, but I need something to cover my face.

Poking my head out of the dressing room, I find the clerk with her back to me, talking animatedly into a cell phone.

In front of me is a rack of leather jackets, but none of them have hoods.

Scowling, I continue to peer around the store for anything that will help me hide my face.

Laid out on a table is a pile of oversized hoodies, and without looking I snatch one and scurry back into the dressing room.

The clerk doesn’t even turn to look at me. God bless the apathy of retail workers.

It isn’t until I tug the hoodie on, securing the hood over my head, that I see the words stitched in flowing script across the front: Home, Sweet Home .

Grimacing at the slogan, I snatch up my backpack, forgetting it’s still open.

I swear as the contents scatter across the dressing room floor.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, I kneel and hurriedly shove my things back into my bag.

I don’t own much. Whatever clothes I grabbed from my apartment before I fled, an envelope of cash, my laptop, and a notebook.

I freeze, my bandaged hand outstretched over the brown leatherbound journal. I had nestled it so deeply inside my backpack, like I’m trying to forget about it. It’s something I have a hard time even touching, and yet I’m unable to part with it.

Leaning forward, I take a deep breath before resting my hand on the notebook.

It is the only thing besides my key that I took with me the night I left him, left the House.

It’s remained untouched in my bag all this time, too difficult a memory for me to open just yet, a path back to a part of my life I so desperately wanted to erase.

But it is also a shrine to a love that I know will never leave my heart.

I sit back on my heels, staring down at the notebook, my thumbs running over the smooth surface.

Screwing up my courage, I flip it open. A lump forms in my throat when I see the flowing script filling the page, the handwriting all too familiar to me.

A soft, sad laugh escapes my lips as I trail my fingers down the hastily written letters.

I cannot bring myself to read the words, to relive the time when my heart didn’t feel quite so heavy.

It would be too painful. Still, I can’t bring myself to close the book either, not ready to be done with it just yet.

I sink into myself as my fingers roam over the pages, tracing the words, the scribbled drawings.

I cannot let my eyes linger on any of the words I first read when I was a different person, when I was Magpie—but I’m not thinking about me.

I’m thinking about him , his brown hair falling into his bright red eyes as he stares pensively at the page.

A sad smile stretches across my face, but with it comes that constant ache in my heart.

Unable to stand the sight any longer, I slam the journal closed.

Moving to shove it deep into my backpack, where I can forget it once more, I pause when I see something sticking out.

Flipping to the very last page, I find an envelope fitted to the back of the book, a pocket meant to store pictures and keepsakes in.

I open the envelope and find a faded brown piece of paper.

My breath catches in my throat, the inkling of a memory trying to burst through.

Fingers trembling, I pull the paper out.

Gently, I open the folded page, revealing an old newspaper clipping.

It looks like something that belongs behind the glass at a museum, not shoved in the back of a journal.

It’s an advertisement for a new act at a local theater: Mr. Black and His Bird of Fortune , the words written in a swirling, dramatic font.

Next to the title is a detailed drawing of a man in a crisp, well-tailored suit, his gloved hand pulling his top hat down, concealing his face.

An ace of spades shines on the side of his hat, seeming to wink at me.

His free arm is wrapped tightly around a woman.

She is slim, waiflike, her big eyes looking out from the page and through me, seeming to see directly into my soul.

Her dress swirls around her, all lace and feathers, gleaming white.

A red ribbon is tied in a bow around her neck.

The ink has faded over the years, turning the ribbon a murky rust color, making it appear soaked in blood.

Even as a sketch, she looks all too fragile, as if at any moment she will blow away in the wind.

I fold the paper, placing it back in the flap at the back of my journal and putting the book in my backpack.

I pull out a pile of bills and set them on top of my old clothes on the floor.

Hoisting my backpack over my shoulders, I walk out of the dressing room, and out of the store entirely. The clerk never once looks at me.

Stepping back onto the busy street, I slide my sunglasses into place as I stand in the blinding sun. A plan is forming in my mind, and for the first time since I escaped him, I feel something that has evaded me all these years.

I feel hope.