ugh.

i need some meaning i can memorize. the kind i have always seems to slip
my mind...

i hate getting the runaround when all they have to say is "screw you. we
don't want you."

disregard if you've read or don't care

( reposting chapter 3 of Phoenix Rising )

(no subject)

ok. this is for all you out there that actually care.



hi. *waves*




i haven't written in here for almost a year so forgive the babble now. i'm working some kinks out of nix (hahahahahahaha) and his story, so that's not going to be here for a while yet. and i'm sorry about drowning!Ophelia getting suspended for a bit (it's up again now, but i dunno for how long). i'm going to call the billing department and work it all out. they'll be pissed to know that i owe them more money than i have at the moment. and that i closed that account down. dammit, i need a credit card.


i've started up posting on cues again, and have 2 fics at bay, waiting for inspiration for this one to show. mostly it's snippets from life @ 23 and beyond, just cause Sophie is someone i can relate to. (i used to relate to nix a lot more, but hey... i grew up and he's scaring the shit out of me sometimes with how we've changed.)

but, like i said, i'm working some things out with nix at the moment, and i'll be hard at work tonight while i'm at work (hahah... nice) trying to sort things out. i've got a lot on my plate with being suspended from school and whatnot (yeah, i know. maybe my writing addiction did it... or, at least, my lj addiction), so nothing's really in the works like it could be. hey, you know.... it comes and goes. like me writing out 3 chapters of nix... and then my harddrive getting wiped and the disk thrown away and... nevermind. it's in the past.



all this is to say that i haven't forgotten. and if you don't read at my site, you miss out on a lot. (that is, unless you keep up with cues and my drowning!Ophelia essays that i tend to post at my site only... which is a pretty neat trick, if you can read that w/o going to my site... hmm...) i'm trying to grow up and my style is trying to grow up with me. and my characters too... they're growing up too. i still do write, on occasion. i just took a minor hiatus.





(oh, and there's been shifts in universe since we last spoke, so feel free to ask me anything and i'll try to see what i can do. that work for you??)

(no subject)

Chapter One: Neicey

“You have to take care of him, Denise.  You have to,” she said, pressing the baby into her arms.  There were tears in her eyes, but her hands continually scratched at herself, now that they were free of the weight.

“Vicki, I…” she stammered, staring at the pale bundle in her arms.  Her eyes jumped to her older sister’s hands, roving on her arms.  “Vicki, would you stop!?”

She shook her head vehemently.  “Look, Neicey.  I…  I can’t.  I just can’t take him.  I’m no good.  Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking at the seams and her restless hands fluttering like butterflies over her son, “take him for me.”

Neicey closed her eyes, trying to make up her mind.  She knew all along that her sister was addicted to anything she could get her hands on.  It would not be healthy or safe for the little boy she held in her hands.  A tear slipped down her cheek, knowing there was nothing she could do for her sister.  “Vic…” she sighed softly.  But there was no one there.

 

She named him Phoenix three days later when she took him to all the local hospitals and clinics and found that her sister had not been to any.  The boy had no care.  Nothing.  Neicey held the boy tightly as she stood, waiting for the registrar to come.  She needed a birth certificate.  A Social Security card.  An identity for the child that everyone had turned their backs on.  She spoke softly to him, telling him how beautiful he was, how she would take care of him and how his mother was coming back.  Soon.  She hoped.

He yawned at her and gave an open smile, a friendlier baby never before seen.  She wondered if her sister had given the boy any attachment whatsoever.  She pressed her lips to his forehead in a silent promise to care for him, no matter—.

“Mother’s name?”

Denise swallowed hard and raised her head slowly.  “Vicki…  Victoria Ann Cordell.”

“Father’s name?” came the gruff voice again.  Denise hesitated.  “Father’s name?” he asked again, more forcefully, impatient for the day to end.

“I don’t know,” Neicey whispered haltingly.

The registrar looked up from the paper over his half-glasses at her.  “Your child?”

Denise shook her head slowly.  “My sister’s,” came the soft reply.

The stout, little man shook his head and took off his readers, gesturing vaguely in her direction with one of the arms.  “May I ask why you have this child today, and not your sister?  I won’t pry… but why?”

“I’m just taking care of him for a while,” she lied, both to herself and to the nosy little man behind the desk.

“You’re a very brave woman,” the man nodded gravely, seeing through her story.  He put his glasses back on methodically, returning to the business at hand.  “What’s the boy’s name?”

“She… she didn’t tell me,” Denise whimpered piteously.  He waited patiently as she went through the names in her head, a newfound respect for her as she took on a task most single women would not.  “Phoenix James,” she blurted out, biting her lip after at how loud she was.

“Phoenix…  James…  Cordell,” he murmured as he signed and notarized the certificate.  “Good luck, Miss Cordell.  And God be with you.”

 

She stopped believing in God three months after she married Jaden Nicholls.  It was simple, letting go of her faith.  How could she hold onto someone she had never seen?  Something that could not save her sister from her addictions?  How could she trust a person so cruel?

So it was easy to let go of the early mass and the liturgy of the word and the liturgy of the body and communion and the holy days of obligation.  It was easy to sleep late and not worry about what someone at church would say.  And nothing seemed better.  They had Ailis when Phoenix turned two and it was beautiful, hearing the sound of two laughing children in the house that seemed so empty.  They looked so much alike, they could almost pass for brother and sister.  They knew they were not, but it was fun, some days, to pretend.

Occasionally, she would remember God.  She would wake up late at night in a panic and pray to whoever was listening to watch over her children, to let her have another child.  But those times were few and far between.  Her prayers were never answered.

It was no wonder the children grew up irreligious and… different.  Ailis became a blonde haired cross between a tomboy and a girly-girl.  Her slight frame went anywhere, and no one could get past her infectious smile.  Phoenix, too, was beautiful.

…

A phoenix is just a bird.  A dumb, everlasting bird.  Myth says its beauty is unsurpassed by anything, save Lucifer himself as Michael the Archangel threw him from heaven.  But, if all you have is beauty, it does not make for much of a life, does it?

A phoenix lives for five hundred years, seeing much.  Much life, much death, much fear and anger.  At the end of the five hundred years, when it senses its death is near, it travels to Phoenicia to build a nest of wood.  The sun god hears its song and pauses in his flight across the heavens, lighting the funeral pyre.  Roast fowl.  From its ashes, it is reborn, without the memories of its previous life.

Legend claims there is only one phoenix.  That is because that much idiocy cannot be repeated.  Nor that much beauty.

…

She watched the two of them grow up, never correcting anything that seemed just outside the norm.  Her own parents had been disciplinarians, militarily strict.  Every moment of the day had to be accounted for.  Every action had to have logic behind it.  And do not let something go wrong.  Just the thought of subjecting her children to such a nightmare of a house dominated by fear and Bible-thumping made Denise become the exact opposite of her own upbringing.  And it seemed they blossomed under the seeming neglect.  They found their own paths.

They were… free.  Free of oppression.  Free spirits.  Free to become what they needed to be.

Ailis was wild, headstrong, active.  Curious.  Anything that piqued her interest was worth trying.  Even things that could be more dangerous for her like snowboarding and surfing.  She broke all the longstanding co-ed barriers in the neighborhood, joining the Little League baseball, football and soccer teams.  She played catch, and dress-up, and dolls; the perfect mix of a child.

Phoenix was not normal, either, though it may have been more harmful to the boy to be left to his own devices the way Denise left him.  He was a magnificent baby, the pale fringe of his eyelashes framing large blue eyes that took in everything.  He rarely cried, and never caused any trouble.  Perhaps that is why she found out so late about his condition.

She first noticed it when Ailis was born.  Phoenix was two years old, all smiles and ‘No!’ and hair as pale as moonlight.  Playing with the baby should not have taxed him so.  His hands began to tremble and his breath came erratically.  Denise glanced at the boy, not realizing what was truly going on.  But, suddenly, he was lying on the floor, limbs twitching painfully and his lungs stopped short.

Her own heart pounding in her throat, Denise threw herself to the floor beside Phoenix’s body, barely registering her daughter’s plaintive cries for her playmate.  Her fingers searched for and found a faint, rapid pulse, too fast to be normal.

“Oh, Nicky…” she whispered, trying to keep him alive as Jaden called for an EMS.

The hospital was a blur of lights and voices; questions asked and answered by a voice like her own.  Like a twin, Denise thought hysterically, screaming ‘Save my baby!  Save my baby!’  But she did not have a twin, and the non-existent twin was not watching her baby die.  The thought was too much for her to handle, and Jaden had to drag her gently from the observation room above the ER to a waiting room three hallways away.

…

The phoenix senses that its death is near, after it has seen the world.  The sun god has seen it bathing by the well everyday for the past five hundred years.  When the phoenix knows it is time to die, it travels home and begins to sing the most beautiful dirge not yet known to man.

Lose the self you thought you knew

Blind and pained from break and bruise

Can you give up on what you know?

One more chain.  Death is slow.

 

Feel the sting of blood… your own

Dark eyes, your head meets with stone

Breathe, the friends who love and care

Will save… Fall, die, you don’t have a prayer.

 

The sin you have is more than you pay

You should stop the pain, but it keeps dreams at bay.

Turned black and blue, you try to end

The life you do not seek to mend.

 

To grow old is a sin and a crime.

Who needs to stand the test of time?

Save who you are by never being close

To any and all you love the most.

 

The light grows faint.  My time is here.

Tell Mother not to watch my funeral bier.

The sun god is enthralled by the song of the phoenix, and cannot help but stop in his tracks.  The moment he spends doing so, marveling at the bird with the fiery feathers, ignites the nest of wood and spices it has made, starting the funeral pyre.  Thus ends the poor bird, roasting him alive.

But it takes more than a slight imperfection to cause the phoenix to just give up on life.

…

Anouar-Khomsa Malkese rubbed his eyes tiredly.  He had tried to find any other explanation for it.  Yet, there was not one he could find for someone so young.

“Mrs. Nicholls?  I’m not quite sure how to put this….”  No, that is not the way to say it.  Do I break it to her easily?  Or do I come straight out and say it?? he thought miserably.

“Dr. Malkese?” a timid voice said from the door of his office. 
“Yes, Naomi?”

“The Nicholls are here to see you.”
He sighed low and wearily.  “Send them in.”  There is no time like the present.

As a family, the Nicholls were perfect.  Mother, father, daughter and son… pale and fair.  How could he ruin their lives with this… this pain?

Jaden looked at the doctor levelly, gray eyes assessing him as well as if he had watched him progress through medical school and on through all his years of residency.  “Well?”

Anouar felt impelled to tell the truth to this man, who, with so much as a glance and a word, placed his faith in a complete stranger.  “It’s called sustained ventricular tachycardia.  It’s serious, where the heart rate can reach over 100 beats per minute until stopped by something.”

“Something?” asked Jaden.  One word, again, as if saying anything more would be a betrayal of something deeper than the care of a boy who had become his son.

“Either drug treatment, or electrical conversion.  Defibrillation.”  He sighed and sat forward in his chair, linking his fingers together on his desk.  He stared at them as he began to speak again, avoiding looking at the family in front of him.  “This is very dangerous for Phoenix.  It can degenerate further into ventricular fibrillation.  His heartbeat will be totally disorganized, to the point where it won’t be able to pump blood anymore.  It won’t contract.  And if it…” he paused.  “If it isn’t stopped within two or three minutes, he won’t survive.”

Denise gave a mournful sob, choking tears back.  “My Nicky… my poor Nicky.”

Jaden closed his eyes and breathed deeply, regaining his composure.  “What can we do, Dr. Malkese?”

“Keep him calm.  His heart will be able to sustain him longer if he stays away from cigarettes and alcohol, caffeine, drugs….  He should try to avoid any kind of anxiety, if he can.”  Anouar finally looked to the four of them.  “Phoenix can’t prevent his problem.  If he can control the way he handles nerve impulses and slow his heart rate, then perhaps he’ll be able to deal with this.  I can prescribe some medicine….”

“Yes, yes….”  Denise rubbed her red-rimmed eyes and stared at Anouar, eyes glistening with more than unshed tears.

 

Perhaps the whole ordeal made him grow up far too fast.  Suddenly, he was a three year old that could not play with the other children at daycare.  He was a four year old that could not go to recess with the others in pre-Kindergarten.  He was a lonely little boy, except when he played with his adopted little sister, his cousin Ailis.

It was as he turned nine that the toll of neglect began to show.

(no subject)

Chapter Two: Nicky

Ailis was the same size as Phoenix—or  Nicky, as he was known by the family—and thought it was wonderful to play dress-up with someone who could trade clothes with her.  Nicky’s hair was in a platinum braid down his back, and Ailis could not wait to play with it.

“OK, Nicky.  You have to sit right…” she dragged the word out as she led him to the vanity seat in her room, “here.”

“C’mon, Lissy.  Let’s do something else,” he whined, not really wanting to play dress-up.  They always ended up playing house, and he always ended up being the daddy.  He was tired of playing the same games.  But something about this game was dangerously sneaky.

“Nope.  We made a bet.” 

“Promise.”  He pouted and crossed his arms.  “A really stupid promise.”

She plunked him lightly on his nose.  “Promise, bet… same diff.  You’re not a wimp, are you?”  She grinned evilly, knowing what would go through his mind about it.

His bottom lip thrust out further.  “Fine.”

“Good.”  She dove into her closet, pulling out things left and right, tossing the items she liked most onto the bed.  “Y’know Nicky, you’re so pretty, I wanted to see how you look in a dress.  And you promised.  You swore on my copy of Batman vs. Superman that you would do anything I say if I beat you.  And I did.”

“So?” he asked indignantly.  Anything to stall for time.

“So… um…” she tossed a couple of dresses at him.  “Try these on.  The pink one last.”

…

The phoenix changes its looks in each legend.  In ancient Egypt, the phoenix was a heron, with a long neck, long legs, and bluish-gray feathers.  In Native American religions, the firebird.  In India, it is Garuda, a man-bird ridden by Vishnu. 

The looks matter not.  What matters is that the bird continues on.

…

It was when he felt the dress swishing around his knees that he first felt the difference.  Everything had shoulder pads or was cut to fit a more feminine shape.  This one, with its pale pink rose pattern, fell softly around him.  Framing him.  He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a few minutes, completely dumbfounded.

He padded barefoot out to the bedroom, saying nothing.  He sat carefully in the vanity chair, tucking the skirt demurely beneath his legs.  Ailis waited for him to speak… to say anything at all.  But he just sat, staring at his hands where they lay linked on his lap.  She started to fix his hair in a ponytail when he gave a small smile.

“It only worked for the Mona Lisa, Nicky.  You have to tell me something.”  She kept glancing at him in the looking glass, mirror images forcing some idea of eye contact.

Nicky scoffed scornfully, eyes finally glaring miserably at her. “What do you want me to say?  ‘I feel pretty’?  Or ‘there’s a draft between my legs’?  What’s there to say?”

“You’re supposed to say something, hon.  Like… why the dress or something.”

“Okay.  Why the dress?” he asked, completely flat and emotionless except for the slight quirk of his lips at the end of his okay.

She batted him on the head softly with the back of the brush in her hand.  “Boy, you are pushing it.  Try again.”

“Why’d you put me in dresses, Lissy?” he asked again, allowing his curiosity to come out.

“Cause you’re too pretty, Nicky.  And, really, you’re cute in that.”  His eyes flashed angrily in the mirror.  “What?  It’s the truth.”

He sighed softly and looked at his reflection.  What she said was true, really.  For lack of a pair of earrings, he looked really girly.  The ponytail and the pink, the slight smile that kept peeking through. The first flush of discovery.  She was right.

“Nicky?”

“You’re right, you know.”

Neicey’s voice carried up the stairs.  “Kids, I’m going to the store.  Do you want to come with me?  You can stay here with your dad if you want.”

Ailis and Nicky locked eyes, the same thought passing through their heads.  “Coming,” they both yelled, pulling on socks and sneakers and racing down the stairs.

 

What was most surprising was that no one said a word.  Nicky was perfectly well behaved, never drawing attention to himself, but not acting any different.  Ailis held his hand tightly as they raced behind Neicey, playing in the aisles like children do.  Neicey gave him a passing glance every once and a while, never letting herself ask the one question plaguing her.  If he was happy….

But no one said a word otherwise.  In the check-out lane, the cashier commented on how wonderful Neicey’s daughters were acting, and that was what clenched it for Nicky.  The normalcy he felt inside was great.  But to have it seem so normal to every one else… that was a beautiful thing.

So, he kept it up.  Only occasionally, interspersing jeans and an eventual haircut in the process.  It still made him feel normal, though he would never admit it aloud to any of his friends.  The dresses remained on the weekends and only with those people he trusted most.  He wanted to stay as safe as possible.  Three years, and he felt normal.

 

Eventually, Neicey took both Ailis and Nicky to get their ears pierced.  Why not let the boy have his ears done?  It was fashionable, even for boys, though the reason was beyond her understanding.  Besides, she told herself, he wanted it.  Had even asked for it.  So he sat in the chair first, Ailis watching uneasily to the side.  He thought about screaming to scare her, but he did not get the chance.

The quick, stinging burn of his skin being broken traveled almost directly to his groin, some circuitous route that lit his body alive.  It was New Years and the Fourth of July and Christmas beneath his skin.  His eyelids fluttered and he began panting quietly.

The salesgirl looked wary.  “You OK, kid?”  His throat worked twice before he nodded.  “You sure?”

He opened arousal dilated eyes and smiled softly.  “Barely hurt.  I’m fine.”  He loved it.  The girl looked at him insanely, not quite believing him.  It didn’t matter in the long run, she finally thought, and popped her gum.

The next piercing held Nicky’s attention more.  He felt anticipation curl in his belly as the girl marked the perfect spot.  Oh, he was twisting tight inside, waiting for the burn to return.  He tapped his nails impatiently, barely hiding his supposed fear.  As she moved the earring gun into view, he felt his body warm all over, right before he felt himself grow hard.  He bit his lip against a moan of utter need as the pain struck like lightning again.

That was it.  But it was more.  Thirteen years old, just past puberty, and already he had found his need.

…

The phoenix was never sane.  It could not possibly be.  Why?  Because, though it was fairly immortal, it always committed suicide.  It led itself into dangerous situations, forcing itself to die and come back at another time to make everything alright.

(no subject)

Chapter Four: Phoenix

Ailis picked up Nicky’s clothes from where they lay scattered about the room. Her eyes kept casting towards his prone frame, wondering if he was alright. When they first left the house, he had not said a word. And now, sobs were shaking his frail body. She stretched out behind him on the bed, gently laying her hand on his shoulder.

Nicky flinched away in pain, mumbling into his pillow to be left alone. Ailis shook her head. Neicey and Jaden were in the other room, and there was no way she was leaving until she got some answers.

“Talk.” He shook his head and slowly, painfully, curled tighter. “You have to talk to me, Nicky. I have to leave everyone I know. Everyone I love. You owe me.” He bit his and considered that.

“Rachil.” She gasped aloud, knowing only pieces of that rough, torturous past. Nicky snorted at her and lifted his head slightly. “Yeah. Now, you wanna know more? I set one limit. One! No fire. But he…. He let someone….” The boy let tears slide down his cheeks again.

Ailis pushed him lightly and lay him on his stomach, raising his shirt. “Ailis, no,” he protested weakly, but she went right ahead. There, amidst whip lashes and new tears in abused flesh, skin bubbled and blistered from new burns.

Her voice came as a sob. “Oh, Nicky.” It was brutal, knowing the boy she loved and admired was giving himself willingly to men who thrilled hurt him. She pulled away and searched her purse for the aloe she kept handy for herself. He hissed in a breath as she spread the cooling gel on the splitting sores. Never again, she promised herself, remembering the thousands of times she had done this before. And the thousands of promises she had made and broken for him.

It was at the request of Jaden and Neicey, and the order of Ailis, that Phoenix began to change his ways. Changing himself from the broken boy that he was, the boy who had lived the past three years as an adult. At sixteen, he already knew more than many would know in their entire lives. It was everything they could do to try to keep him from telling Ailis what he’d already said.

He stayed in therapy for years. Especially while they were away from Boston. If he ever went back, he wanted to be whole. The therapist was kind enough, and patient with his defenses. She found out the first day something important to the growth of her patient. She tried to light some candles that day, soothing scents to give him relaxation and calm. He shied away and quietly asked her to blow them out.

“Nix?”

“Please… blow them out.” She went ahead and did as he asked. It became clear in that first hour together.

Nix has always been afraid of fire. Of little yellow flames that light on his skin and eat away until nothing is left. He goes by Nix. Not James… which is who he was. Not Phoenix… though that is who he is. Cruel things can be done to a boy whose only crime is being different. Cruel, harsh, spiteful things that leave Nix in a cold sweat as he dreams them again at night. He shivers and wants to scream as he remembers what he wishes he could forget. What forced him to grow up so quickly.

He wore skirts to school… which in itself was a reason to give him their attention. He never bothered anyone. In fact, he was alone… except when a few girls would sit by him in an effort of friendliness. He was smart in class, making high grades that brought about much envy. The teachers set him apart… easy pickings.

“Phoenix, huh? We’ll see about him rising from ashes.”

They set fire to his skirt one-day while he was not paying attention. He felt the flames lick higher and higher, burning the backs of his thighs. He patted it out, tears slipping down his cheeks. The mendacious boys scattered, laughing all the way. He ran home, not caring who saw him. He wanted to keep running, to never look back. He feared if he looked back, he would see them chasing after, lighters at the ready.

He ran all the way to his room, locking the doors and windows.

He stripped off the tattered remains of his skirt, tossing it as far away as those four walls would let him. He lay on the bed, crying himself into a deep, depressive sleep. His cousin Ailis, who saw the whole thing, made their excuses and rushed home. She crept into his room and applied some salve to his burns.

The torture drifted into a slight oblivion… but not for long.

Phoenix—now James—made it a point to never be alone. When he was alone, bad things happened to him. He had just turned fifteen, and was beginning to become bold. He left the football game late, walking to where he was to meet Rachil. The air around him was thick and his ears detected the sound of other footsteps louder and louder. He heard their breath, anticipatory in the silence. He spun, only to see his exit cut off by a herd of football players carrying gasoline and rags.

One held James down as the rest encircled him with the rags, gasoline, and lighter fluid. He smelt their sulfurous odor and fought all the more so, desperately trying to get away. The one holding him held tighter as they lit the rags and dropped him as he jumped out of harm’s way. They stood in a circle, watching menacingly.

“We want to see if you rise from your own ashes, Phoenix,” the leader said with a sneer. He made as if to throw more gasoline on the blaze and on James as well, soaking his clothes in a deadly accelerant.

James’ eyes widened in fear. They would not… would they?

At that very moment, Rachil walked determinedly toward them, signing rapidly to James that everything would be all right. The mob stood dumbfounded as Rachil carried James away in his arms. James sat trembling in the car, too weak to stop the multitudinous tears falling from his eyes.

“James, James, my pet. Calm down. I have you now. No one can harm you more than you wish.” Rachil pulled Phoenix into his lap and stroked his hair gently, rocking to and fro in a needed comfort. Evil monsters, he thought. They had no right to do harm unless it was to mutual pleasure. He had plans for men like those.

The therapist began to understand. Though she knew she could never fully grasp his problem, she did try to help him during his distress. Help him to find outlets where he could become sane again, given time. He endured, and became stronger during his sabbatical in San Francisco. The home on the north side of 29^th street, only a few blocks from the ocean. The therapist’s office a cable car ride away on Golden Gate Way. Swimming, sand and sun… the perfect way to grow away from what was left behind.

Ailis blossomed in the land, a smile growing on her face as life became normal again. There were days where she went to school. And there were days where she learned how to skateboard from her broken cousin. Even as the days passed, their family became tightly knit, a four person unit that took every sorrow with the happiness. It was a form of karma that they all believed in—balancing the hurt of the past three years with the joy of the years before them.

It was joy. For them all.

…

Perhaps, by being reborn, the phoenix can right some of the wrongs of its previous life. Or lives. Where, at one time, it would have been afraid of everything, it may have tried to correct that by being reckless. The third life becomes a time where the phoenix can fix those mistakes. When the phoenix can find a middle ground.

Once that occurs, it only leads one to believe that, in order for the balance to be restored to the universe, a queer form of karma must ensue. Each life will be equal, each mistake reviewed and corrected.

The legend creates the world around it.

…

His heart rarely caused him trouble, which was a blessing in disguise. With less heart trouble, there was a chance for him to become something other than the being he was before. Something more. Something less. Anything to cure himself of the way he had been. He began to skateboard on a regular basis. He met with a few people just like him—artists, actors, poets. The tortured souls that never had any true pain in their lives. The boys who could show him how to be just a shade off normal.

He changed more about himself than the internal, though that was the most important step to his well being. He changed his feathers, so to speak. The norm of long sleeves to hide the latest shackle scars, the submission collars and the easy off clothing was stripped away. Pared down to baggy shorts and functional tees. Something that would cover what was meant to be hidden and leave the rest to imagination. Uneasiness with how the scars on his wrists would be seen led to vast numbers of bracelets piling on his hands. In the end, it was a changed Phoenix.

A dark cloud seemed to loom on the horizon, despite all thoughts to the contrary.

He could not fall in love. No matter how he liked the beautiful people he was surrounded by, he was lonely. Every crowd was an obstacle. Every party was an interrogation. Every conversation, an inquisition. Every moment was spent in careful weighing of what was said, what could be said, what not to say, what to show and what not to display.

‘So you’re from Boston. How’d you end up in California?’

‘Why do you wear so many bracelets? Don’t they just get in the way?’

‘Aren’t you hot? Take off your jacket.’

‘Where’d you get so many scars?’

Inevitably, someone would see what he could not bear to tell. And there would be the awkward silence. The nervous smiles and strained laughter. The quick getaway and the boy left alone again. He hated it, and would continue to hate it. They were an everlasting badge of grounding, of his history. A legend told in slim white lines crossing pale skin.

He graduated in the middle of his class, just slightly above average. His grades were nowhere near recommending, unless the college focused on his upperclassman years. He performed dismally in Boston, where he barely went to class and even more rarely did homework. He played catch up for the next two years, excelling in class only with many nights of fighting to stay awake. The result? A two-point-seven-nine grade point average. Not valedictorian, but nearly worthy of it, given the effort it took.

The graduation was fairly uneventful. Unlike the graduations he could remember, awards and scholarships were announced as each student received a diploma. So many names were called—especially the top ten percent of the class—that had the honor of several scholarships and awards. Of the over three hundred that were graduating, Phoenix felt less than likely to be awarded anything. Imagine his surprise.

“Phoenix James Cordell. Two years, perfect attendance. Recognition of 400 hours of volunteer service. Full tuition scholarship to the Boston Institute of Arts.” Phoenix’s hand stalled as he reached for the flat booklet that held his future.

“Mr. Cordell?” the principal whispered softly, finally drawing his attention.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shaking the principal’s outstretched hand and collecting his diploma. And his ticket back to Boston. He was dazed for the rest of the ceremony, the rituals of sitting and standing only requiring half a thought. He stared at the letter certifying acceptance into and tuition paid for BIA. BIA, where he had never applied or thought to do so.

After the final bit of pomp dissolved into raucous applause, he sought out his art teacher, the one man he had trusted in the recent span of time. Caudill Ramos was standing in a ramp to the side of the stage, waiting. He knew, of course, that Phoenix would never have applied to BIA, though that was where he was headed all along. The caliber of his work, his aspirations—everything begged entrance to the most prestigious academy of the arts that the nation could offer. The answer to the French and their Ecole de Beaux Arts and the Sorbonne.

“Dill.”

Grinning softly, he began obeisance, teasingly bowing to the angry teen. “Phoebus Apollo. God of music and arts. Prophet, poet, physician. God of the sun… gets to go to college after all.”

Phoenix refused to laugh at the joke Dill made on his name so often. “You know I wasn’t going to college. And I wasn’t going back to Boston.”

The man folded his arms, leaning on the wall for a long moment before walking towards the outside. “Come with me, Apollo. You have much to learn from me still.”

Phoenix ripped off his mortarboard in frustration, hair rushing free of its constraints as he wished to do as well. He followed the betraying teacher to the side of the building, arriving just as he lit up a cigarette. The pack offered and denied, Phoenix saw no reason to stall.

“Well?”

“Patience, Phoenix. Just be patient. You have all the time in the world.” He took another surly drag, blowing it out into the heavens, like a sacrifice to God or a snub in his face. “Yes, I wrote to BIA. And, yes, I supplied some of your class work as a portfolio. You’re too talented to just waste this opportunity.”

“It’s mine to waste!” Phoenix yelled petulantly. Dill shot him a look before puffing again on the cylindrical death trap. “You had no right, Dill.”

All lightness left his voice. “I had no right? Who are you to say it? The principal, the counselors, the entire art department saw what you’ve been doing the two years you’ve been here. You were beyond anything we could teach you artistically, beyond what classes we offered. No student has ever had two years of independent study at university levels here. No one.” He sighed, took a thoughtful smoke, and looked down at the ground.

“Look. I couldn’t let you waste a golden talent, a wonderful opportunity, just because you can’t go back to Boston. I know you’re stronger than that. I’ve seen you in a full upper body cast because you weren’t afraid to try to skateboard in a gapped full pipe. Foolish, yes. Downright idiotic if you ask me. But not afraid.” Phoenix grinned, remembering with an ache how his collarbone had broken and how long it took to reknit the bones.

“Take a chance, Apollo. Two years of being the top of the class. Two years in a place you didn’t know and two years of great strength. Can you really hide from your past forever?”

The logic in that, of course, was undeniable. His psychologist agreed with Dill. There was no way he could hide from Boston, from Rachil, from his past—not forever.

It was nearly dark by the time Ailis found him, sprawled on the beach with his graduation robe flung out beside him. Bright yellow robe, sea-slick and crumpled on the tawny silt, hollows creating black holes to other worlds. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost the mortarboard and tassel he was supposed to treasure. All that was left was the tie, loose around his neck and a letter nearly falling from his grasp. Though she was only a sophomore, she knew this was not the way a senior celebrated graduation.

She sat gently beside him on the sand, watching the waves crest only yards away. “Nicky?” she asked softly, feeling the bank suck her in like a downy pillow. He didn’t answer, or acknowledge her presence. “Phoenix?”

“He left me, Lissy. Said I was too insecure.” The folded page drifted down to the gathering tide. She caught a glimpse of the two words there, just as the ocean leeched away the ink. I’m sorry.

He didn’t speak again, though she waited for some sign her cousin still knew she was beside him. Nothing. No explanation of the boy’s actions, or why he was sitting in the dark with the sea surrounding his feet. Eventually, when the ocean’s roar washed away the sounds of his breathing, she began to stand, bracing a hand on the grating sand beneath her fingers.

She felt the bite of glass before she saw the blood on her hand. Before she saw the tears in his eyes.

Somehow, he beat her home, fingers tapping gently on the diploma cover on the coffee table.

“Boston?” Neicey asked as Ailis walked in the door.

“What about Boston? We going back?” she asked, truly surprised.

“I am, at least,” Phoenix whispered. “I can’t run forever.”