by Shana Bulhan

WARNINGS: sex, possessiveness, suicide, swearing

I miss her. Not just when she’s gone off on her trips, but even when she’s right here in this house, I miss her. I don’t know if it’s that words just become obsolete, or that the garden is so wild, but I miss the way she could run her hands down the weeds ad find the perfect one– proffer it to me– “Rue, you’re a willow.”

Raine is intoxicating but she is also mine. I know this to be true even when she’s far away. I know she will always return to me, sweeter and sadder than all the stops pulled out. “We are just stories,” She used to whisper to me when she tucked me in bed at night. “So dream out loud and make it count.”

These are all cliches. What I mean is, I miss her hands trailing fingerprints in the dust on top of the radio, and the beads scattered all over the floor of her room. I miss her sulky voice petering through the windows as she sings “Oh my darling Clementine” over and over. (Clementine hates this, of course.)

Perhaps I miss her fucking me against trees in the moonlight, as we ached and hoped to become werewolves. Perhaps I even miss being the one to turn to when her arms were a criss-cross of red– scars and ink. She is still around a lot, and sometimes I’m envious that her scars have healed. I feel terrible for wishing she’d come to me for comfort again, except maybe I don’t really feel terrible at all. We were poison ivy decorating the castle, nooses wrapped around us fashioned as scarves, as we plotted a double suicide. Or triple if Rouenne would come along with us when Raine died.

Together we were invincible. I could have told you how Rouenne wasn’t as evil as everyone thinks she is, and how Raine and her are the best of friends. Raine decided she was sometimes named Reyana the day we picked blackberries in the fields behind the house. She’d have so many revelations circumstantially, just waiting to spring themselves upon us.