Authors: Anna Lee
Forbidden Fruit
Copyright © 2012 Anna Lee
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
For Mike,
Thanks for believing in me.
Special Thanks to Autumn Wiley
and Heather Lawton for their editorial
services and to Jamie Reed for an
exceptional cover design.
One year ago…
The musky smell of burning leather wafts in the air as I toss the inflamed sofa from my path. I’m on a mission that makes a simple deterrence around the piece of furniture too inconvenient, too time consuming. At the swiftness the fire is consuming the old house, it will soon be reduced to a mountain of ashes.
I close my ancient eyes and take a smoke-filled inhalation. I pick through the dominant smells of scorched wood, plastic, and human flesh, tweezing through each until I come across the one smell I can never forget, the scent of sweet pea flowers on a spring day. It’s
her
smell.
My senses lock on the intoxicating aroma, as my internal GPS hones into her location. Tearing through the house and tossing obtrusive furniture from my course, I ignore the singe of flames that lick my arms through the destroyed cloak. I will heal, just as I have since the beginning of time. What is physical pain to the torturous penance I live with each day? Pain is but a part of my eternal existence. It never lessens, and it never dies.
Just before I enter the flaming door that separates me from her, an arm shoots out and grabs my ankle, sending a desperate plea of emotions through my body. Usually humans don’t affect me to that degree, but it has happened a few times, in life or death situations. When humans are about to meet their end, they are able to channel their very soul into a desperate message that they cannot die without relaying. If they are unable to resolve the dying request, they sometimes linger on Earth until they can release themselves from whatever has them gripped between life and death. This is the origin of most ghosts who remain on the physical plane of earth. I sigh, not wanting to deal with this in such a desperate time.
I gaze down at the charred human form, with scared blue eyes begging for help. She is burned badly, beyond recognition. A dark, wet spot embodies what is left of her nose. Teeth show through lips that should have been present, and what may once been beautiful hair is replaced by a black-spotted bald scalp. I am surprised she is still alive.
Had I been here ten minutes prior, I would have saved her. But I can’t now, it’s too late. I bend down and whisper to the dying woman, “Be at ease.” Then I place one hand over her heart and send pleasurable endorphins soaring through her body until the woman, with no lips, smiles. When I release my hand, her essence is extracted from her body.
The woman’s ghostly form hovers above her incinerated corpse, gazing in awe at the stranger who walked through fire to end her suffering. But one moment later, she begins desperately trying to communicate with me. Every inch of her spirit is screaming at me to save her little girl. She’s not yet versed in communicating without a voice, or signaling without substantial hands, but she pleads with her very existence for me to save her daughter.
I understand the woman perfectly, though I don’t need anyone to tell me her daughter needs to be saved. She’s the reason I’m here.
I stride to the door down the smoke-filled hallway and bust down the flaming boards.
Please let her be okay.
The once pretty, powder blue room is packed with smoke. Luckily, the fire has not spread past the door. I take no time breathing a sigh of relief. Instead, I charge directly to her bed, and scoop up her limp body.
One moment I am standing with her in my arms in the middle of her bedroom. The next, I am standing on her dewy, front lawn.
The smell of my favorite flower overwhelms my senses as I hug her to my chest. I haven’t been this close to her in so long. Cradling her, I examine every inch of her petite body. No injuries, though she is unconscious. She must have been sound asleep when the fire started, as it was three o’clock in the morning.
I run a hand through the golden curls trickling over her shoulder, and then trace the delicate lines of her sweet face. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
She always will be
.
Sadness and anger stir in my body from painful memories that lay deep in my heart. Just as quickly, desperation and aggression roll through my veins, scarcely adequate coping mechanisms. I am a cursed man. I can never have her, though that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. I love her with my entire existence, yet I am fated to only watch her from afar, never talking to her, never touching her, never even letting her see me. I shouldn’t be here now, but I couldn’t let her burn alive. I only reserve that fate for my enemies.
Regardless, each time she sees me, I witness the look of desperate longing in her eyes, adding salt to the wound.
She
wants
me
, which makes my abhorrent vow even more difficult to keep.
Sirens echo in the distance, bringing me back to the present. Fire trucks would arrive within seconds, ruining the reunion. My soul aches as I hug her close to my chest. If I had a heart, it would be breaking all over again.
I have to let her go. Again.
Cupping her thin nape with my hand, I bring my face down to hers. Before we touch, I savor one last whiff of sweet spring flowers. When my lips press into hers, electricity shoots through my primordial body. She will always be the one for me. No one else can ever make me feel so alive.
I linger for seconds longer than I intend, trying to convince myself the sirens aren’t as close as they sound, though I have perfect senses and know the lie for what it is.
When I release her lips, I draw out the smoke from her lungs. She begins to cough, desperately sucking in precious air. Gently, I rest her on the soft grass and promptly disappear into the nearby tree line. I watch helplessly as she twists on the ground, confused and alone. I root myself in place, fighting the urge to go to her. She will need someone strong to lean on, like me, because she is about to learn that she has lost everything she knows and loves, all while peacefully asleep and completely unaware. She will be devastated. I want to be the shoulder that bears the weight of her world. But I can’t.
Yellow clad firefighters rush toward her. I watch the scene from my hiding place, desperately wanting to be the man who she wakes to find. I fight back the usual urge to rip the head from any male who touches her, as a burly man wraps her in a blanket and carries her to the back of the truck.
The desperation and aggression that ripped through my body earlier turn to full blown violence. I need to rip the head from something, anything, to release the never-ending pain from losing her. I know just the place.
A second later, I port myself to the middle of an ongoing war. A desolate field, unreachable to humans, where fog rolls over the bare landscape and ancient enemies still clash in the heat of battle to this day. I dive right in, ripping off monstrous heads and dismembering body parts; destroying everything I can get my hands on. Horns, hooves, snouts, it makes no difference to me. The creatures I fight are all the same, whether they disguise themselves as human or show their beastly natures.
My foes jolt with shock at the sight of me. I am the leader of my army, yet I am fighting with the wild ferociousness of a front line berserker. To them, I look more animal than man, with an untamed tenacity and an elemental fury that can end any life.
When my men catch sight of me, they each do a double take. They weren’t expecting to see me at all, much less in a psychotic rage. Their surprise quickly turns to cheering roars. It is an honor to fight alongside your leader. My soldiers rally behind my unexpected presence. I can feel them inflate with a renewed fervor.
I swing my sword as if my life depends on it, tearing apart my enemies. With each blow, I try to deaden the constant, soul deep ache in my chest. I fight with a passion that knows no bounds.
Long ago, somewhere in my mind, I convinced myself that one day I could end this suffering through enough penance. I’ll try again tonight, pummeling my adversaries until they are no more.
When the battlefield quiets, I gaze across the tundra at the sea of ravaged bodies. Then I spear the ground with my sword and drop to one knee. One hand on the handle of the ancient weapon, the other clutching my aching chest, I cry out to the heavens. The sound of pure pain radiates from my lungs, echoing through the vast, bloody plain. Each roar frightens the warriors crowded behind me. They have seen their leader like this on occasion, though none dared ask why.
I can feel the gazes of the men behind me, sense the nervous shifting of their bodies. They know nothing of my pain. Few do. Their entire existence is to fight for me, and they do so without question. My men are loyal to the core.
I wander if they would still be so loyal if they knew what control one young woman has over my heart, my thoughts, and my loyalty.
The little black letters began to run together as my weary eyes crossed with exhaustion. I had been pounding away on my Mac nonstop for hours and still had another five pages to go. How much more could I say about the impact of the Industrial Revolution on third world countries in Africa? Who cares enough to read a fifteen-page paper on the subject? Oh yeah, that’s right, my arrogant, egotistical history teacher, Mr. Brody, and if I don’t manage to squeeze out the full fifteen pages, not including the reference and title page, I will fail. He made that point early in the year, by using my best friend Bailey as an example.
I clicked the save button, pushed away from the antique desk, and rubbed my burning eyes. My new school required much more work than my last. I missed the days of spending more time having fun than working. That’s what seventeen year-olds are supposed to do, right? Live it up their senior year of high school.
There have been so many changes in my life since last year. All things considered, I think I’ve adjusted well to a new home, new school, and new friends, but I miss my parents.
My eyes automatically found the gem-encrusted frame that housed the picture of my mom and dad, perched on the top of my desk. They were all smiles, sharing a hug on their anniversary. It was taken only four months before the fire.
I could still smell the smoke and feel the hot, licking flames incinerating my entire life, turning it to nothing more than a pile of ashes. I went to sleep that night with nothing more troubling than my latest crush hooking up with my best friend, and woke to find my life a living hell. I can still remember the nausea I felt on that dreadful fall evening, when I saw a gust of wind sweep the remains of my world across the lawn and into the street.
That was the first time I pondered the reason for existence. If my parents’ lives could be reduced to soot and strewn along a street to be run over by everyday traffic, I decided that life cannot really have a purpose. I began to live my life under that assumption.
I squeezed my eyes tight, fighting the tears that threatened to pour, and stood, looking for a distraction. Crossing my new, richly decorated, Charlestonian bedroom, I made my way down the lavish curved stairwell of the house that would never quite feel like home.
“
Lily dear, how do I look?”
At the bottom of the staircase, I stared at my eccentric grandmother, who wore a short cocktail dress meant for someone forty years her junior. The aging woman spun in a full circle, so I could get a view of every angle. I plastered the most believable smile I could muster on my face and encouraged, “Great!”
I had gotten good at fibbing. It was the norm among the wealthy, and when I say wealthy, I am using their terminology. Where I am from, they are simply called the filthy rich. After my parents died, my grandmother took me in, and ever since, I have been trying to be a part of her world. I don’t think I will ever truly fit in. I am grateful though. My grandmother has given me a life most teenagers would die for, filled with an unlimited supply of clothes, accessories, cars, and freedom-pretty much anything money can buy. Still, nothing can replace the hole in my heart that was carved out that awful night one year ago.