Short Story- Changeling

Thea woke from her trance in front of Eliot’s door. Her knock, more of a slam, was cut off by him rattling his lock, letting her in. His townhouse looked the same. It still had the boyish decorations, the easy feel to it.

Eliot had a morose look to him, typically flushed face pale. His freckles were ticks dug deeply into his face.

“Listen, Thea, I-“

“Stop making excuses,” she spat through teeth. “Just please tell me. When did it start?” Her chest was heaving, she was shaking, and had the strange need to throw up again. “When did you start sleeping with my best friend?”

“She came on to me, and I was at a weak point,” he stretched his hands out in front of her. His fingers were long, branches stretched from his boughs. “I never wanted it to get this far.”

Thea surprised herself by stalking over and swiping carefully placed action figurines off of his bookshelf.

Eliot gasped. At least it wasn’t the TV. “I didn’t ask how it started,” her voice was foreign in her ears, pitchy and screeched. “I want to know when. Tell me,” she held the bookshelf by the back lip. “Tell me now, or I’m dumping everything in this house on the floor.” She viewed her body, her actions, as if she was watching from above.

“Don’t throw a fit Thea,” his voice lilted. “Listen, the first time was when you were at your sister’s wedding.”

The shelf clattered to the floor, noise breaking through the living room. “That long ago? That was last year!” She lobbed a book at him, thunking his chest. “You’re disgusting.”

“It wasn’t consistent,” he cried, blocking more books. Thea kicked the coffee table to the ground, scattering more things. “What if that candle was lit!” Eliot cried. Thea relished in the mess she was making.

She chucked the candle at him and screamed, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He winced, then ducked when she threw an empty wine glass at his head.

“Thea, baby, that actually hurt,” he cried. “Please stop.”

“You’ll hurt as much as I want you to,” she clattered the TV to the floor, then kicked it. “You did this to yourself.” The white ball of rage enchanted her, a burning star in her ribcage. Her fingers found something good, something that would really drive the point home. “You slept with Delilah for over a year, promised me everything,” she was laughing. “You deserve this.”

She ran at him, and the bronze bookend connected with his head. Eliot let out a pathetic gurgle, and blood sprayed Thea, trickling down both their faces. She smacked him with it again. And again. The rage morphed to hatred, then to sorrow, then fear.

Thea placed the heavy bookend on the hardwood floor. “Eliot? El?” He was limp, even paler than he was before. He breathed shallow, soft grunts emerging from his pallid mouth. Her eyes were blown wide. There was so much blood, on her and all around her. She shook him. “You gotta wake up,” she whispered. “And promise that you’re okay.”

Eliot’s body was so heavy as she hefted him up the stairs. Trails of blood fled from his head, marking each wooden floorboard with a crimson arrow, pointing at him, pointing at Thea. She would have to clean that up at some point. Her hands were under his armpits, biceps straining as she heaved him into the master bathtub. The water ran cold, at first, then it warmed up under the touch of her fingers.

“El,” she whispered, “I’m going to give us a bath. Just like the old times when we used to sit in here, right?” The water was pink. He skipped every other breath, pallid and twitching. Thea cupped her hands to pour water over his face and down his neck. She stripped Eliot’s wet clothes off, and then her own, sinking into the water.

He moaned through blue lips. She didn’t know how to stop the bleeding, now thick and gushing down Eliot’s face, so she placed her naked body against his, like it could convince it to warm up. “This is nice, right?” Thea said. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Just what we need to reconnect.” His skin was rubber in the cooling bath.

Thea pressed a washcloth against the wound in his head, now gaping, showing cracked bone. If she could only wash it well, do her best, it would heal to a silvery scar. Something for him to tell stories out. She ran more water, dunking his face under the faucet. Eliot gurgled, mouth in an downturned crescent, his lips cracked. “Don’t worry baby. You’ll be all clean soon, thanks to your Thea.”

Eliot was both better and worse when she drained the water. His hair was burnt orange, flashing against his paper skin. His freckles were pock-marks, scars in their own way. He sucked every few breaths, shivering. The wound on his head was still oozing when she pressed the ends together, squeezing out more blood in an attempt to meet flesh with flesh. Thea needed him to heal.

Wrapping towels around each of them, she took him by his armpits again, dragged his body onto the king bed. She laid with him, his cool skin on her hot back, breathing deep and even to remind him. The moon flicked in through the slats of his blinds, casting blue light around the bedroom. Thea fell asleep as Eliot floundered, took his last breath.