Laurel Mae Williams wished she had believed in the town gossip about the fae in Muz Bay.
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She’d always heard they were from the Winter Court: a vicious court with denizens as cold as the poles and as stoic as a bitter wind, with oil-slick eyes that shifted with their cool, sinister moods and a wicked taste for human emotions. They liked those served up fresh from panting, desperate, keening mortals with parted, swollen lips right on the verge of turning blue from inner cold of those Winter fae.
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They always left a string of dead in Pinocchio, teens from Pitch High School and young adults from the small liberal arts college downtown –all friends at some time or the other, since nearly everyone was from small town Pinocchio anyways – strung along the coast in the deepest time of Winter, fingers, toes, chests and lips all a piercing navy, swollen up like ripe fruit fit to bursting through the skin.
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Like any superstitious mother, Laurel’s mother Willow had always stuffed her pockets with Ziplocs filled with salt and iron nails, and every breakfast was made with bread stuffed with herbs: so strong that for the four months Pinocchio spent in a cold winter, her breath always smelled like a pantry, no matter how much mouth wash she swished.
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Laurel went along with it, to a degree, because it was tradition, even though she felt it was silly. In all of the science books she’d favored and collected, there was no evidence for fae: maybe a humanoid creature like them resided in the caves in the bay –she’d seen Joe Harkins, the kind, homeless man, camp out there a few times– but certainly not beings that had lived since time began and the earth was cool. But still, she sported shirts sewn purposely inside out and pockets stuffed with salt and iron to give her mother comfort, especially when she went out for Mid Winter’s Night.
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Mid Winter’s Night was a bit of a tradition for teens and young adults: those that were legal would grab cases of cheap, five dollar beer and harsh, strong smelling whiskey and everyone would bring food: pizzas, s’more materials, chips and dips. Laurel brought a bottle of Everclear, the one she legally purchased a month after her birthday last November. That won her the affection of a group of giggle girls, who snatched it away and drank straight from the bottle.
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Everyone would feast soon: indulge in fatty, greasy foods and get deliriously drunk, part on the atmosphere and definitely from the metal barrel kegs and bottles and cans of alcohol. When whoever brought the ancient boom box finally set it up –Mesi’s watch read 11:56, right before the Witching Hour of midnight – they’d dance to the most hauntingly lovely music, mimic their faery neighbors fro just one night.
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Under the salt sprinkled sky, it was something beautiful: a bit fae as Laurel and everyone whirled around the fire to the haunting tune bellowing from the speakers, stamping their feet and moving their arms in rhythmic, undulating motions. In those moments, she felt wild like those fictional beings, and when she felt a presence behind her, she didn’t pause, but simple spun around, reveling in the groupthink of the party.
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Behind her was an unnaturally tall woman, with a fauxhawk dyed ink black with a few strands of ice white hair, all situated above a heart shaped face mostly covered with freckles. Her skin was dark: so dark that it made Laurel’s own deep, toffee brown look light, so dark that it was like a black hole, absorbing all the light around them. Fortunately, Laurel didn’t say any of that: instead, she simply laughed, arms swaying above her slowly.
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“You’re beautiful,” the woman said. She blinked big, round eyes, and tossed her hair, streaks of white hair settling amongst the nest of short, black strands. “And a lovely dancer.” She pressed her hand firmer into Laurel’s hip, though Laurel didn’t remember when she’d placed it there.
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“Dance with me,” Laurel said, surprising herself only for a moment. The woman nodded and pulled her hip, sending them into a hypnotic sway.
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They swayed and swayed, bodies moving in unison like they’d always known one another. The woman shifted Laurel around and around, twisting her like a top. It felt like Laurel was dancing on ice: she slid across the cold, hard sand smoothly as if it were glass.
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The woman leaned down, thick lips parting. “Mesi,” the woman breathed in Laurel’s ear. The world felt like butter, warm and slippery, and Laurel let herself slide into Mesi’s dark, near blue-black arms, sighing as she felt icy fingers on her arm. “That’s my name, Laurel Mae Williams.” That made Laurel laugh for some reason, a giddiness that was part fear, and wholly excited.
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Perhaps, if Laurel had noticed that Mesi knew her name –full name– she’d have stopped and pulled away, flinging one of the Ziplocs of salt and iron at the woman. Maybe if she’d have opened her eyes and saw that Mesi’s skin was not a brown so black but a black that was blue, she’d have questioned things. Really, is Laurel had noticed that Mesi wore a white, v-neck shirt and shorts in the dead of winter, she’d have screamed out that word: faery.
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But she didn’t notice and instead continued to dance, letting Mesi guide her around in a looping circle until she was dizzy with euphoria, tossing her head back so that her long, fresh braids could sweep the curve of her buttocks, fluorescent orange and green beads clacking together as she pressed against Mesi.
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“Let me kiss you, mortal,” Mesi whispered. Laurel saw that her eyes, formerly black, were bright yellow, narrowed with glee. “Let me gift a pretty girl a pretty gift.” She flashed shark-sharp teeth, and for a moment, her shirt hitched up, revealing a smooth path of skin patterned like a seal.
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“Yeah,” Laurel breathed, twinning her arms around Mesi’s neck. Something tugged at her and she parted her lips, the music fading to white noise. “I like stuff,” she answered dumbly.
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Mesi exhaled, cloyingly sweet breath enveloping Laurel in a haze, and she felt her body go slack in Mesi’s arms, heat roaring through her, thrumming in her fingertips and tongue. Mesi’s lips met hers and they kissed, tongues tangling, Mesi’s cold-sweet breath filling up Laurel’s lungs. She’d never kissed anyone like that: like in a movie or a cheap romance novel. But it was luscious: tantalizing and made Laurel kiss all the more fiercely.
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Laurel wasn’t sure when the kiss ended: she just remembered being twisted around again, spun so smooth and fast that the world around them turned to a blur or reds and navy hues, the sky and fire mixing together. “It is done,” Mesi whispered in Laurel’s ear, turning her around. “I am so glad.” She chuckled low, and let out a bark of laughter, an animal sound that filled Laurel with a hint of fear, but only for a moment before it faded away, leaving her feeling happy again. “Seal the contract?” Mesi asked.
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“It is done,” Laurel breathed, lips moving on their own. She mimicked Mesi’s bark of laughter before letting the music fill her again.
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Laurel didn’t remember how she got home that night: she didn’t remember getting in her Hyundai, didn’t remember walking in and changing into her pajamas. She didn’t even remember wrapping her hair, a tedious process that always took her at least fifteen minutes. She did wake up wet though: her clothes had patches of sodden spots, on her back, neck, chest, and her hip, right where the top of her shirt met the flannel. It made her embarrassed, until she realized it was everywhere. Relief flushed her face, and she tugged herself from bed.
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The eerie feeling followed Laure into the bathroom, and finally, she forced herself to look in the mirror she’d been avoided. She dropped her toothpaste, the cap rolling right down the drain, still buzzing toothbrush clattering to the floor. Her stomach churned and she bit back a scream, blood rushing through her veins so quick it made her dizzy.
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Laurel Mae William’s lips were blue.
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A blue like the ocean choked with freshwater ice: a blue so deep it was navy, and looked like smudged lipstick on her mouth. She rubbed viciously at them, but it didn’t fade. In fact, she had to talk herself out of the idea that the color was spreading: it was though, because when she looked at her fingers –previously brown – they were tipped in blue, the bed of her nails a soft periwinkle.
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She ran downstairs, sliding down a few and into the kitchen, lips posed to shout for her mother. Instead, she found an empty kitchen and a silent house. “Of course,” Laurel breathed, shaking her head. “She’s on duty at the hospital.” Her mother had a shift at Throne-Wise Hospital in the town twenty minutes away: she wouldn’t be back until late that night, when Laurel would hopefully be asleep.
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Still a bit in shock, Laurel got herself a tall glass of orange juice and fixed a sandwich: bologna, a thick pre-sliced slice of tomato, cheddar cheese, mustard, lettuce, and a few sprouts for extra crunch. It smelled good and comforting, and she sat on the stool. “This will fix me up,” she said aloud. “It’s just a bad hangover.”
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It tasted a bit like charcoal. Laurel left it there, not even bothering to throw it away. If she had a hangover, it was gone now.
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It took her a week to tell her mother, and by then, she had been suffering from signs of hypothermia off and on: sweating herself into a fever only for her body temperature to drop dramatically. Her mother kept her on a strict regiment of piping hot baths.
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“We’ll sweat it out,” Willow Williams would coo over Laurel’s wrinkled, toffee shoulders, right before dunking her under the hot water, teeth worrying her dark brown lips as she poured in more Epsom salt adding a few more pinches of herbs and iron nails into the tub, trying to superstitious out the sickness.
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When the symptoms worsened, her mother made a firm decision: “We’re going to Ms. Martinez.” Laurel groaned, sinking into her bed: Ms. Maria Martinez was Pinocchio’s self-proclaimed “Faery Doctor” and a quack is Laurel had ever met one.
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“She’s a hack,” Laurel groaned.
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“She’s a doctor,” Willow Williams replied. “Get in the car.”
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Ms. Martinez did her work in the back of her house, out on a converted covered patio that was walled in with dark brown wood and windows with dollhouse like shutters. It certainly didn’t look like a doctor’s office, save for the metal desk: there was a twin bed and tons of candles with saints on them, along with little temples with slips of paper with Japanese kanji on them, rice bowls position in front of them, and strings of herbs dying from the ceiling above.
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The entire room smelled of sage the moment Willow and Laurel clacked through the beaded curtain and into the room. “Sit, sit,” Ms. Martinez said, waving to the bed. Laurel plopped down hard, and her mother took a seat in the egg chair at the end of it, crossing her legs.
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“What brings you, Willow?” Ms. Martinez asked, tilting her head. She smiled slightly, chubby cheeks dimpling.
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“Laurel…” She paused, clearing her throat. “Has been cold for a week.” Two weeks really, but Laurel didn’t say that.
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Ms. Martinez turned a keen eye to Laurel, gaze sweeping up and down three times before it finally settled on Laurel’s eyes. “I can see traces of her all over you.
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“…Silky?” Laurel asked.
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“Selkie,” Ms. Martinez shot back, emphasizing the sounds. “A fae that has a seal form that they can… remove on land.” She nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “They are known for being very seductive and beautiful.” She sniffed and shifted back.
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“She was,” Laurel whispered, eyes glazing over a bit. She shook herself, focusing back on Ms. Martinez’ beady citrine eyes.
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“Describe her,” Ms. Martinez asked in a clipped voice, waving a sage wand over Laurel. She coughed hard and waved her hands, but Ms. Martinez smacked her knee hard with the back of her hand. “Sit still. You’ll fall back under her spell if I don’t clear your head.”
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She tried her best to describe Mesi with English: beautiful, otherworldly, and magical. “Don’t call them that!” Ms. Martinez scolded. “It encourages them.” Regardless of the words, Laurel couldn’t find any to suffice: so she settled on things associated with cold.
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“A Winter Fae,” Ms. Martinez breathed, spinning around on the stool to look at Willow Williams. “You’re daughter’s been Chosen by a fae.” Ms. Maria Martinez loosed a string of words, lips pursing together, and though Laurel didn’t speak Spanish, she knew Ms. Martinez had said something incredibly foul.
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Chosen was the true six-letter word, spat like a slur from Ms. Maria Martinez’ mouth every few seconds as she rummaged around the room, filling wax paper envelopes with powers and pills and a mason jar with something in a sickly shade of green. “I believe she’s already started, Ms. Willow,” Ms. Martinez said. “Your daughter is turning into a Winter Fae.”
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That news kept Laurel in bed for two weeks: not sick but buried beneath her sheets, worrying them so much she wore the threads down to a hole in the right corner. It kept her mother crying all day and night, kept her feeding Ms. Martinez’ serums and pills and syrups –what little she could offer for a sickness this advanced – down Laurel’s throat, the would-be cherry and lemon flavors turned to cold ash in Laurel’s mouth. Her mother checked on her constantly, going so far to call and tell the professors at the college that Laurel was sick.
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Laurel hoped she spared them what with.
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Yet through it all –when she managed to sleep – she thought of Mesi, and that singular kiss. That fiery, fierce, inhuman moment when she crossed into another world, sucking in Mesi’s cold, sweet breath and letting it inflate her all the way up, allowing her to see the duality of the bay finally through awakened eyes.
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The kiss was a constant dream, and finally, it drove her to leave late one night, when the cold was too much to keep inside her body and when Mesi’s barking laughter had filled her up too much to think clearly. She put on a pair of shorts and a tank top: after all, she didn’t need protection against the cold.
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Not anymore.
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Sneaking out was easy: Laurel had done it for the late night walks she took. She softened the sound of the window with the old t-shirt she always kept there and clambered out onto the roof, making her way down the oak tree until she was on the brittle grass. For a moment, she thought about sneaking back in to write her mom a note: tell her why she left, why she felt she had to leave, to go to the bay and get rid of the winter chill in her gut. She didn’t though, and told herself it was better: her mother had already lost her in a sense. At least, she’d lost the human part of her.
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Laurel didn’t have a destination: she just walked until somehow, she found herself at the ridge that jutted out over the bay near one of the old logs her and some friends had paid to get moved up there for a make-shift bench, back when they were seniors. She remembered the day fondly: it was their Ditch Day, and for a moment, she relished the memory.
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Silence settled around her, and for the first moment in weeks, she felt alright. Then she heard a bark of laughter, and looked up, twisting around to see Mesi walking up to the log. Her hips were swaying, and this time, she wore her skin like a hoodie, a flap of slick, furred skin over her head. It stretched down to the tops of her thighs, a makeshift jumper made of her own body. It shook Laurel from the stupor, reminding her how gross that was.
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“Hey.” Laurel jerked her head up, lips parting in surprise. Mesi stood their, eyes a soft pink tonight. “I thought you’d never come back. You must be ready.” She laughed, that infectious bark. “Your lips are even bluer than when I carried you home.”
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“I know what you are and what you did to me.” Laurel wasn’t falling for the bright, charmingly sharp smile Mesi had on her soft, plump lips, or the sharp tug she felt the moment Mesi got close to her.
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“Yeah,” Mesi said, looking sheepish. She shoved a hand in her skin pocket, and Laurel imagined she was probably blushing. “Sorry, I should have said something. I got caught up, you know?”
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“Yeah,” Laurel replied lamely. “Yeah.” She did know: that’s exactly what had gotten her hear, on the log, cold as the sea, frozen as ice.
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“Well, it’s fine now, right?” Mesi said. “You’re almost there.” She scooted close to Laurel, cold hand taking hers. “I can feel the ice inside you: you’re home now. We’ll be together.”
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“Together, eh?” Laurel chuckled humorlessly. “You mean stolen. Taken. Forced.”
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“Forced?” Mesi quirked a dark eyebrow, wrinkling her nose up at the word. “You accepted.”
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“I was drunk.”
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“We made a contract.”
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“I. Was. Drunk.” Laurel spat the words and shift, standing to her feet and moving away, towards the lip that jutted out over the ocean.
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Mesi moved behind her, inhumanly quiet as she shifted towards Laurel. Laurel felt uncomfortably safe and comforted now, and wanted desperately to lean back into Mesi’s cold heat, let her spin her around and around and around under the waning moon. Instead, she didn’t, forcing herself to move a bit further forward, until the bay began to open up, revealed by the narrowing land.
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“We kissed,” Laurel deadpanned, initiating the conversation again. “Once.”
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“More than once.”
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“Once. And while I was drunk. You don’t give gifts–” Laurel crooked her fingers into quotation marks then, inhaling deeply, “–when girls are drunk.”
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“A gift is not just a gift,” Mesi whispered. “Not to me. And I chose you because you deserved a gift. You deserve this life.”
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“This… gift,” Laurel spat, wrapping her arms around her, “is a curse. I should have known better.” She shook her head. “I should have listened to my mother more. I… I should never have kissed you”
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Mesi was shaking now, not with rage, but with a deep, gnawing sadness that all but consumed her on the spot. “You don’t mean that.”
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“I do,” Laurel said, stepping close to the edge. She was a moment’s sprint away from it now. “I don’t want to be a monster like you.” Laurel spat it with weeks of anger, with the discomforting sadness that was still there, lingering even as she looked at Mesi, growing still.
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“Laurel, you don’t have to!” Mesi cried, stepping forward. She shuddered and tears roller down her cheek, twinkling in the moonlight. “Please, I’ll find a way to break the curse. I promise,” she whispered, desperate. “I won’t make you live for ever.”
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That made Laurel laugh: it was sweet in a way, too sweet for such a serious moment. “If there’s one thing I don’t want to be,” Laurel said. She felt the wind at her back, and in that moment, knew she could fly: knew she would in a moment, would be sailing backwards, arms outstretched like bat wings. “It’s something you’d regret.” The words came out evenly, surprisingly so. They filled her with a sense of calm, washing away Mesi’s unearthly influence.
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“I don’t regret you,” Mesi said. Her oily eyes were changing now, a vivid, eerie navy, the same as the water below in the Muz Bay. “That’s why I gave you this gift, Laurel. I wanted to show you how much I care.”
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“You took away my life.”
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“I’ll… I’ll give it back.” Mesi’s head bobbed vigorously. “I’ll ask the Winter Queen to restore it. She can, I promise.”
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“You can’t Mesi,” Laurel said. “Something’s don’t just… change.” She heaved a sigh, turning towards the water spreading out below. “You can’t promise to give me something you just… took.”
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“Laurel, I… I…” Mesi’ words faltered, and Laurel could hear her sobbing in earnest now, gasping sobs that gave her all too human hiccups. “I swear on my name I will break the curse.” Laurel knew she would try too: swears and names were too important too the fae, and when one threw down that gauntlet, they meant to make good. But Mesi wouldn’t be able too –couldn’t– nor could Ms. Martinez medicines. Deep inside, Laurel knew she was stuck, and she was at a crossroads, and had to choose.
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“Don’t worry,” Laurel whispered. The ice crept through her further into her veins suddenly, surging forward, and she coughed, a puff of air crystallizing before her. “I’ll break it right now.” She smiled and hoped that in the moonlight, she looked cool, but instantly felt wholly inappropriate for the thought, right at the cusp of a penultimate choice.
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Laurel took off in a sprint, jumping at the last moment. Twisting, Laurel threw herself from the edge of the cliff, the bay spreading out beneath her into its full brilliance, a background against her spread out body. Mesi’s voice followed, shrill voice screaming “Laurel!” over and over again. The wind rushed around her though, and it got swept away in the gale around Laurel’s ears.
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“I’m sorry mom,” Laurel Mae Williams whispered, closing her eyes as the bay got closer, and she forced the air and the biting cold from her lungs one last time, letting the dark water claim her as her own, not sure if she’d wake up dead.
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