An odd feeling washed over me. Fear, desire, and kinship battled inside me. He was direct and aggressive, a fighter. As unlikely as it sounded, I knew he and I were cracked in the same place, even though we’d both been broken in different ways.
Our cart began to move, slicing through a black vinyl curtain. A giant, plastic zombie leaned forward from a veil of green smoke, laughing lowly into my ear.
“The monster’s gonna get ya.”
There were beasts twirling, screaming zombies that spat water in our faces, and a family of corpses having dinner. A baby’s red eyes shot lasers at us.
The train of carts ascended to the top, slow and steady. People all around us squeaked in excitement.
“Do you ever feel lost?” I whispered.
The stranger laced his fingers with mine on the scratched plastic bench beneath us. His hand was warm, dry, and calloused. Mine was cold, soft, and sweaty. I didn’t pull away, even when danger began humming around me, thickening the air, depriving me from oxygen.
Play with monsters, but don’t be surprised when you get beaten.
“No. I had to find myself at a young age.”
“Lucky you.”
“I wouldn’t use that word to describe me.” He chuckled.
“Not Irish, then?” I couldn’t help but probe.
He didn’t look Irish—he was too tall, too broad, too tan—but he had that Southie accent most blue-collar Irish men sported.
“Depends on how you look at it,” he answered. “Back to the subject at hand—your being lost.”
“Yes, right.” I cleared my throat, thinking about her again. “I don’t think I’ll ever find myself. I don’t have many friends. In fact, I only had one really true friend, and she died today.”
“There is nothing to find. Life is not about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself. There’s something liberating about knowing your own bones, all the things you are capable of. Being unapologetically yourself makes you invincible.” His voice seeped into me, hitting roots. Our fingers tightened together. Our cart jerked here and there while zombies sent arms flying in our direction, trying to catch us. People around us giggled and screamed.
He hadn’t said he was sorry for my loss like everyone else had. “And who are you?” I breathed.
“I’m a monster.”
“No, really,” I protested.
“It’s true. I thrive in the dark. My job is to implement fear, and I am some people’s nightmare. Like all monsters, I always take what I want.”
We reached the highest point. The peak.
“And what I want right now, Aisling, is to kiss you.”
The cart jerked back, screeched, then tipped down, falling at an increasing speed.
The stranger muffled my scream with his mouth. His hot, salty lips sealed mine possessively. All my inhibitions, fears, and anxiety evaporated. He tasted of cigarettes, mint gum, and sex. Like a man. I let go of the rails, clutching the thin fabric of his black shirt, drawing him close, drowning in what we were in that moment. A monster devouring a princess, with no knight in sight to save her.
He tilted his head and cupped my cheek, his other hand cradling the back of my head. His tongue prodded my mouth open, touching mine—gently at first—before I let our kiss deepen. Our tongues twisted together, dancing, teasing, searching. My stomach dipped, and my anxiety dissolved.
The world felt different. Brighter. Bigger.
Warmth pooled between my legs, and my groin rocked forward on its own accord. I felt achingly empty. I squeezed my thighs together just as I felt a lash of fresh air on my face.
The ride was over.
We were back out.
He broke our kiss, drawing back, his face expressionless. Terrifyingly calm.
The girls in the cart behind us mumbled “holy shit” and “that was hot” and “yeah, it’s definitely him, Tiff.”
Him who?
“First kiss, huh?” He wiped a smudge of saliva from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, cold amusement dancing in his eyes. Like I was a toy. Something laughable, replaceable. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
The girls behind us giggled. My soul fired up its imaginary laptop and opened Zillow in search of a suitable place to bury myself from shame.
“Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “Imagine if you really were my first kiss. I could be scarred for life. You might traumatize me. I’d never be able to trust another man again.”
Stoner Guy flung the metal bar open, striding down the line of carts. “Time’s up. Everybody out.”
The stranger smoothed my hair away from my face.
“You’ll survive,” he croaked.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Don’t underestimate me. I know a whole fucking lot about people. Besides, I already told you, my name is Monster.”
“Now, that might be your nickname—” I started.
“Nicknames are more telling than birth names.”
I happened to agree. My father called my older brother, Cillian, Mo Orga, which meant “my golden” in Irish Gaelic, and my middle brother, Hunter, Ceann Beag, which meant “little one.”
He never nicknamed me anything.
My name meant vision, a dream. Perhaps that’s all I was to my father. Something that wasn’t real, tangible, or important. I was meant to be an idea. A pretty vessel for him to parade and exhibit.
A little daughter, pretty, prim, and proper, without the pressure of breeding me for some big role. To take over his company one day. To give him male heirs to continue his legacy. I was my mother’s gift from him, and I played my role, doting over her, fulfilling her every whim, and filling the hours he was away on business with shopping trips, doing each other’s hair, and more.
Now I was planning to go to med school so when I graduated, I could also take care of her physically. Jane Fitzpatrick always did detest visiting her doctors. She said they were judging her, misunderstanding her.
I couldn’t wait for the day I’d be qualified to replace her physician and check another box in the impossible wish list my parents had set out for me.
“I’m not afraid of monsters.” I squared my shoulders.
Pleased with my answer, he flicked my chin. “Maybe you’re one of us. You just said yourself you don’t know who you are.”
I tried to go after him. I wasn’t too proud to follow him around, ask him what he meant. But he was quicker, sliding out of the cart quickly, and with the feral grace of a tiger, he walked away.
He disappeared in the throng of swirling lights and bodies, evaporating into thin air, as monsters did.
I came here to drown.
Now, I could hardly breathe.
Three hours later, I was still buzzing with adrenaline and pain. I tried all the rides. Ate too much candy. Drank root beer on a bench and people-watched. The distraction did not dull the pain. I continued to play the moment I found out she was dead over and over again in my head like I was trying to punish myself for … what? Not stopping it? Not getting there sooner?
There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
Wasn’t there? She asked you for help. You never gave it to her.
I looked for Monster all night, even when I didn’t mean to. My eyes wandered, scanning the lines and couples and throngs of people. I wondered if I’d made him up in my head. Everything about our encounter seemed unreal.