Eric’s POV

~15 Years Ago

As my eyes open to the burning sensation of sea water, I frantically claw around me. Just a few seconds ago, I was bodysurfing and having the time of my life. One bad run on a wave and I find myself underwater, but more than that, swept up in an undertow. I tumble across the sand as the ferocious pull of the ocean drags me further from shore. I can feel the sand and jagged rocks tearing into my back as I’m tossed by the tide, tumbling through turbulent water. My arms flail out in every direction they can move, desperately grasping for anything I can use to orient myself properly. I find nothing but rushing water and empty sea as the half-breath I managed to take before going under slowly runs out.

I should have listened… dad told me the waves were too big. He told me that I should rest a bit while the swell passed, that I wasn’t ready. My arms stop their frazzled search for leverage as I come to a realization: This is it. There’s simply nothing more I can do. My entire body is screaming in pain as I watch the last of my air form bubbles that twist and dance around me as I continue to spin like laundry in a tumbler.

Through some act of divine charity, or perhaps providence, I feel a tickle against my left hand. My fingers sink into loose grains of sand, and suddenly I’m able to right myself. Never letting go of the sea floor, I force my legs down and use them to propel up and breach the surface. My lungs sing with joy as I take a massive breath in until a heaping mouthful of salt joins the party as another wave knocks me over, and back into the water. This pattern plays out on repeat for what feels like an eternity, and by the time I wash up on shore, rolling myself away from the lapping waves and spitting out mouthfuls of brine, I’m physically spent.

Dad is a couple hundred feet away, looking for me in the surf. That’s when I realize just how far away I got dragged during my ordeal. I call out for him weakly, my voice lost in the white noise of high tide as I slowly regain my sense of self. “Dad!” I finally croak out at a decent volume. My Father finally hears me and rushes over, relief overwhelming him.

He doesn’t let me back into the water after that. We spend the day sitting on the beach, a safe distance away from the ocean, just… talking. He asks so many questions about how I’m feeling, if I’m okay, what it was like in the undertow… At some point, I admit that I had given up while trying to save myself. He tries to assure me that it was just a panic response, but in the aftermath of mortal terror, I realize that I gave up for a reason. I’m… not happy. 

That may sound ridiculously simplistic, but the fact is, I didn’t see enough value in my life to care to preserve it at all costs. I could never admit it to him, but in those few seconds of peace, drifting without hope… I felt free. I felt like I was finally escaping an ever-present burden. In that fleeting moment of freedom, I became reacquainted with a truth I’ve stifled for years. You can learn to live with a dull ache, it’s constantly unpleasant, but at a certain point, you stop even feeling it altogether. Effectively, you’re cured, or at least it’s become part of life. However, when the pain goes away, for even a moment, and you’re reminded what being genuinely okay feels like… then that pain returning becomes an immutable problem demanding all of your attention once more. I’m in pain… and for the first time in years, my mind allowed itself to focus on why. 

I’m not me. I’m not who I should be.

Dad keeps talking for some time, it’s not annoying or unwelcome. My father's always been a good talker, kinda goes with the territory of talking to people for a living, I guess. I nod along and give half-answers filled with quarter-truths, unwilling to share my discovery with the class. The sad thing is that I know he’d be able to help me. If you want to consider Mother and I seeing lines to be a superpower, Dad’s power is always being good at finding the right words to help someone see themselves and set them on the right path. Even more impressive is that he can do it without the blessing of a God. He’s just that good.

Or… He was that good. Past tense.

Three years after our trip to the beach, he died in a car accident. I never even got to say goodbye.

***

Present Day

The keypad buzzes as another one of my guesses fails. “Alright, it’s definitely not a birthday,” I report to the unimpressed peanut gallery watching me work.

“How the fuck did you think GUESSING was an acceptable plan!? I should punch you!” The woman who seems to get her jollies from threatening me chimes in from across the room. Yeah, I was just supposed to naturally have all the answers for everything in this scrapped-together same-day plan of ours. “We have about twelve minutes… when are we going to call this the failure it is and ditch?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” I chide, not admitting that I have about as much faith in me as she does. I punch in another few significant dates that I remember from my time growing up with Mother.

… Wait a second!

I punch in my parent’s anniversary date and am met with a familiar buzz. Oh, silly me, I assumed for a second my Mother was at all sentimental. Whoops.

Embossed on the safe, just above the pin pad, is a single word in golden, cursive script: Conviction. I’ve already tried her favorite verses from her bible, the day she took over the Priestess role from Grandma, even the day she severed the first ever grey line after Eleonora's edict. What else would define conviction for Mother in a profound way?

My fingers pause, before moving again with purpose.

*CLICK*

The display on the safe turns green as the heavy door allows itself to swing open. The day Dad died… guess she is human after all.

In an instant, Miss Stunning and Beautiful, who still hasn’t given me her name, rushes forward like a puppy hearing the shaking of a treat can. The safe is packed with documents and journals, each filed away in a “Fuck it, if it fits it fits” organization style. I step aside as the woman I brought here ravenously tears through the slush to find what she craves. I busy myself watching the clock, ready to call things quits should our time limit draw too near. 

“The logs… they’re in chronological order…” The woman says after finding the first volume of many logbooks, sounding defeated. “I don’t know when Mom or Melanie would have lost their lines… if they ever had any. I–I can’t find them with so little time.”

Seeing the wounded look in her eyes, I bite back my initial instinct to tell her to hurry up again. Instead opting to simply say, “I’m sorry you can’t find what you were looking for. I truly am. Is there anything else you can look for instead so it's not a completely wasted trip? And can you do so quickly? Seven minutes and counting.”

My words seem to jolt the woman to life as she starts violently flipping through book after book of successfully carried out missions. She messily tosses each volume she doesn’t need aside, scattering some of the pages in Mother’s collection as she goes. I sigh, realizing that someone has to pick these up to avoid suspicion. As I gather the now scattered papers, an envelope catches my eye. It’s a simple beige envelope, unopened by the looks of it, containing something paper-thin and folded. Altogether, an unremarkable piece of mail… until I saw the name of the sender and the post-marked date. That's... not possible. In one catastrophic second, the entire world as I know it comes to a grinding halt.

Both my partner in crime and I find something earth-shattering as I hear her gasp. “So, that’s her name… beautiful…” She muses off to the side.

I pocket the letter and start tossing everything that’s fallen out of the safe back inside. Before the woman discards the book she found her prize in, I grab it from her hands, faith be damned, and flip to the day my line was severed. On each page, organized by date, are the names of people who had their lines cut… naturally allowing someone to find their love, forever separated from them by an em dash in this book of senseless cruelties. Printed on the date my line was severed is only one pair of names… neither my own. Yet one name is so breathtakingly familiar, the lost echo of a dream I’d woken from years ago. This was my line... or at least... the line of someone I could have been. How cruel of even the Goddess to bring up that name I've tried to forget for so long.

Estella Solis–Selene Himmel

It’s been years since I even let myself think about the theoretical person on the other end of my line. Seeing her name… it makes her seem so much closer. She isn’t some intangible idea somewhere in the aether. She’s a real woman… and her name is Selene.

“What happened to Mister ‘Nobody is allowed to see it, not even me?’ Being a bit bold disobeying the will of your goddess, are we?” Ms. S&B teases, striking me with the most annoying expression I’ve ever seen a fellow human wear.

“Yeah, well… things change.”

“Since when?” She laughs at my perceived lack of willpower.

Shrugging, as my fingers trace the outline of the envelope stashed in my pocket, I answer honestly. “About a minute ago, actually.”

***

~13 Years Ago

The slam of the door makes me flinch as Mother storms down the hallway, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

“She hates me,” I say weakly, witnessing first hand her reaction to my latest humiliating mistake.

Dad, just as shaken by Mother’s dramatic exit, finally moves. He pulls a chair close to me and sits down. “She doesn’t hate you… she just… reacts intensely when surprised. Should have seen the day I proposed, I thought she was going to decapitate me with a butter knife.” Dad chuckles at his attempt to inject some levity into the situation. “She wasn’t expecting this. To be honest, I wasn’t either. Seriously, kid, I’m sorry I wasn’t more prepared for this… guess I’ve been too close to you to see the signs.”

“Signs of what? That I’m a freak? A deviant? One of Mother’s other choice words?” I pull my feet up onto the chair I’m sitting on, my knees covering my chest as I hold them close. My eyes sting as I remember the screaming that only just ceased moments ago.

One of Dad’s hands finds its way onto my shoulder. “Kiddo,” I can see Dad’s brain frying in his head like bacon in a skillet, the drippings of attempted understanding and caution catalyzing its crisping. “Look… your Mother is an incredibly traditional woman. Frankly speaking, sometimes tradition is dumb as shit.” Hearing this, I look up and see Dad rubbing his temples, as he often does when talking about his work. “Fuck me, I’ve given this speech enough times, you’d think I’d have it written down as a prepared statement by now…”

“Language,” I pipe in, earning a look of vexation.

"Excuse-fucking-me… I’m too damn old to have my own kid telling me to wash my mouth out with soap every time I drop a curse word.” I gesture at the large mural covering Mother’s room and Dad just rolls his eyes. “Oh, whoops, my mistake. I forgot the creepy painting lady is watching me.” I can’t help but chuckle at his flagrant disregard for Mother’s rules… whenever she isn’t around of course. “Anyway… what you did isn’t wrong, in any way. In fact, it’s often an important step in experimenting with how you see yourself and how you want the world to see you as well.”

“There’s no way I’m going out in a dress!” I snap, offended at the thought… or at least pretending to be.

Dad shrugs. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to… if you change your mind, that’s fine too… all that matters is that you approach everything you want to try with an open mind and an honesty toward yourself. It’s not easy, and it takes immense courage, but it’s the only way you’ll truly get to live a life you find fulfilling. What that life is going to look like, is entirely up to you to decide… just… maybe give me some time to try and smooth things over with your Mother before she sees anything else. She’s a good person… but she scares the living shit out of me.”

I can’t help but laugh at his candor. “Yeah, same here.” I know at this point I look at Dad’s face, but the memory fades a bit and I can never quite make out his features anymore. “Thanks for being so cool about this. I really appreciate you.”

The man next to me nods. “Yes, I am pretty amazing. Feel free to sing my praises more. If it’ll help, I can write some new hymns dedicated to myself!”

***

Present Day

Ms. S&B and I are already in the woods on the way back to town before any of the acolytes return from service. Our walk back is in no way less awkward and quiet than our trek to Mother’s place. I look over at her again and find her eyes sizing me up this time. “You keep looking at me, why?” She asks, clearly not a fan of the attention.

“Well, you saw the logs… I believe it's time I got to ask my questions.”

The woman shifts her gaze forward as we continue walking. “Fine, but you get one question.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” I snap at her, triggering another cold stare.

“I didn’t find everything I wanted to either. One question, take it or leave it.” 

As unfair as that logic is, I’m in the fortunate position of knowing exactly what to ask. “Your tattoo, on your forearm… why did you get it?”

Stopping to look at me with a wonderful cocktail of displeasure and confusion, she asks, “Seriously? You did all of this to ask me about my ink?” She rolls up her sleeve to reveal the blue flower I’d only seen for a moment earlier. “My Mom has this same tattoo. I got it because I thought it was cool, and it seemed like a nice way to keep a piece of her around wherever I go.”

“Wait… so it’s your mother’s tattoo? So you don’t know the significance of it for her?”

Ms. S&B smirks and shrugs. “Sorry, one question. Asked and answered.” Never in my life have I dealt with a more frustrating, stubborn, asshole-ish human being… “See you around, Eric.”

Groaning with frustration, I rush in front of her. "I need to ask your Mom what the tattoo is supposed to be. It’s important.”

“I’m sure it is… but why should I care?" The woman stares me down as my entire brain shortcircuits with blinding frustration.

"Because, this has to do with the lines, it has to do with something... I don't know! There's some weird shit going on and you're in a unique position to help me figure this out!" I run myself ragged, out of breath, pleading... only to be met with a familiar grin.

"Hmmm... Pass."

I inhale pure desperation, the air I draw into my lungs combusting into an inferno of irritation and visceral hatred. She's not going to help me. She hates me on a fundamental level because of what I've done and I can't say I even blame her. Nothing I say or do is going to change her mind here... so I put whatever hope I have left on one final chance.

"What do you suppose it means if a red line disappears?" I ask, hoping she's the least bit interested.

She pauses and thinks for a moment. "Aren't red lines supposed to be wonderful, beautiful, perfect connections? Didn't you say they were infallible? Aren't they superior in every way to the disgusting grey lines you and your shithead associates destroy?" 

Shrugging and nodding simultaneously, I take in a deep breath. "That's what they say... but... what if they're not?"

"Then all love is doomed and we're all fucked. How does that make life better?" She asks, entertaining my train of thought.

''I don't know... but if the red lines are a lie... if they're just as twisted and broken as the grey ones... then everything I've done..."

"What even brought this on? I thought you didn't question your precious faith?" The woman asks, looking genuinely concerned with an edge of bitterness.

I pull out the now crumpled envelope from my pocket and stare at its front once more. "When someone dies, their lines vanish. It's nice to not have a bunch of people connected to cemeteries, that'd get kind of morbid. Well, when my Dad died, Mom's only line vanished with him."

"I'm sorr--"

"Don't be, since..." I hold the envelope up for her to see. "This is his name. This is his handwriting. He's alive... He's alive and somehow their line is gone."