Truth or Leave

She tears her gaze from the running river and spins to face the now cruel bunch of miscreants she could have once called friends. Tucking a strand of her soft curls behind her slightly pointed ears and straightening her back against the cold railing, Emelia sighs, ‘fine, I’ll do it.’

A cheer erupts from twins Malia and Emett, who beam as they once again get what they want from their careless games of truth or dare, and the intoxicated Harry who can only afford his attention to the green things and aldehydes. Meanwhile, Grey remains silent, grazing his pedantic teeth against his cracked lips and using his index finger to scratch at his already-bruised thumb. ‘What is it, Grey?’ Malia asks between pants from her adrenaline-soaked air punches, ‘are you upset?’

Emelia stares at the floor; Grey, unwaveringly back at her.

After a brief pause, Grey shakes his head and tucks his fists into his jean pockets, relaxing his furrowed eyebrows into emotionless lines across his pale forehead. ‘Carry on,’ he says beneath his breath, ‘as you should.’ With that, he starts his pace across the frozen bridge with his head bent low.

It is no secret that Emelia had attempted to run away from the city prior to any of their conversations about the usefulness of fitted sheets and Grey’s passionate 5pm rants on the use of coffee as a fictional antidote for those who cannot fully understand how to healthily calibrate their emotions upon waking. It is blatantly obvious that Radeyon is the glacial hell paving the way to complacency, and that the only thing knitting together this community is the illusion of a greater Heir to the King who presently sullies these bleak streets. As Emelia would put it, any promise for better has been recycled into folklore the locals now sing to their starving children in attempts to lull them sleep as a means to pacify their bellies’ grumbles.

‘We shall settle for midnight,’ Emelia starts, ignoring the pang in her stomach from knowing that this might be the last she ever speaks to the one who knows her the most. ‘I will set out before 11:30 and await by the King’s gates. Anyone ordered to stall my mission will be slain in cold blood.’ She stares unfeelingly at Emett and then switches her hard gaze to Malia who stands in awe, gnawing at her dirt-filled fingernail. How pathetic – they have no cognizance of the severity of their errors.

‘I think I’ll go home now,’ Harry slurs as he fights the urge to regurgitate the four beers he accepted to down an hour before Emelia was dared to rob the city Grey would soon inherit.

‘You can leave,’ Emett says, careful to gather confirmation from his sister and Emelya before nodding. ‘He won’t remember anything anyway,’ he adds, a hint of fright and unease conveyed in his uneven tone.

As Harry stumbles away, Emelia orders the twins to leave before the sun melts into the night, echoing a final warning; ‘if any of you are to speak of anything, I’ll rid your tongues with mine own hands. It was your dare, in the end.’ With abiding heads nodding and a scurry of two pairs of childish feet away from the bridge, Emelia lets out a tired sigh.

‘You know it has always been my intention to leave, Grey,’ she speaks loudly, sliding down to meet the frozen concrete, her heavy head in the palm of hands. She knows he wouldn’t leave without a conversation. This is to be his city; this is what he will rebuild when the merciless Everon steps down and gives into the Earth; this is where he will build a family with her once the shaky ground settles.

As if responding to a cue, Grey pushes himself off the wilted tree from across the river and breathes heavily into the void, his breath quickly frosting over from the sheer cold. ‘I hope you understand that to rob the city of its riches and to disappear is how you close this book forever.’

‘I know.’

‘And it’s okay, is it?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘To rob the city is to rob me, to rob yourself, my father – regardless of his incompetence as a King – and to rob innocent people, just for your chance at chasing a life you know nothing about.’

‘You don’t even like him, Grey,’ she affords a whisper amidst the pain from the hard truth.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then?’

A long pause ensues before he responds – a pause chillier than the night itself – and Emelia now knows the familiarity of the knots in her stomach. The silence mimics the chewing of shards of glass and waiting for a shaky confession. ‘It’s a senseless game of truth or dare and you’re spinning it in your favour at the expense of the city, of my plans and of our love. You bleed us of gold, you bleed any chance of the betterment of this god-forsaken shithole. I know what love is with you, and I hoped for the consolation that you would have known enough of it with me, too. What don’t you understand, kid?’ As Grey grows angrier, Emelia seemingly recoils as if wounded by the reference to the immature delinquent she believes she is but cannot admit to.

He now stands before her, towering intimidatingly like a father she refuses to acknowledge. He cannot understand the longing for peace and a safe place like a mother’s embrace, and she does not expect him to – the babied child who never loved his father. It is in the emotionless moment he creates between them that she remembers how he would hold her while she wept about abandonment and told her that the Queen once held him the same; the way he’d stare, two frosty eyes in the middle of November glimmering lovingly back at her and wiping away at the hurt before he placed his parted lips on hers. Yes, he’d find his hands wandering softly down her tensed torso and stopping at the band of her crumpled shorts, and yes, she’d allow him to continue his journey through the depths of her empty spirit without mentioning that she could love him terribly and still look forward to the day she leaves.

It was in those moments that she knew that there is a certain level of pride involved in selfishly putting love on the back-burner and gathering oneself to avoid falling apart at the feet of the future she chased.

‘I’m sorry, I understand…,’ she says before looking up from her palms and sadly into his eyes. She stands with a cold disposition as if all is well decided – she will rob the city and depart at the expense of her present, as she was dared to.

‘…but Love can wait another century.’

Credits Reedsy.com: https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/ for the prompt: Start your story with someone accepting a dare.