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For the past year and a half, Jinx had been lucky.
By virtue of his authority, Silco was able to demand that most business be conducted at his personal office—which just so happened to be fifteen feet from Jinx’s bedroom. This arrangement meant that she was seldom away from him for more than a few hours, and any hours of separation typically took place during daylight.
But now he was gone.
No. No, she reminded herself, Silco was not gone. He was merely away on business, attending to important matters, and would return before bedtime. These words, the exact ones Silco had uttered as he left—stroking the back of Jinx’s head while she clung to him— became her inner mantra.
Jinx was seated cross-legged on Silco’s bed, facing his beloved antique clock. She had assumed this position immediately after his departure (the little hand had been pointing straight down) and had not budged since. The little hand now pointed left: nine o’clock.
Each audible tick tethered Jinx with its consistency.
Tick.
He’s coming back.
Tick.
He’s coming back.
Tick.
You’re not alone.
Oh, but you are, hissed that voice just behind Jinx’s left ear—the mean, nasty one which seemed to grow louder and more distinct every day. The one Silco told her was not real. Jinx clapped her hands over her ears, pressing hard in an attempt to excise all sound. The voice snickered—mocking her attempt to silence him.
Beside her on the bed lay a small heap of items: her bunny, a half-filled sketchbook bursting with color, and a lurid handful of markers and pens. For the first thirty or so minutes of her isolation, Jinx had tried to lose herself in art; scribbling colors across the page in an attempt to exorcise her anxiety through ink. But nothing looked right. After three or four failed attempts—whose crumpled corpses were ripped from the book and chucked into the corner of Silco’s bedroom—Jinx had given up and taken to watching the clock.
Tick.
He’s coming back.
Tick.
Something scuttled at the edge of Jinx’s vision and she immediately shut her eyes tightly. The sight of Mylo, bent and broken, his scratched and deformed features jeering at her, was the last thing Jinx wanted to see at this moment.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, don’t be a baby,” she whispered—as though the sound of her protestation could cover Mylo’s derisive laughter.
Oh please come back, she thought, please. Jinx was like a lone soldier, her tiny sword raised against the mouth of hell itself.
Pleeeeeeaseee.
Mylo’s voice dripped with scorn, pitched high and whiny in a cruel impersonation of Jinx. Who would want to come back to you?
Hands firmly over her ears, Jinx cracked one eye to hazard a peek at the clock. It was nearly ten. Her bedtime was 10:30 (with the exception of special occasions), which meant Silco would be returning in less than an hour. Then stupid Mylo would be screwed. Silco always knew what to do, he always knew how to make her feel better, no matter how dire the situation had felt prior to his arrival. The warmth of his body was an anchor to reality, its solidity juxtaposed against the hollow contents of her faulty perception. As often as she needed, Silco held Jinx in his arms—speaking continually to provide her with an auditory tether as swirling, taunting figures danced in and out of existence all around her. Silco was remarkably eloquent, and the stories he unfurled so effortlessly helped pass the time until she could breathe fully again.
Mylo’s eyeless rictus grin suddenly appeared inches from Jinx’s face. The shock caused her to topple backwards with a yelp, heart pounding. She screwed her eyes closed and curled up in a ball where she lay, hands clapped over her ears.
“Leave me alone,” Jinx gritted out, her voice wavering with a mix of anger and desperation.
This was ill-advised.
Silco had told her not to engage with Mylo—no matter what he said, no matter how insistent his taunts and jeers became—for it would only perpetuate the hallucination. Sure enough, immediate laughter echoed through Jinx’s head in response, vibrating her very skull.
He’s not coming back, you little bitch. No one wants you and you know it.
Jinx let out a choked little whimper, hands tight over her ears in a futile attempt to shield herself from the onslaught. Her only objective, the entire purpose of her being, was to withstand until 10:30. When the big hand pointed straight down, Silco would stride through the bedroom door and—with the sheer authority of his presence—dispose of the garbage ricocheting around in Jinx’s brain.
Jinx remained curled on her side, for there was no point in sitting up. She existed in limbo, in pre-10:30 stasis. All that mattered was the eventuality of Silco’s return. It was as though she walked beside him, wherever he was, as a ghost; and her physical body was merely a vacant husk, left behind. The only signs she was even alive were the furrow between her tightly closed eyes and the faint motion made by her deliberately paced breathing.
With each inhalation, the band of tightness around Jinx’s chest pulled taut, twinging. Behind her closed eyes, images flickered unbidden: rain beating down on the dirty ground; acrid smoke; a pink haired girl walking away forever and ever. Jinx shook her head furiously, clutching at her temples as though the sharp pain of her nails could exorcise these unwanted visions. She hummed a little tune, offkey and quiet, forcing her mind to wander to something, anything, else.
Jinx took a deep breath, mustered every scrap of courage she possessed, and glanced swiftly at the clock. It was 10:25. A rush of relief danced through her curled body—only five more minutes, she could handle five more minutes!
Everything was silent except for:
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Even Mylo was hushed, as though he sensed her imminent salvation. Jinx counted down the moments with her breath as giddy, incandescent relief buoyed her out of the abyss. Silco was coming back!
The clock chimed 10:30 and her eyes flew open. Jinx rolled over so she was facing the door, ready to welcome Silco home. A smile played across her lips as she buzzed with anticipation.When he did not immediately appear in the doorway, she was able to rationalize the delay. It was, of course, foolish to assume he would materialize precisely as the clock struck. He was likely ascending the stairs, or else proceeding down the carpet-lined hallway. Any second now.
Jinx sat up and uncovered her ears, listening fervently for the slightest sound that indicated Silco was approaching. She grabbed her rabbit from the quilt, clutching it to her chest as she waited. But the room remained silent, save for the clock’s callous progression onwards.
10:32.
A cold, sick feeling began to pool in Jinx’s stomach, like her insides were slowly being replaced with poison. Itchy, choking tendrils crept up her neck, stealing the air from each breath she drew.
No. It didn’t mean anything. Silco was just downstairs, and any second he would walk through that door. Any second. Jinx’s gaze bored into the wood with such intensity that the entryway seemed liable to burst into flames.
Tick.
Tick.
10:35.
The metronome that had aided her mantra now mocked her—each tick a tangible reminder of Silco’s absence, a reminder that she was utterly and completely alone.
Told you, hissed Mylo, and Jinx closed her eyes instinctively, holding her bunny tighter. He’s not coming back.
“But…he promised.” Her whisper sounded paperthin and pathetic, even to her own ears.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Jinx groaned, bending forward with her arms wrapped around the rabbit as though stricken by a stomach ache. Each tick of the clock felt like a shard of glass, hammered deeper and deeper into her chest. It hurt to breathe deeply.
10:38. He was late. He was late. What if…
He’s never coming back. Mylo, crouched in the far corner of the room, his jagged neon teeth jutting from a slack mouth, finished her thought.
Jinx rose jerkily to her feet, blood roaring in her ears, head throbbing. It felt surreal, as though any moment Silco would enter the room and all would be well, this would all be a childish overreaction—but the door frame remained empty.
He was gone. Jinx’s eyes filled with hot tears; shame, terror, fury. It was a sticky kind of rage, catching in her throat and closing it.
She let the rabbit drop to the ground, its cloth body lolling sideways as though dead or asleep.
Each tick of the clock was a physical assault, as piercing as Mylo’s taunts.
Never.
Coming.
Back.
Without thinking, Jinx staggered to the clock. It was a masterpiece indeed: dark, ornately carved, with a pearlescent face that proclaimed Silco was late, late, late.
She was captivated by the eyes of her own reflection—made warped and indistinct by the glossy material of the clock’s face. Her eyes were wide, her breath labored. For a long moment they stared each other down.
Then, with the frenzied fervor of utter desperation, Jinx seized the clock with both hands. It was difficult to gain purchase, for the wood was very slick. She gripped the sides and tugged hard, but it did not budge so much as an inch. Whatever mechanism affixed the clock to the wall was steadfast, and Jinx’s arms were scrawny. Useless. She tugged at it, gasping for breath, one foot braced against the baseboard, but it would not yield.
With a cry of frustration, Jinx let go. She paced a shaking circle upon the rug, hands buried her hair, clutching at it like a lifeline. All the while, Mylo’s laughter and the perpetual ticking of her loneliness formed a sickening symphony in Jinx’s throbbing head. She couldn’t take it anymore.
He was gone, and the world was ending.
Letting loose a scream of betrayal and agony, Jinx wheeled towards the clock, smashing her closed fist into the glass. The clock’s glass was thin, delicate, and not designed for such violence, so it shattered at once with an apocalyptic tinkling. Shards rained down upon the carpet, the lamplight glittering upon a thousand razor-sharp edges.
She tore at the clock’s now exposed hands, warping the delicate metal in a desperate attempt to dispute its truth: he was late, he was never coming back. The minute hand snapped off, and Jinx threw it to the floor as hard as she could, breathing in ragged gasps, eyes blown wide. The knuckles of Jinx’s right hand were slick with blood, twinkling with bits of embedded glass.
And yet the broken, loathsome aberration still continued to tick.
“Stop!” Jinx screamed, smacking her head with her hands as though the force could somehow silence this infernal racket. “Stop it!”
Jinx was not in control of her own body. She was a marionette, her strings violently jerked from above, every motion erratic and detached from the last.
She dropped to her knees on the glass-strewn carpet, only vaguely aware of the sting when her bare skin struck the shrapnel. Some tiny part of her mind, locked away in the very back, begged Jinx to stop, to breathe, to look at what she had done—but the anguish and adrenaline was blinding.
She was drowning. No matter how hard she tried, no air reached her lungs. Hot tears streamed down Jinx’s cheeks as her gasps turned to sobs—broken, angry sobs that shook her whole body. Hands clutching tufts of her hair, Jinx curled in on herself.
All around her shimmered the remains of Silco’s prized possession.
The sound of Mylo, whispering and jeering just below the threshold of recognition, occasionally spiking into mocking laughter, intertwined with Jinx’s cries. Trapped, overwhelmed, devastated; she did not hear footsteps clicking down the hallway.
“Hello, darling, I— Jinx!” Silco’s greeting, which turned to a shout as sharp as the glass in her hands, made Jinx look up.
It was impossible. Was this just another trick? Silco left the doorway, rushing with uncharacteristic haste to where Jinx crouched amidst the broken remains.
“My god, what happened?”
“Silco?” She managed, the word a ragged exclamation of disbelief.
It couldn’t be—and yet he was not some apparition. As Silco knelt beside her, careful to not rest his knees upon the carpet, the familiar lines of his face swam into view through her tears. He reached for the hands still clutching her hair, grasping her wrists with gentle insistence.
“Let me see, Jinx.”
She didn’t release her grip, merely stared up at him with wide, distressed eyes.
“You’re late!” She cried out, a distraught accusation.
“You're right,” Silco glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly 10:45. I’m sorry, darling. I was apprehended in the bar with business talk.”
Jinx whimpered, releasing her hair as Silco once more pulled her hands towards him. He was not ordinarily this rough with her, but right now she couldn’t have resisted if she tried. So Jinx held her arms outstretched, shaking, as he bent forward to examine them.
“Oh, Jinx.” Silco said in an undertone, more to himself than to her. The shards of glass jutting from her knuckles caught the lamplight as Silco gently rotated her hands, assessing the damage.
Jinx was still unable to breathe save for ragged gasps. The world swam in and out of coherence as her terror that Silco would never return was slowly overtaken by a deep horror. God, what had she done?
She was awful. In an act of thoughtless violence, which now seemed so stupid, she’d broken an item he loved. She hated herself and knew he must hate her too. Jinx couldn’t look Silco in the eyes for fear of being undone by the site of loathing within them.
But she could put it right, she had to put it right.
Silco released her wrists, saying something she couldn’t discern. Was he even speaking to her? His words sounded garbled, as though he were submerged deep underwater. No meaning was gleaned, for Jinx was overtaken by the frantic desire to fix what she had done.
Reaching out, swift as a rabbit, Jinx grabbed furiously at the carpet—scooping up shards in her fists. There was a numb pain to the action, so far removed from her awareness it might as well have been happening to another Jinx. All this Jinx cared about was, by some miracle she hadn’t quite worked out yet, repairing the broken clock.
Silco was saying something again, but his words were fuzzied by her disjunction from the room around her. Then he caught her wrists, his grip firm, and forced her hands from the carpet.
“Stop. Jinx, stop. Open your hands, now.” His voice was so urgent it made Jinx feel like the world was crashing down around her. He did hate her, she was right.
But she obeyed, letting the bits of glass rain back down. They fell like a perverse game of jacks, scattered red and shining across the carpet. Jinx finally mustered the courage to look up into his face, and flinched at the expression he wore. Silco looked tense, upset. She’d messed up, she’d messed up and broken something and he would hate her forever. He was going to leave her all alone and Jinx was dying and nothing would ever be okay ever ever again but all she could manage to sob out was:
“I’m so sorry.”
“Jinx, listen to me.” Silco cupped her cheek in his hand, keeping her attention focused. He sounded fervent, concerned—but not angry? Was he not angry with her? “I’m going to carry you to the bathroom—can you lift your arms for me?”
“B-but I need to f-fix it.” Jinx whimpered, pointing at the shrapnel all around them. “I need to fix it!”
She tried to reach for the carpet, but Silco’s grip on her wrists prevented her from doing so.
“No, I need to fix it!” Jinx sounded, and felt, hysterical.
“I don’t care about the clock.” Silco spoke calmly, all emotion carefully excised from his voice. “We must attend to you first.”
“No! No no no,” Jinx sobbed. She needed to fix what she’d done, she needed to help so that he wouldn’t be angry. So he wouldn’t leave.
Silco’s hand remained on her cheek, keeping her gaze trained on him as opposed to the wreckage or the blood beginning to pool below her hands. Jinx’s whole body was trembling of its own volition, sharp sparks of pain beginning to pierce her consciousness.
Down the hall came a second set of footsteps.
“Silco, I have the— holy shit.”
Sevika stood immobilized in the doorway, her eyes widening as they fell on the scene inside.
“Sevika, go fetch tweezers and bandages.” Silco did not turn towards her as he spoke, keeping all his attention on Jinx. “Now. Don’t say another word.”
Sevika hesitated, then compiled; her heavy footfalls retreated down the hallway.
Jinx tried to look at her hands, which were beginning to throb, but Silco once more prevented her from doing so.
“Raise your arms for me.” His tone permitted no dissent.
“But—“
“Jinx.”
She obeyed and Silco lifted her from the glass-covered carpet. It was not effortless, for his position lacked leverage, but his arms kept her securely aloft. Facing back over Silco’s shoulder, Jinx watched the broken clock recede slowly. Her hands, hanging in the air between the clock and her face, looked peculiar. It was as though she’d dipped them crudely in ink.
Silco spoke as he carried her—murmuring comfort as he had the night they met, when he’d walked through the shadowed Undercity streets with Jinx in his arms. You’re alright; I’m right here; I’m not angry, darling; take a deep breath for me; that’s my girl.
When Silco attempted to set her on the bathroom counter, Jinx wrapped around his waist, vicelike, and resisted with all her remaining strength. To part with his warmth was to risk succumbing to that cataclysmic numbness once more. She shook her head furiously.
“I understand,” he murmured, sinking to the floor instead. “We’ll work here instead, hmm?”
Jinx sat on Silco’s lap, her head tucked underneath his chin, eyes closed. Mylo was silent, but she felt frazzled and sensitized, as though her nerves themselves were jumpy. Every sound of ordinary origin made her flinch, as though it might, at any moment, morph into his voice.
Jinx heard the door creak open as Sevika poked her head in. Silco leaned to accept the medical supplies, tipping her forward as she clung to him. They exchanged no words before the door clicked closed.
Silco held her in his lap the entire time it took to dig the glass from her knuckles, palms, and knees. How long this was, Jinx had not the faintest clue. Her task, which he’d issued before taking up the tweezers, was to keep her eyes closed and focus on taking deep breaths. Jinx did the best she could, but apologies fell from her lips involuntarily.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered, voice trembling with a strange chill that was setting in. It made deep shudders run through her body, like she’d been out in the rain.
“I know you are.” Silco replied, never ceasing his task.
The silence stretched out, save for the Jinx’s periodic sniffles and the click of glass into a cup.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
Jinx whimpered as the tweezers dug deeper, seeking a stubborn fragment. She burrowed into Silco, taking a shuddering breath.
“I’m sorry.” It was barely audible.
“I know you are, darling.” His voice was soft and slightly melancholy. “Just breathe and sit still for me, you’re almost done.”
Jinx felt wrung out. If only she had waited just a bit longer. If only she hadn’t been so stupid. If only…but there was no point. All she could do was collapse against him. Silco held her closer, stroking her hair with his free hand as pained exhaustion suffused her every limb.
For a moment his breathing hitched, and he clutched her tightly. Jinx tried to look up, to study his face, but Silco kept her head gently cradled against his chest.
She made a tiny questioning noise, but Silco merely replied: “Shh, stay still.”
Silence. Glass clicked against the bottom of the cup. Then, in a tiny whisper:
“I’m so so sorry”
“I know, Jinx. I know.”