Envy
My name is Galea, and I love apples.
Now that I think about it, perhaps it would be better to say that I loved to eat apples. I haven’t had one for centuries, not since my human organs began turning to stone.
But more on that later.
My name is Galea, and I loved to eat apples.
As I look through the window of the small apartment, open bags of Honeycrisp apples stare back at me from the little nightstand sitting unattractively beside the bed. I surrender to my senses and, elated by my own illusion, allow them to carry me toward the pleasure of food I can no longer eat.
Whenever I choose to indulge the fantasy, I know the journey must be brief.
I begin by admiring the roundness of the fruit. I see within it the promise of delight, safeguarded by that shiny, encompassing skin, unwilling to surrender its riches until the crunch of the first bite breaks through it.
I can taste nature’s silky elixir coating my tongue, quenching my thirst with bittersweet juice. The lingering strands of memory are enough to make my mouth moisten in ecstasy.
The pleasure contained in one small bite.The pleasure that is no longer mine to experience.
Call me Galea, and I am the winged angel who can neither eat nor fly anymore. Sometimes I doubt I ever could do the latter. It has been centuries since I saw this world from the sky.
I envy the worms that eat apples.
I envy the birds that fly and eat the worms.
I envy.
My name is Galea, and I wait outside the apartment with the room full of apples.
The room faces the alley where I stand unseen, where the misty air leaves my hair falling unruly across my shoulders and wings.
I wait there as I have waited before thousands of other rooms and thousands of other alleys.
No matter how far I transport my energy—across land, sea, and air —always I must wait.
Inside the apartment, only one candle illuminates the room. Its weak, warm light draws me closer to the window. Through its flickering glow, my eyes catch him staring outside.
I do not move. I do not blink. I do not question whether he can see me.
I know he cannot.
Not while I remain within my own dimension. Not while it is my will to remain unseen.
He holds a woman’s hand while she sleeps. His gaze points toward me but settles instead upon the emptiness of the night, which works in my favor, sheltering me within the darkness.
Time passes.
But not for me.
At last, I am invited inside.
No words are spoken. There is only a gentle pull drawing me toward the bed where she lies.
The candle flickers, but my arrival goes unnoticed.
I stand beside the woman resting in bed and study her surroundings, feeding my curiosity about the life that is about to cease.
Then the Rule of Three begins.
Written entirely by the author, this excerpt is from Knight of Nights, an unpublished fantasy short story currently being prepared for submission.
Cover illustration by Nina Gvozdeva
Copyright © 2021 Veronica Camp. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or other uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
