1.1: Eternity
1459 Words
Part 1 - Eternity: Mona’s Story
“If time could stop at the most perfect moment—should it?”
If I’m being honest, I only came to the Kappa party because I lost the argument. I had voted for a movie night with the classics. House on Haunted Hill, The Innocents…it would have been amazing.
Then my ex texted me, and the girls put their feet down at the look on my face.
“It’s the biggest Halloween blowout on campus,” Isadora had said, adjusting a pair of fuzzy white bunny ears on her head. She was already through two shots of cheap vodka, a stark contrast to her sporty running shorts and overall glowing ‘healthy girl’ image.
“Even the townies sneak in. It’s basically mythic.”
“Yeah,” Sera had said, tying the ribbons of her skull mask behind her head. “You can’t just rot in your room again, Mona. You’ll become a cautionary tale in a gothic novel.”
A cautionary tale sounded kind of appealing. Quiet. Predictable. But I let them shove me into a black corset and fishnets anyway, settled the crooked halo in my newly-black hair, and shrugged into a pair of slightly-singed wings. An angel ready for the fall. I followed them into the October night.
And so I found myself standing in the middle of a crumbling old mansion that smelled like beer, incense, and spilled sugar. The Kappa house. Once a frat palace, then condemned after a fire in the seventies, it was the subject of many unsavory rumors, and was now resurrected every Halloween for one night only.
The bass vibrated through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. My Chemical Romance blared from the speakers, and the crowd screamed along as they jumped around, drinks sloshing onto already filthy floors. It was chaos. Beautiful, messy chaos.
I hovered near the doorway, pretending to check my phone, even though it was ancient and the flip screen barely lit up. A perfect excuse to be a wallflower.
That was when I saw him.
Across the room, past the crush of bodies and flashing lights, he was leaning against a pillar like he was allergic to the noise. Tall—too tall to be one of the frat guys—and dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit that didn’t belong anywhere near a keg. No ironic costume, no fake blood splatters, just a single crimson handkerchief at his breast pocket. His hair was dark, almost blue-black, slicked back in a way that would have looked pretentious on anyone else. On him, it looked timeless.
I blinked. Once. Twice. He was still there. It wasn’t just that he was good-looking; it was the kind of sharp, severe beauty that shouldn’t have been real, like someone had cut him out of a fashion magazine and dropped him in a haunted house.
“Okay, who is that?” Sera’s voice cut through my thoughts. She followed my gaze, her skull mask tilted with theatrical interest.
“You’re staring, Mona.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re absolutely staring,” Isadora said, bumping her bunny-tail-adorned hip into mine. “Go talk to him.”
“Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” Sera insisted. “This is fate. Kismet. Look—he’s not even with anyone.”
“Maybe because he’s like, forty,” I muttered, but a nervous flutter had already taken flight in my stomach. Isadora rolled her eyes.
“He is not forty. He’s just...spiffy. He’s hot. And breathing. Two boxes checked.”
“I don’t know, Iz. From here, I’m not entirely sure he’s breathing,” Sera said, her voice dropping dramatically. They both looked at me expectantly.
“You two are insane.”
“Insane? No. Drunk? Maybe.” Isadora gave me a firm shove forward. “Just say hi. He won’t bite.”
“To get over someone, you must get under someone else,” Sera said with a salute. Gross.
The music shifted to The Killers. Red and gold light strobed over the room. I was suddenly aware of every detail, how the lace of my gloves itched, how my halo kept slipping, how his gaze flickered in my direction and stayed there.
Oh.
He was looking right at me. Not glancing. Not scanning the crowd. Looking. At me.
My throat dried up. My first instinct? Flee. And because I was me, I listened to it. I spun on my heel, heading for the bar like my life depended on hydration. Behind me, Isadora was laughing. “Smooth, Mona! Real smooth!”
I ignored her, my head ducked low like I was under fire on the shores of Normandy. The bar was sticky and underlit, manned by a bored senior in a toga. I grabbed a red cup just to have something to hold, a shield against my own awkwardness.
God, what is wrong with me? I had come here to feel something—anything—different. Instead, I was hiding from a man whose face could cause minor traffic accidents.
I risked a glance over my shoulder. He wasn’t by the pillar anymore. Of course, he wasn’t. Gone.
I had missed my chance, but maybe that was for the best. Guys like that ended up with girls that were…well…not like me.
Confident. Tall. Gorgeous.
“Hey.”
The voice was right beside me, a low murmur that cut through the noise. I nearly jumped out of my skin, sloshing punch onto my hand.
He was closer than I’d thought, close enough that I could smell old paper and expensive cologne, something dark and clean. It was him. Up close, he was even better looking; his features sharp in a way that most people would describe as aristocratic.
“Sorry,” he said smoothly, his voice deep, almost lyrical. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, mission failed,” I managed, my voice tight. “I was just getting to the good part of this punch.”
His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile. “You looked like you needed saving from it. I wouldn’t trust that ladle—half the campus has probably touched it. I doubt the rugby team washes their hands.”
“Ew. Noted.” I put the cup down like it was poisonous, and he let out a soft chuckle.
We stood there for a moment, the chaos of the party fading into a dull roar at the edges of my hearing. His gaze was heavy. A look shouldn’t have been a physical thing, but I could feel my skin prickle wherever his eyes landed.
“I’m Lucien,” he said finally. Of course, his name is Lucien. It sounds like a name someone would have in a dream—or carved on a tombstone. Or maybe it’s a fake name, and he’s messing with me.
“Mona,” I said, then, because I was nervous, I added, “short for Desdemona.” I winced. I never tell people my full name because it’s insane, and here I was just volunteering it to a cool, handsome stranger.
No wonder I’m single.
He tilted his head, his dark eyes seeming to see more than they should. “Ill-fated.”
“Wow. You actually know that. Most people think it has something to do with actual demons.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “It’s a beautiful name. Tragic, perhaps, but beautiful.”
The way he said it made my skin tingle. I forced a laugh. “Tell that to my parents. They were going through a Shakespeare phase.”
“I think they saw something they didn’t understand.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He just smiled, a flash of white in the dim light, his canines sharp. “Perhaps you’ll remember later.”
Before I could ask what he meant, someone bumped into me hard, sloshing beer on my arm. I flinched away, and by the time I looked back, Lucien was gone. Vanished into the crowd as if he were never there at all.
“Great,” I muttered to myself. “Of course.”
Then I noticed something on the sticky bar top—a crimson handkerchief, folded neatly beside my cup. It was the same one he’d had in his pocket.
I reached for it. The fabric was silk, impossibly smooth. And it was surprisingly cold, as if the owner had been keeping it in the fridge instead of his chest pocket.
I tucked it into my cleavage, since it wasn’t like I had pockets.
It was an excuse, I told myself. A reason to find him again.
- Writer
