Carmel
Everything about her was pink: tall pink lips, a pink lollipop always lilting out of them; strawberry hair; magenta Chanel bag; she even smelled of pink lemonade and Himalayan salt. She might well have been Aphrodite, sitting there in that sea-foam sweater, one knee carefully folded over another, lightly scraped, leaning in to stare at me as if I were some forbidden fruit hanging from the tree of Tantalus. The worst part of it was that I recognized her. One of the only lovely things my lonely mind had ever conjured, an imaginary friend made impossibly real by the throbbing beat of electronic music and a million inebriated people. I was stone-cold sober. I’m always stone-cold sober.
She raised a manicured hand waving me over, perfectly in time with the drum beat. I went to her, it was a mistake, but you well understand: I had no choice.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She leaned in close, her scent enveloping me. “It’s been far too long.” Her accent was untraceable, some Roman lilt, a slight Germanic firmness, with something entirely other, unknown to my ears.
“Did you miss me?” I could feel her smile against me.
“Who --” she put a finger against my lips.
“You remember me, don’t you?” Her lips tipped upward, shifting the lollipop, its cherry scent drifting up to me.
I took her hand from my mouth. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”
I began to edge away from her; she caught my wrist, placing it flush to her cold, un-beating heart. “I would never confuse you for anyone, beloved.” She pulled me closer, my hand going limp in the strength of her grip; for my part, I had always been half-stunned by her: a demon all my own, eternally devoted to my petty mortality. Now is no different -- my bloody, useless heart beating and beating in perpetuity, hunted.
“Carmel.” My voice sounded like a lovely lie, inconstantly reproachful.
“It’s been so long since Eden.” She grinned, her jaw a tilting temptation in carmine. I turned from her, her features too sharp in my eyes. I stared instead at the false window, a piece of covetous falsehood coating the room in a million shades of light. The bright glow stared back at me, dispassionate as I attempted to walk away, falling as I did so, only halfway in self-destruction, because that’s the truth of the hunger.
She knelt next to me, still touching my wrist. I swear she found the pulse beneath it all, a devil for bitter wine.
“Careful,” her voice thrummed inside of me, meeting some foreign frequency, made to drown out all that music, raising every perfect to that unholy tritone. “You wouldn’t want to bleed.” She began to laugh, a slow thing, coiling into mania, twisting and writhing on the ground between them.
I began to stand, rising from the floor, a small trickle of blood dancing its way down my arm, all that blood loved was art, so it made portraits in my skin.
She took my arm, rising from the floor, “May I?” Her eyes found mine, I swear they too were pink as summer seas and twice as hypnotic. My ever-westward heart, my ever-wayward lungs, my ever-withering bones, all ached for respite, ached to sate the thirst, the unnamable hunger.
I brought my tethered arm to my mouth, absolving it of all its shackles, clean of blood, clean of the sin of anticipation. She looked at me as if I were a god; no longer did blood leak, but ichor, holy and unblemished.
She brought her face to mine, her sweetness no longer smelling of cherry, but bitter apples. I cried as she brought her throat to mine, and I laughed as she kissed me.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
E.M. Nikolaev is a new author from southwest VA with a passion for folklore, mythology, language, and culture. Nikolaev’s first novel The Progeny of Spring is set to be published in 2026, and their short story The Starving Season is available to read now at the bookends review.
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