The End of Eden

XXX

I see him everywhere now, not just in my dreams, which he seems to stay away from when I am tucked beside a vessel for the night.

Instead, those are the nights where he silently watches us, whether we are joined together intimately, or only sleeping.

But always, always he is watching me.

Always, he is there.

I hate him. I want him to be away from me, and I want to be left alone.

The anger rises up in me when I do see him, always out of reach, but always in my vision. I can't swing my fists or kick my feet into Sleep, but throwing things has become my one act of rebellion.

First, it was the pillow. Then, I threw an apple I was slicing in the kitchen. That had crashed into the wall and clattered against the shelves, startling Serra, who cut her finger as she was slicing zucchini.

Then, it was a poetry book as I was reading while lazing in Three's bed. It slapped against the wall and fluttered to the ground. Three didn't get mad; he simply looked at the book on the ground, then back to me, and he continued the sketch he was scribbling.

I didn't throw anything when I was with Vessel. Instead, as Vessel sat and worked, I only glared at Sleep, who had perched in the pomegranate trees, or the farthest part away from me in the room. He watched me. Staring at me.

The only solace I found was when I was with Four, who drew my attention so completely to him, that I forgot much else. Whether I sat with him in his room, or we laid together on my bed, or we took a walk throughout Eden, I was always enraptured by him.

And I was always so close to having all of him, like how I had been with every other vessel, except him. He was the one I had yearned for, since I met him, the one that I wanted to be with, but had always been interrupted by something.

Another vessel showing up. A family member seeing us and then coming to talk. A meal being called. A rogue thunderstorm sending us racing for shelter. Always, he is pulled away, or I am.

And each time we are separated, and every time Sleep shows up, frustration rises higher in me.

Every time I walk into the kitchen to help, Serra ends up feeding me extras, even if it's something small, and today was no different when I walked in, late in the warm morning, a loose dress swinging at my legs.

"Zucchini bread," she said, setting down a slice slathered in butter. I picked at the bread and then leaned my head in my fist, elbow planted on the counter as she bustled away.

"How do I politely tell the vessels I don't want to worship all together tonight?" I ask, breaking off a corner of the bread and sticking it into my mouth. It's sweet and moist, the butter savory on my tongue.

Serra is loading loaves of bread dough into the wood fired oven when she pauses to look at me.

"It's your duty," she says, before scooting in the next loaf of dough.

"I know," I say, taking another bite, "but I don't feel like it."

I see him out of the corner of my eyes, and I fist my hands on the counter top.

It will upset me if you miss it, my love.

I don't acknowledge Sleep. I don't care if I upset him. I loosen my fists and rip off another corner of the bread, balling it up before I put it in my mouth.

"Regardless of if you feel like it or not," Serra continues, oblivious to our guest, "you still have responsibilities."

"I just want only one tonight," I whisper under my breath. I raise my eyes up, and see Sleep in the dark corner of the kitchen. I break off more bread, roll it up, and throw it at him.