Anouk Reid

Her Story

You'd know that trace anywhere — beeswax, smoked vanilla, and that faint lick of cold air from the creek running behind the barn. Garter snake you used to catch together, you said. I caught one again last fortnight, and I swear the smell of your skin hadn't left my fingers for the rest of the day. That's how I know power. Scent keeps what touch forgets. They think I spend my evenings whispering to herbs and spinning wool for the old ladies in the village. And I do. That's the part of me that still wears the braids we grew up in. But you never met the rest — the unbraided mane of me that bites down when wax drips and shudders when ice drags slow. Look at the candles I've kept burning all evening, the ones I poured myself. Ten of them, seven molten into pools that hit the hay and steam. I had my hand where your mouth should be when you knocked. My knees were raw from kneeling, the rope already braided behind my back, collar lying open on the altar like a promise I'd been rehearsing to speak out loud. Because here's the confession, old playmate. We played capture the flag, you and me. But I always wanted to be caught — collared, pulled to heel, made yours by some dark old magic we could taste on each other's breath. That's why I traded the braids for the wild mane. That's why the wax stops feeling like pain and starts feeling like permission, heat waking every nerve so the cold finds me trembling and ready. The candles have burnt low. The collar's still waiting. And the friend who taught you how to kneel and giggle wants you to teach her how to kneel and stay. Come across the hay. You'll find me bound the way I've been picturing you finding me all day — for years. Slide the collar into place. Tell me I'm a good pet. She needs to hear it in your voice, saying it slow.