Cold Light

The door slammed.

The warmth and light of the empty foyer greeted her. She stood there for a long moment, dripping snow, shivering. Outside, fat flakes continued to fall softly in the night, alighting gently on roofs, streetlamps, and back-alley skips.

Her eyes flitted upwards. The lift seemed an impossible distance away, the chasm of patterned tile yawning immeasurably. She moved – slowly, not quite limping, trailing little puddles of snow – crossed, found the button with numb fingers.

The ding made her jump.

She watched the numbers tick up – four, five, six. Followed the dim corridor as it curved, saw the familiar number over her flat. Paused there, key in the lock, realising she’d left the lights off.

She trembled, and it was not entirely with cold.

In the end, she opened it just far enough to reach the switch. Light flooded through the crack at her feet. She let the door swing open.

Empty, just as she had left it. Kitchenette, computer nook, bedroom, bathroom. Nothing moved, save the wafting curtains; nothing breathed, save the under-window heater that blew them. She locked the door, did up the latch. Walked through the rooms, three times, four.

Nothing.

She realised, belatedly, that she was sweating in her heavy coat. She moved too quickly to remove it, and gasped as pain seared through her abdomen. She bit back . . . what? Tears? A scream?

She shed the first two layers slowly, wincing slightly as she moved. The coat fell away, the sweater, the boots, the heavy trousers. Hands trembling on the hem of the tee, she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror.

She would have a clear view. She couldn’t—

She focussed on removing the bra, instead. Tried not to cry out when the underwire jabbed her in the rib. Failed, but quietly. Let it fall to join the rest of the discards in the pile at her feet. Barefoot, in tee-shirt and shorts, she moved to her bed, and crawled onto it.

She did not know how long she lay there, sprawled on her side. Numbers ticked by on the digital clock. 2.43, 3.02, 3.26. Sleep, if indeed it came, was brief, and she would jolt awake in what felt like seconds, feeling the rush of panic as a doorjamb creaked, or a particularly heavy gust rattled the window pane.

The final time, the little numbers read 8.56, and the message her manager left was worried. She rang him back, feigning normalcy, told him she was a little under the weather. He replied that she sounded terrible, and that she should get some rest. Maybe take more than just the one day.

She dully cursed her inability to be convincing.

The snow continued to swirl coldly outside. At some point, her stomach growled, and she roused herself to feed it. Put a pan on the stove. Lit the burner, stared at the flames with unfocussed eyes, extinguished it again. Had some cereal, instead. Lay back on the bed, curling up, staring at the clock.

The sky was dark before she moved again.

Her clothes clung to her, drenched in two days’ cold sweat, stinking. She knew she needed to wash, to change clothes, to—

She shuddered, and buried her face deeper in the pillow.

The bathroom floor was cold against her bare feet, but she maintained her steady pace to the tub. Filled it, facing away from the mirror before disrobing. She let the warm water wash over her, compounding and dulling the pain all at once. She squeezed some soap into her hand. It was gentle, scented stuff, and felt good on the skin. She scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed and scrubbed and—

The skin on her arm was raw.

She was more gentle with the rest save the hair, which she left alone. She barely let her hands touch her stomach, her thighs, her—

The water was beginning to cool. She drained a quarter of the tub, studiously looking anywhere but down, and let the hot tap flow until it was full again. She lay there for a long time, long enough for her fingers and toes to prune, long enough for the water to start cooling again.

She let herself slide below the waterline . . .

. . . and after about thirty dull seconds, broke the surface, chest heaving.

She drained the tub. It was clean. So was her skin. The red patch on her arm burned a little from its mistreatment, so she rubbed some ointment on it – gently, this time. Not scrubbing. Then she wrapped her towel around her, flicked out the lights, and returned to the bedroom.

She was three steps into the plush carpet before she noticed the unicorn sitting quietly on her bed.

She stopped, and the unicorn’s head came up. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Reading, judging, probing – or perhaps just taking it all in.

The girl broke the silence. ‘Y-you can’t be here.’

As she spoke, she clutched the towel tighter around her. She stood there, trembling, exposed, in the middle of the room, and she did not move.

The unicorn tilted her head. ‘Why?’

‘You know why. The rules . . .’

‘Is it because I am not human?’ The unicorn sniffed. ‘I had that argument with the little girl who saw me in the hall. I am a visitor, not a pet.’

‘No. I shouldn’t be able to see you.’

The unicorn nodded, once, slowly. ‘And yet, here I am.’

Silence, again. The girl stood stock-still in the middle of the room, but the unicorn shifted slightly atop the sheets.

‘Would you rather I moved? It is your bed, after all.’

The girl shook her head violently. ‘N-no. Nope. You’re fine.’

‘Then, please, sit? I feel terrible making you stand.’ Her brow creased with concern.

‘I’m good here, I think.’ Then, swallowing the dryness in her throat: ‘How did you get in?’

The unicorn tapped her horn gently with a hoof. ‘Teleported, actually. But I made sure the door was still locked, since you seemed to want it that way.’

‘And?’

The sudden bitterness in her tone was palpable. The unicorn lowered her hoof, her face falling a little, resuming its original sombre cast. The girl bit her lip, hard, but she could not stop it from trembling. She did not know why she was lashing out at this . . . uninvited bystander. Only that she was going to continue.

‘And what?’ asked the unicorn, quietly.

‘And what do you want? Why are you here? Why is there a talking unicorn in my bedroom, today of all days?’ Her knuckles were white on the hem of the towel, and her voice cracked. ‘Why now? Nineteen years and you wait until—’

She broke off.

She expected her unexpected guest to raise her voice, to shout, to fight back. But the unicorn did not. She simply looked at her, sadly. And when she finally spoke, somehow, that made it all the harder to bear.

‘What would you have ever wanted from me before now?’

The girl made a half-stifled noise, somewhere between a sob and a curse. Then she was silent again, trembling again, shoulders hunched, in the middle of the room. The moment stretched.

Finally, the unicorn rose to her hooves, tall and graceful, horn brushing the ceiling of the little room. ‘Would you prefer me to leave?’

She said it without malice, but the weight of it bit through the girl like ice. Rushed and scrabbling thoughts of the days ahead, alone, cooped up in her room, feigning illness, hidden and lost to the world, came to her in a frenzy. How long would she stay here if left alone?

What would she do?

‘No.’ The sound came from the back of her throat, hollow and husky. ‘No. Please.’

The unicorn bowed her head, and moved around to the foot of the bed. She settled there, nestling comfortably on all fours against the bedspread, and looked expectantly at the girl.

She shuddered, but she moved. Keeping the towel close around her, she climbed carefully onto the bed, doing her best to keep as much of her hidden as possible. On her knees, on the bed, her head was level with the unicorn’s. She shivered again, though the heat was blasting – perhaps stronger than before. Had the unicorn turned it up?

‘What happens now?’ The same husky, flat voice. Like a half-scratched vinyl.

‘We can talk. Or, you can talk. Or we can just sit here, until you’re ready for me to go. Right here, right now, nothing is more important than your comfort.’ The unicorn gazed levelly at her. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Then, in a rush, eyes squeezed shut: ‘I don’t wanna talk about what I need to do, or should do, or should’ve done better. ’

The unicorn merely looked at her. ‘No. No, I expect you’ve already done quite a bit of that yourself.’

And again there was silence. The girl hunkered down on her knees, staring at the bedspread. The unicorn’s tail swished, slowly, back and forth.

‘I hurt,’ the girl said at last. ‘It hurts.’

‘What does?’

‘Everything.’ The easy answer, but she hugged her arms close to her body just the same.

The unicorn’s jaw worked slightly, but she made no immediate reply. The girl’s eyes had not left the patterned bedspread. Every line seemed to stretch on forever, every stitched flower blooming infinitely in on itself.

‘I’m scared?’ she said, voice rising at the end as though there were a question. ‘I thought I was safe? I thought it was safe to go out in the world, to be my own person with my own life. I thought I could handle anything.’ She shook her head, rocking slightly on her haunches. ‘I don’t — was I wrong?’

The unicorn stirred, at last. ‘No.’

‘And I didn’t— I know I didn’t do anything stupid. I took all the right precautions. I was just— Just—’ Her face crumpled.

‘In the wrong place at the wrong time,’ the unicorn finished for her, softly.

She nodded, vigorously, and the pace of the rocking increased.

’I knew him,’ she croaked, partway between a whisper and a whimper. ‘And he . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘Why me? Why choose me? Did he know that I’m— that I was—’

‘I don’t suspect so, no.’

A great shudder ran through her. ‘Am I a bad person? Is that—’

‘No.’ The emphasis was palpable. ‘Bad things don’t only happen to bad people.’

The girl looked back, defiantly. ‘Then why? Why does this happen? Why do we— why do people do this to each other?’

The unicorn sighed, and let her chin rest on the covers. ‘Lots of reasons, I suppose. None of them particularly good.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing like this would ever have been tolerated back home.’

‘“Would have”? No-one ever . . .’

‘Not in my lifetime, no.’

The girl chuffed, red-eyed. ‘Must be nice.’

‘By comparison, yes.’

The girl shifted on the covers. ‘Tell me about it?’

‘My home?’ said the unicorn, half-surprised. ‘Oh. It’s, um. It’s been a long time. And it’s not like it used to be.’

‘I still wanna know. Please?’

The unicorn smiled, almost wryly. ‘Well, once upon a time, in a faraway land, there were two regal sisters, who ruled together in harmony . . .’ She chuckled, but there was sadness in the chuckle. ‘And together they dreamed a beautiful dream, and fought a terrible fight, and in the end, they set us free. Free to wander, and free to choose the course of our wanderings.’

She shifted slightly, pushing herself harder against the bed. Her head was closer than ever to the girl’s. ‘There were many roads to choose, and most went together. But I chose here.’

The girl’s eyes were riveted on hers. ‘And tonight?’

‘That I chose also.’

The girl’s voice was wild now, pleading. ‘But why? W-why come here? I k-know the rules, I know h-how this is supposed to work, I know what he took away from me! ’

It was a whispered scream, a muted howl of anguish, of loss, and self-loathing, rolled and congealed into a single, horrible ball of bad feeling, and still so afraid of itself that it caught in her throat like bile. And all at once, knowing that she’d admitted it to herself, she buried her face in her hands, her final shield.

And for the first time that night, she sensed more than gentle reassurance – kindness? love? – in the unicorn’s movement. In a moment, the creature was directly in front of her on the bed. She nosed her way between the shaking hands, until their foreheads were touching. There were tears in the great luminous eyes.

And when she spoke, it too was a whisper, but a whisper that cut the girl on the bed to the quick.

‘No. Nothing was taken from you, because nothing was given away. And nothing can be lost that was not given freely.’

And at last the floodgates burst. The girl wept, and sobbed, and wailed. Every repressed feeling, every bit of pain stiffly held in check, came tumbling out in a moment. She beat impotently against the unicorn’s unyielding breast, screamed into her mane, felt the hot tears that mingled with her own.

And all the while, the unicorn whispered softly in her ear: ‘I’m here because you shouldn’t have to face this alone. I’m here because you deserved better. I’m here because you’re still the person you were before yesterday, and you needed the reminder. I’m here because you need to know it gets better. I’m here because you need to heal.

‘I’m here because there’s nowhere else on earth I could let myself be.’

How long they stayed like that, neither of them knew. Not how long they cried, not how long they sat there in silence, not how long they stared. Outside, still, the snow flurried and blustered and whistled, and inside time ticked away on the little red-numbered display.

Still they stayed.

At last, the girl moved. ‘I need to get out of this towel,’ she said, numbly. She held her eyes tight shut for a moment, opened them again, and pulled away. The unicorn withdrew her head, regarded the girl quietly.

‘May I see?’ she asked. There was no expectation; the question was utterly neutral, utterly genuine.

The girl swayed for a moment, uncertain. Then, slowly, she let the towel drop.

The bruises stood out, yellow and black and green, against her skin. The imprint of two fingers just above her hip. Long scratches on the thighs. The darker swelling, somewhere between.

All of this the unicorn took in, without a word.

She trembled.

But in the end, all she said was: ‘Lie back. I can – I can try.’

The girl nodded, silently, and did as she was told. The unicorn’s horn lit, her eyes flitting over the vicious tableau, and slowly, terribly slowly, some of the darker welts began to recede. The girl winced as pain flared, but in a moment the dull aches and throbbing soreness were lessened. Not gone – never quite gone – but lessened.

A few further moments of discomfort, and the unicorn pulled back.

‘That’s all I can do. I’m not . . . not used to human—’

‘There’s . . . there's a clinic about half a mile from here.’ The girl’s voice was steadier. Still soft, but even. She had a plan, now. ‘I’m going to get myself checked in, in the morning.’ Suddenly, fiercely, she hugged the great creature around the neck.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Please, don’t go.’

The unicorn draped her head best she could over the girl’s shoulder. ‘I can stay the night, at least.’

They held the embrace a moment longer, squeezed, and let go. The girl swallowed, looked down, darted back up, looked down again. She shivered.

‘Clothes?’ asked the unicorn.

‘Please. Nothing tight? I’m . . . going to get ready for bed.’

‘Sleep would probably help, yes.’

The girl went to the bathroom; the unicorn, to the closet. There was a . . . comfortableness to it; a partnership. It was impossible to tell whether by virtue of commiseration, or exhaustion, or simply sticking to the impromptu plan together, but the tension had eased. Eased enough that the unicorn could slide the big, loose tee-shirt over the girl’s head by magic. Eased enough that they could smile about that, even laugh.

Eased enough that the girl could look at this unnatural, unexpected creature, and hold out her arms in a way she had not since she had been very small.

Eased enough that she could ask a very small girl's question.

‘Hold me?’

The unicorn blinked at her for a moment. Then, a little half-smile tickling her lips, she held up her hooves, mock-helplessly. ‘Would that I could. But . . .'

But she saw the trepidation and embarrassment in the girl's eyes, and knew what she was asking — and what she was not. She held the girl's gaze reassuringly for a moment, then lay down smoothly on the bed, gathering herself into a perfect curve of elongated cat-shape, inviting and warm and simple. No subtext, no expectation — just the invitation.

The girl took it, gingerly, feeling her way closer to the great furry side, soft and yielding and warm. She pressed close against it, allowing herself a small, small snuggle. She looked up into the great pointed face again, and the luminous eyes were probing, concerned.

The girl smiled a little, ruefully, made a snap decision. ‘I don't suppose your perfect home and royal sisters ever had the joy of spooning?’ she ventured.

A joke. Not a great joke, but the effort was there. And it was — to her relief — genuine.

The unicorn seemed to relax as well, and the eyes crinkled. She stuck her tongue out at the girl, playfully, reciprocating. 'We manage just fine, thank you. Elegance -- elegant spooning -- is easier when your body isn't all noodly limbs and flobber.'

The girl chuckled, then – really chuckled, happily, and without the barest hint of scoff or second thoughts or self-consciousness. Then, mindful of her bruises, and the loose tee, she ventured a second, more meaningful snuggle. The golden pulse of the creature’s heart, beating strong against her cheek, soothed her.

‘What do I call you?’ she murmured, as something obvious finally occurred to her. ‘You come all this way, just for me, and you haven’t even told me your name.’

The unicorn rested her long head comfortably over the girl’s midsection, like a protective arm. ‘A friend.’

‘A friend?’

Luminous eyes searched her face. ‘Can’t that be enough?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, it can,’ she conceded, and one arm snaked over the unicorn’s neck in a gentle embrace.

And there, in that moment she wished could last forever, she felt warmth, spreading over every inch of her body. Never mind the howling wind, or that she was lying atop her sheets instead of between them; in that one beautiful moment before sleep claimed her, she felt as though she were in the heart of the sun itself.

And in that moment, finally, the question that had plagued her and gripped her and kept the knot churning in the pit of her stomach for two full days and counting was answered.

Yes.

Yes, she could do this.

Yes, she could face another day.

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