she has Pride and Prejudice open on her lap, fawning over Jane Austen’s brilliance. I swallow my jealousy to snark that it really does take imagination for a rich man to atone for his pride. 

her laugh sounds like rustling silk and I can see how I shall die. 

             “oh, you’re so clever. I’m very glad to be your dearest friend.” 

I want to wash those last two words out of her mouth. no one who has taken root in my stomach and snaked vines around my spine should be tainted with the title of a friend. not when she’s seeped into the pores of my tongue and every word I choke on in her presence is laced with a sugary tremor. not when I fear that every syllable might be the last. 

the evening paper flutters at every table in the dining hall; the boys titter when they see a headline about some Austrian archduke’s death and trouble simmering between the “Great Empire” and “the Huns.” 

beside me, she shudders. 

             “what’s so delightful about war? i do not think it’s necessary, for one, and once they
             begin they never quite end so…” 

she rambles on and I only nod, because I have lost my mind and truly do agree. somehow, she lets me see a future where we do not need to stitch our hands together and wait for letters from corpses; where men can decay in meadows under joint headstones instead of on the

scorching strips of battlefield with bullets as their funeral procession. she makes me forget that we are pathetic puppets with wretchedness in the marrow of their bones—she certainly is not one. 

             “can you turn this page?” 

she taps my hand and I want to sear her touch into my palms. 

the headmaster trills on and on to a pair of visiting parents about how the school breeds children who are courteous, obedient, and every word that has poisoned the money that brought us here. her novel slips out of the old bat’s sight; she dodges the bullet of an icy glare and he doesn’t come to claw his nails into her bones. I whisper in her ear — why is he so cross with his pupils reading? is that not why we are here? 

she sighs and my tongue twitches with an apology on its tip. 

             “silly—because when a rich baron strolls by with his little daughter, he will not pay any
             attention to a book. because books teach too much besides poise and elegance.
             because it makes us too awake, and romantic – though I do love being romantic.” 

she pauses. 

             “I’m so glad you are here with me—I really am. don’t tell my mother when you come
             over for tea, but I fear that the husband I find one day will be a dull man.”

my heart breaks into two at that notion, and later when we’ve retired to our dorms, I reach down my throat to take out a half. I dip my fountain pen into the chamber where my soul oozes out. I scribble each frantic pulse onto flimsy paper, and ink tattoos the pages the way I hope to reciprocate how she scrawled herself onto my skin. the candle wax melts the flesh on my hands as I seal the letter, away from eyes that crinkle to see what remains of the disemboweled, hands that pick through mangled organs for treasure, ears that press into lungs and jeer at a heartbeat- i trust her to simply bury me instead. 

a knock on the door. 

             “why are you still awake? don’t catch a cold, I won’t take care of you every time.” she
             knows that’s a lie; I cannot be so sure. 

I wake her on a night that spares its judgment of a windy lashing, when the stars still slumber, and the hall monitor is as good as dead. I press my sanity into her hands. when she finishes reading, she thanks me with a kiss on the forehead and swipes a used handkerchief over my mouth. I store that handkerchief where half of my heart used to be.