written for my short fiction class

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After ten long minutes, she decided not to throw the cinderblock at his head. This was partly because her fatigued, malnourished arms couldn’t produce enough force to propel the stone far enough, and partly because she had come to the infuriating conclusion that she was in love with him. She was in love with his undying desire to do right, in love with his naïve arrogance in thinking that because he helped her friends and family, he was a good person. She was in love with his brown hair and his clear eyes and the way he stood in his expensive coat among the poor and the dying. She was in love with him…and she hated him for it.

Many others were in love with him as well, this she knew. And it was not only in this gutter of disease that his admirers lay unnoticed by him. He was a traveler with many lovers left behind: some waiting at the train station or at the window, some asleep and thinking that he was still by their sides under the covers. He was cruel, though he didn’t mean to be. He now obsessed over doing good and being charitable because he was learning. He had studied petty social niceties until they were worn into his very mind, but of morality and ethics, he knew very little. Of course, no one even suspected it except for the un-bathed girl who ran her fingers over the rough surface of the broken cinderblock.

She had heard much about him from various aunts and cousins, and even more from the dirty-mouthed girls who smoked cheap cigarettes and hung around the darker corners of the slums. They told stories of a shape-shifter named Parcentrice. He took on all different forms, both male and female, they said, and had tricked many people into trusting him. The people of one village may know him as a drunken ne’er-do-well who hangs around with whores, while the neighboring village will argue that Parcentrice is the saintly woman who runs the orphanage and cares for the sick. He could be anyone or anything, and more often than not, he was. Not only could he change shapes, he could be many at one time: the head of a wolf, the talons of a hawk, the feet of a goat, and the most beautiful human hands you would ever see, all at once. Or so people claimed. He was wild and unpredictable, the girls said, and he might rape you as soon as look at you.

However, upon realizing that this aristocratic man who visited the slums was Parcentrice, the cinderblock girl couldn’t imagine him raping anybody. Not purposely, at least, and not with the intent of causing pain. He was like an animal in that he didn’t understand pain the same way as others, but that was just something else he’d have to learn.

She had first met him a few weeks ago. He was wandering around the chilly, rain-watered streets in heeled shoes and silk, every inch the aristocrat. His nose was turned up lightly, but he did it with an air of uncertainty, as though he were merely mimicking someone else and wasn’t quite sure if he was doing it right. She didn’t think much about it at the time. All she knew was that he was a rich noble, and therefore could be conned into buying flowers for more than they were worth. He was handsome, so he no doubt had many lady friends who would love to receive a bouquet of violets.

The girl plucked a flower from the basket in her arm and said, “Buy a violet, sir?”

He looked at her as though he didn’t understand that she was trying to communicate with him, and then averted his gaze to the flower she held out to him. She briefly thought that maybe he didn’t speak English.

“It’s pretty,” he said at length. The girl was taken aback. His response was so sincere and childlike.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“The sky isn’t pretty. Not today.”

The girl looked up and noticed he was right. A flat sheet of grey covered the city below it in a pale, sickly light. She said that she agreed with him.

“Sometimes it is pretty,” he went on, “but today it isn’t. Isn’t the world odd that way?”

The girl put the flower back and placed the basket on the ground slowly.

“What’s your name?” she asked him. The way he spoke made her feel that she didn’t need to address him as “sir.”

The man was silent for a good time, still staring at the sky. Finally, he replied, “I have one…”

“Yes, I know. What is it?”

“I have a name.”

The girl realized with a start that he was not trying to be irritating; he was trying to remember his name.

“…I’m sure I have one…Someone said it just yesterday…”

She told him softly to take his time, and wondered whether he had escaped from an asylum or a hospital. Perhaps he had suffered a terrible head injury that caused him to lose his memory.

“I remember it!”

“That’s very good!” the girl said with a smile. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. What’s your name?”

The girl pursed her lips in annoyance. She had always had a short temper.

“Why can’t you tell me?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“It’s a secret.”

“So I gathered. Well, what can I call you?”

“Nothing. What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth! What are you doing here, anyway?”

The sympathy she had been feeling for him ebbed away into irritation. The man only grinned pleasantly.

“Elizabeth is a pretty name,” he said, “And you would be pretty, too, if your face wasn’t so dirty.”

Elizabeth flushed red under the layer of grime that covered her skin.

“I don’t think you have any right to say something like that to me!” she sputtered, jabbing a finger at his crisp lace cravat, “You can afford to bathe! You have a place to sleep and food to eat! I barely have a home, and no food to speak of, so bathing clearly isn’t one of my primary concerns when my family is on the verge of starvation!”

The man was shocked, but not because he was being harassed by a homeless girl, but because he had no idea people lived like that.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Elizabeth snapped.

“Why are you starving?” He seemed to be asking her in all seriousness, so Elizabeth answered him.

“We have no money.”

“Money?”

“Yes, money. You should know all about it, judging by your clothes.”

The man looked down at his garments, and bit his lip. “Isn’t this what people wear?”

“Rich people, yes,” Elizabeth replied, narrowing her eyes. “Who are you really? You obviously aren’t who you’re trying to be.”

For a quick moment, there was a glint of ancient wisdom that concealed his naïve demeanor, but it was gone before Elizabeth’s mind had time to register it.

“I should like to help you,” the man said with a definitive nod. “I can get you food and clean water. Where do the rest of you live?”

“Under the Bridge,” Elizabeth replied uncertainly. “How do you intend…?”

“No matter.”

He walked forward briskly with long strides, and Elizabeth picked up her flower basket, trotting to keep up with him.

“Well-- well what do you-- That is, how-- I mean-- Will you slow down!”

The man stopped and turned to face her.

“My name will be Lord Tomlag Gormlaith,” he said. “Yes, I think that should do.”

Elizabeth made a face. “Tomlag Gormlaith? That’s ridiculous!”

“You should call me ‘sir’ in public,” he said, walking again, “After all, I’m a lord now.”

He grinned.

“Oh, don’t be an ass!” Elizabeth muttered. “And there is no way I’m going to call you Tomlag! Where did you hear such an absurd name anyway?”

“I hear lots of names. They come and go, but I keep them all.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you like my name?”

“It’s not your name, and you know it! And why don’t you answer any of my questions?”

The newly dubbed Tomlag laughed lightly.

“I can take any name I like, and I happen to like Tomlag Gormlaith.”

Elizabeth brushed an oily lock of brown hair out of her face and frowned. “You did it again, you know.”

“Hm?”

“You won’t answer my questions.”

“Questions are fickle things. When you answer them, sometimes it’s the right answer, and sometimes it’s not. I don’t like to take that chance.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

Tomlag laughed again. “There, see? I try to avoid answering, but I still gave the wrong answer! Is this the right way?”

He nodded towards a side street that wound its way around a series of dilapidated buildings.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “How do you know the way to the Bridge? The only people who do are those who live there.”

Tomlag only smiled.

The Bridge wasn’t actually a bridge, but more of a wide, stone tunnel that ran under a hillside just outside the borders of the city. Trains used to run through it years ago, but now it served as a home for hundreds. In an act of desperation, they had banded together in a sort of makeshift tribe as their single remaining source of pride. Elizabeth’s father, Aberlin, was the implicit leader, though in recent years he had been through several bouts of sickness that left him weak and looking older than he was. Still, he found the silver lining to every cloud and was strong in his own peaceful way. He greeted Elizabeth and Tomlag with a wave as they approached the Bridge.

“Elizabeth!” he called out to her, “Who is our guest?”

“He is Lord Tomlag--…” she faltered.

“Gormlaith,” Tomlag whispered.

“--Gormlaith!”

“Lord Gormlaith, you are surely welcome!” Her father exclaimed. “My name is Aberlin Tallerby, and though I am honored by your visit, I must wonder what business could bring a man of your status to our humble home?”

As he spoke, he came forward as though to shake Tomlag’s hand, but apparently thought better of it. His fingernails were torn and stained and looked pitiful in comparison to the noble’s. Nevertheless, Tomlag extended his own hand first, a gesture quite appreciated by the old man.

“I’ve come to help you,” Tomlag said. “Elizabeth here was bold enough to tell me of your dire situation, and I could not bear to leave you in such circumstances.”

He walked forward, Aberlin and Elizabeth following at his heels. Aberlin shot his daughter a shocked look, but she only shrugged.

“Firstly,” Tomlag said, “we will need to take note of the approximate population and what diseases are present, so that I may bring the appropriate amount of food and medicine. Water, though, will be our first priority.”

He scanned the large tunnel as he walked, his eyes lingering only a moment longer on those closest to death. Everyone watched him warily, not daring to move. He didn’t seem to notice. Aberlin grabbed hold of his sleeve, forgetting in his excitement that touching the clothes of an aristocrat was taboo.

“Dear, sir! Do you truly mean this? Have you really come to help?” he asked anxiously.

“Of course! How could I call myself human if I left so many here to die?”

Aberlin was silent for a short time before he started to laugh.

“If that is the case, sir, then you are more a human than any I have ever met!”

It was then that Elizabeth knew that he was Parcentrice. It came to her like an epiphany, like a bolt of lightning. He was more human than others because he wasn’t human. And because he wasn’t human, he couldn’t understand human emotions. And because he couldn’t understand human emotions, he couldn’t understand nor return human love. Therefore, he would break her heart.

This was Elizabeth’s reasoning as she ran her fingers over the grooves of the cinderblock. She hated him because he wasn’t real. There was no Tomlag Gormlaith, and after he gave them food and water, he would be gone. He came back each day for a month, and each day, Elizabeth wondered if he would be back the next.

He often ate meals with the people of the Bridge, as he had become quite popular among them. They laughed at his wit and jokes and even at his innocence, because he still was naive. He would wonder about a butterfly or a certain pebble with such intensity that all anyone could do was laugh. He was never angry with them, though.

On the night of his departure there was a full moon, and he stayed quite late at the Bridge, until everyone was asleep. He then stood in the open, away from the cover of the Bridge, and breathed in the moonlight softly.

“What fun…” he sighed.

Elizabeth emerged silently from the shadows of sleepers and stood behind him. He didn’t turn around.

“Parcentrice.” She said his name with certainty.

“Yes,” he replied. His shape was shimmering, but she thought it might have been the moonlight.

“I’m leaving,” he said quietly.

“I hate you.”

“No, not now. I know you don’t…After I leave, though, I don’t know. I’ll forget.”

“It’s just my luck to fall in love with someone as heartless as you! You just see me as some silly little girl that you can forget in an instant!”

He finally turned to face her and placed his hands tenderly on her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes.

“Please understand! I always forget, Elizabeth,” he said, “Wherever I go, whatever I learn, it’s lost! I learn it all over and over until I can remember. I’ve learned so much that it’s blotted out who I am.”

Elizabeth looked away and jutted out her chin defiantly.

“I don’t remember who I am!” Parcentrice whispered earnestly.

“But you can remember how to speak, how to shake hands?” she snapped. “You can remember the titles of nobility? You can remember which streets lead to the Bridge?”

She laughed humorlessly.

“You can remember all that, but you wouldn’t remember me. If you’re going to leave, do so. I’m sick of you.”

She shrugged out of his grasp and backed away. Parcentrice was silent now, and Elizabeth realized with a small gasp that his shape had been subtly changing as they spoke. He was now a mottled mix of all sorts of creatures. Feathers, fur, scales all covered his body, and though his eyes were wolfish now, his face was otherwise the same.

“Are you really…?” she asked softly. He nodded.

“I’ve been so many things…They never seem to go away now, not all the way.”

He looked up at the moon and sighed.

“I have to leave now. Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth turned away angrily. No matter what, she would not let herself cry. She didn’t want him to see how deeply his absence would affect her. Parcentrice leaned over her shoulder, his clawed hands resting tentatively on her arms.

“For what it’s worth,” he whispered, “I love you-- right now.”

He kissed her cheek and was gone in a sudden strong gust of air. Elizabeth whipped around, looking for some sign of him. All she saw was a small cloud fennel seeds being borne away by the wind.