Made to Love

Made to Love

DL Kopp

This is a work of
fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 
The author does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for third-party websites or their
content.

MADE TO LOVE

Copyright © 2009

All rights
reserved.

ISBN:
978-0-557-13129-7

For DSC and
LMM
. 
Thanks.

Prologue

If I had known how much
love would hurt, I never would have wished for it.

I would have burned my
poems and their longing words of passion.  I would have never
dedicated those same words to song with all my soul’s fire. 
In fact, I never would have moved to Coos Bay in the first
place—the place to which Cupid hunted me, and eventually struck me
down with his arrow, leaving my heart’s blood gushing from my chest
in an effusion of infatuation.

And eventually led me
here.  To my death.

The night was dark, and
growing darker.  I stared down at my captor, struggling
against his grip on my throat, and knew that it was love. 
Truly, only love could be so painful.

And in his angered eyes, I
saw my confirmation: the fire of love so deep, so pure, he knew the
only way he could save me would be to hurt me.

Far, far more frightening
was that I could feel the same thing in my own heart.

And it was to the oblivion
of love’s grasp into which I allowed myself to sink, whispering
three little words before I disappeared into dark unconsciousness:
“I love you…”

I sank into darkness,
unsure I would ever arise from it ever again…

Chapter One

“
Your new home isn’t so
bad, is it, Calliope?”

I stared out at the house
that I was supposed to live in, and felt dark anger clench around
my heart.  It wasn’t home.  It was just some place my
parents had bought so my dad could have more room for his stupid
work.

But for my mother, I forced
a smile around clenched teeth.  “You’re right, mom.  It’s
not that bad.”

Somewhat grudgingly, I had
to admit that it would have been fine if it had just been in our
home town of Dacula, Georgia, where all my friends were.  The
old house – more of a manor, really – was huge, with two little
towers and a section right on the edge of the cliff overlooking the
bay and the ocean beyond.  There was a nice yard and my mom
had bribed me with a new kitten if I would just get on the plane to
come here, which I had.

But my friends weren’t
here, and no amount of ocean views and kittens would change that,
so it might as well have been hell.

“
I’m so glad you like it,”
Mom gushed, grabbing my hands.  “I want so much for you to be
happy with this like I am.  I know you’ll make new friends
once school starts tomorrow.  Everyone will love
you.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled
my hands from hers.  “I don’t care.  I just want to be
alone.”

The delight faded from my
mom’s face.  “Calliope…”

My dad hurried past,
chasing a moving truck down the long driveway.  “Do not drive
so fast!” he yelled in his perpetually ridiculous Hungarian
accent.  “You’ll damage the cargo and there is no amount of
insurance to make up for that!  I will have your heads! 
Your heads, I say!”

God, he was
so
embarrassing
.  If Allison had been there, she could
have made a joke about it and we would have laughed off my dad’s
stupidity, but no.  She was back in Georgia.

I gave my mom a look, and
she spread her hands helplessly.  “He’s only so excited
because he’s happy.”

“
I am done with this,” I
muttered.  “I’m going to go figure out which den of despair is
going to be mine to sleep in.”

“
Don’t you want to help us
get the boxes out?” my mom asked, wringing her hands.

“
No!” I called over my
shoulder, stomping across the manicured field toward the towering
front doors of the house.

The grass was damp and my
boots were sopping wet by the time I reached the door.  Closer
to the manor, I could see now that it even more run down than it
had looked from afar—the thing was absolutely ancient.  It was
probably a hundred years old.

I pulled open the door, and
it swung open with surprising ease.  The entrance hall was
tall, and there was a fireplace with bookshelves on either
side.  My dad had already begun to fill them with
books.

Probably his boring old
science textbooks
, I thought, and didn’t bother taking a second
look at them.  The stairs weren’t hard to find—they took up
the entire middle of the room and swept up in two separate lines to
the second floor, where tall windows cast rays of hazy light
through the dust.

I made my way up the
stairs, trailing my hand along the banister.  Like the rest of
the manor, it was dusty.

I wandered along the hall
to the base of the first tower and poked my head into the bedroom
there.  My parents had already laid claim to the bedroom—a
king size mattress with no frame was on the floor with a tangle of
sheets piled beside it.  My dad had been staying here for
weeks while he got ready for work and waited for me and my mom to
catch up, so that gave him first pick.  Whatever.  It was
airy and probably moldy and I didn’t want it anyway.

Stepping back out, I
searched through the doors and several more bedrooms until I found
the second tower, and the bedroom below.

I went inside, and all the
breath rushed from my chest.

It was
way
better
than my parents’ bedroom.  Big doors opened onto a balcony
with a view of the ocean with its sweeping blue majesty, and there
were plenty of shelves built into the stone walls for all my poetry
books.  Going through another door showed me a bathroom the
same size as my old bedroom with a sunk-in tub and a
vanity.

Spiral stairs led up the
tower, and I stood at the bottom, craning up my neck to look. 
It was dark in the tower, but I didn’t need to go up there to
decide anyway.  I already knew what I was going to
do.

“
This room is
definitely
mine,” I said.

I glanced down at the
sliding door and saw something laying in front of it.  Picking
it up, I was surprised to see it was a rose blossom, its petals
half-closed.  All the thorns had been carefully removed except
one.

I traced the edge of the
thorn with my fingertip.  Who would have left a rose in one of
these boring old rooms?

For a minute, I forgot to
be angry at my new living situation.  I brought the rose bud
to my nose and took a deep breath of its sweet perfume, leaning
back against the wall beside the door.

It smelled
wonderful.

“
Okay,” I told the ocean
softly.  “Maybe this really won’t be so bad.”

But I doubted
it.

Chapter Two

Dinner was as painful as I
expected.

Mom didn't feel like
cooking, so she ordered pizza with all kinds of meat on it. 
It made me sick.  Dad, on the other hand, scarfed it down like
it was his last meal and he got to have as much as he wanted before
he went to the gas chamber.

They kept trying to talk to
me, but I didn't listen.  I couldn't.  I missed Georgia
too much: my friends, my house, my weather.   This gloomy
place, with the salt pervading the air and my lungs...it was more
than I could bear.  I was choked with the loneliness, and the
pepperoni in my throat.

“
Cal?  What's wrong?”
Mom asked.

I ran from the table, tears
stinging my eyes.  I nearly tripped on the bottom of the
stairs because I was running so hard.

But I couldn't outrun the
pain in my soul.

The sun had set, and my
room was filled with nothing more than the light cast by the
glittering stars and the cool, pale moonlight.  The clouds
dragged across the sky, blocking the light and revealing it at
turns. 

But it wasn't
my
moon.  It wasn't
my
sky.

I went to my suitcase and
removed the shoebox within.  Its contents rattled as I threw
it onto the counter in my bathroom, and I slammed the door shut
behind me and tore off the lid breathlessly.

Inside were the usual:
notes, candles, matches.  I took out one half-melted piece of
wax and lit the wick; even if the bathroom lights had bulbs, it
would be too bright for my mood.  I threw my hands into the
box and sifted recklessly through the fray.

Something stung my finger,
and I hissed with the pain.

Carefully, I extracted the
source: a quill that my grandmother had given me before she
died.  The nib was made of some gold alloy, and was sharp
enough to draw blood.

“
No,” I whispered. 
“I promised I wouldn't.  Not here.”

But I found myself sticking
the metal into the flame of the candle.  The fire surrounded
the tip, caressed it.  I took it out before I could become
jealous, then pressed it to my pale, milky skin.

I hissed again and looked
into the mirror.  Haunted green eyes stared back.  The
hair that fell around my shoulder was as dark as the night around
me; the moon was hidden behind the clouds once more.  I hadn't
eaten much lately, so I was skinnier than usual, enough to show
cheekbones jutting against my skin.

Without further hesitation,
I pressed the tip into my flesh and dragged.  It was like a
knife through butter; shallow, but enough to draw blood.  The
metallic scent broke through the salt in the air, granting me a
moment's reprieve.  The blood dripped onto the marble
countertop, the only color in my bleak existence.

The only color in my bleak
existence.

I pulled out a scrap of
paper from my notebook and started writing.

The only color in my bleak
existence

Is the red leeching from my
arm

My soul is so charred it
frays

Burning in the flame of my
discontent

Why? 

Why can't I cry?

It was only when I drew
back, cherishing the smallest feeling of satisfaction, that I
realized the page was inscribed with my own blood.

Fitting.

Chapter Three

I was sleeping under a
blanket on the floor – my bed wasn't set up, and my arm stung too
much to assemble it myself – when I first heard the
noise.

At first, I wasn't sure if
I was dreaming or not.  I didn't think I was.  I never
did; dreams were reserved for those with the depth to experience
them, and I wasn't that fortunate.  But I wasn't awake enough
to know better, not until I heard it again.

I sat up and leaned against
the wall, hugging my legs like my life depended on it.  It had
been hard enough to fall asleep with the crashing of the surf, that
unnatural sound that echoed through my room, but this?  It
sounded like a wounded animal.  In pain.