Deepest Desires (Fiction)

***

The faerie appeared at my kitchen table one bright summer morning. I barely looked up from my bowl of cereal. Not because I expected a faerie to appear, nor because I really believed faeries existed, but because it had never served me to get worked up about the unexpected. Besides, there were worse creatures to appear at your table than a faerie. Like my mother.

The faery cocked one perfectly shaped eyebrow and shook his huge gossamer wings, flinging glitter and other sparkly nonsense from the floor to the ceiling. That better come out, I thought. I wanted my security deposit back.

I reached for my mug and took a slow sip of coffee, studying the creature before me. I refused to be the first to speak. The faery smiled, showing sharp pointed teeth.

—Are you not frightened, mortal?

I shrugged. The faery nodded to himself.

—Good, my observations of you were not wrong, then.

I took a spoonful of cereal, not taking his bait, even though I wanted to. The faerie had been observing me? Me? I wasn’t one to be noticed. And I was much too old. Didn’t faeries usually go for children and beauties? Isn’t that what the tales always said?

—What if I could grant you your deepest desire? said he, and I couldn’t help but snort.

—Isn’t that more in the realm of genies?

His laugh was the tinkling of small bells.

—I did not say wish, I said deepest desire. There is a difference.

I rolled my eyes. It was much too early for riddles.

—Nothing is free. What do you want, faerie?

His lips curled, revealing too many teeth.

—One without fear or excitement is a rare find. What if I simply wish to spend time with you?

I got up and put my dirty bowl in the sink. You don’t want to spend time with me, I said. The faerie wore a deep frown on his smooth and classically handsome face when I turned back to him. I threw up my hands.

—I don’t have opinions. Or interests. Or—anything. Spending time with me will be boring. I spent half the day yesterday staring into the distance.

The faery stood, knocking over the chair with a loud bang.

—Wonderful, I said with a sigh. The neighbors would love that, this early in the morning. The faerie righted the chair and swiped the glitter from the table onto the floor.

—Is it your desire to be interesting? he asked. I shook my head.

—Don’t put words in my mouth.

His eyebrows rose, nearly touching his mop of dark hair, so perfect it seemed fake.

—I cannot put words in your—

—You can’t just make people interesting, I said, cutting him off with the wave of my hand. It doesn’t work that way. And besides, what does “interesting” even mean? Interesting to who?

—To whom.

I rolled my eyes. He hummed and said, It is true. Interesting is not specific enough. I emptied the coffee grounds from the filter.

—Maybe you should go find someone who knows their deepest desire. Something easy, like having a baby or getting a job.

The faerie’s wings fluttered. Those are wishes, he said.

—Then explain the difference. And be quick. I’m going to be late for work.

—Wishes are temporary things, said my uninvited guest. Once you have one wish, you hunger for the next. Babies grow, material comforts come and go.

—Capitalism, I muttered under my breath.

—It is true. The current age has a strange focus on the immediate and temporary. Desires are the parts that are missing from your being.

—Being? Like my…soul?

—If that is what you would prefer to call it.

I shook my head and opened the refrigerator, fishing out the water pitcher. As I did, he stepped closer, his wings nearly brushing my shoulder. But it was nothing more than a brush of wind, probably just the refrigerator kicking on.

—What do you dream of at night? he asked.

—Dream of? A startled giggle escaped my throat. My dreams are super weird. Last night I dreamed I was giving a lecture in my underwear. The night before I dreamed there was a giant whale in my bathtub. I highly doubt that those are my deepest desires.

He made a noise like two branches rubbing together and fluttered his wings.

—No. Indeed not. But what is the thing you ask for when your being—your “soul”—is laid bare, when there seems to be no hope?

I closed my eyes and willed the sudden tears away.

—I want to be normal.

—No, that is too vague! he cried.

—What do you want me to say? That I desire to be straight, to want to have sex and babies, and to have a relationship?

He crossed his arms and said pointlessly: That is not your deepest desire.

—As if you know what my desire is?

—You don’t want to be this “normal” you speak of. You want something deeper. That’s why I chose you.

—You know, this is a really messed-up situation. I’m going to take my medicine, and then you’re going to disappear. I brushed past him to the table, opened the pill bottle, and shook one out into my hand. He grabbed my wrist. My muscles locked under the warm weight of his hand.

—I am here, he said. The medicine will do nothing for you.

—That’s exactly what a hallucination would say. I wrenched my hand away and swallowed the anxiety pill and half a glass of water. The faerie was still standing in my kitchen.

—It just takes a while to work, I said, more to myself. I flopped into the chair and pulled my knees up under my chin, taking slow, deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. The faerie walked around the table until he filled my view.

—What did you want the most as a child?

I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t have time to unpack all that trauma, but he wasn’t leaving.

—I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to have to think about what everyone else said I should be or do or want. I didn’t want to be punished for having my own opinions.

—Yes, and…? The faerie smiled. What did you want?

—Not to be here anymore. My voice had dropped to a whisper. I had no idea what I meant by “here”—it was always a vague notion, a general sense of not wanting to be where I was, not wanting to suffer. The faerie held out a hand.

—Would you like to leave?

—I can’t just leave! I have a job, rent to pay, and—

—Will you miss any of that? His hand was still extended. It hadn’t wavered. I shrank back.

He lowered his hand but came closer. What if I could take you where you are accepted, where you are noticed, where no one tries to hurt you?

—I’d still be me. I’d still have a hard time trusting anyone or sharing things about myself. I shook my head. Was I actually considering this? Just because you want to take me somewhere else doesn’t mean it’s going to be any different from what I have now.

The faery frowned and looked pointedly around my small apartment.

—It’s not much, but at least it’s mine, I muttered.

—What if I promised it would be different? That you could have relationships where you were comfortable, and that I could take away the parts stopping you from believing your own worth?

—Even pills can’t do that. I’m supposed to believe you can help? I bit my tongue. A faerie was standing in my kitchen. If that could happen, then maybe magic was real.

Or maybe this was me finally cracking.

—Feel it for yourself. Feel what it could be like. He held out his hand again.

—Why should I trust you? Won’t you just whisk me away if I take your hand?

—Nothing in the faerie realm is done without consent.

I blinked. This was all probably just a hallucination or a side effect of the pills, anyway. I took his hand. At first, I only noticed the warmth. I didn’t think I had ever held anyone’s hand as an adult. It was kind of nice. The heat spread up my arm, into my shoulder, and settled into my chest. But it was light. Gentle. That voice in the back of my head, the one always telling me how silly and dumb I was, seemed to disappear. In its place was not silence, but a glow that told me I was worthy and interesting and deserving of care. Startled, I wrenched my hand free of the faerie’s and immediately wanted to cry: the old voice came flooding back. Stupid girl, do you really think the faerie can make everything go away?

—Which one will you listen to? The faerie asked, watching me with those iridescent eyes.

—If I go with you, would I be able to come back?

The faerie shrugged. All things are possible, but why would you want to come back?

—I won’t end up eating dirt or selling my body or being an experiment, will I?

—You mortals do such horrible things to each other.

—What will it be like, your world?

—Only way to know is to come with me.

I looked around again. The faerie raised an eyebrow. My heart, traitorous thing, reached out, pressing against my rib cage.

Angi Rae writes to escape from the real world. Residing in northwestern Pennsylvania, she shares her home with a rescue cat who, in many ways, rescued her. As an academic librarian surrounded by books daily, Angi channels her love of literature into crafting tales that transport readers to realms where love often saves the day.