When it comes to love, not all phases are the same. The Lovers explores the thin line between a dream and a nightmare.
One goes through an insufferable ending…
Although she can’t quite explain how she got there, Violet finds herself following her former lover home one night. Unable to let go of her past and filled with rage, Violet won’t stop until his dirty secrets are exposed to the world.
While the other experiences the thrill of the beginning…
Hopeless romantic and believer in magic, Olivia finally starts to experience the type of love she long yearned for when she meets John. However, as their love story unfolds, Olivia can see herself changing, slowly morphing into something else. Even crows seem to follow her, and she wonders if her faith in magic is not about to take a much darker turn than she could ever imagine.
When it comes to love, not all phases are the same. The Lovers explores the thin line between a dream and a nightmare.
One goes through an insufferable ending…
Although she can’t quite explain how she got there, Violet finds herself following her former lover home one night. Unable to let go of her past and filled with rage, Violet won’t stop until his dirty secrets are exposed to the world.
While the other experiences the thrill of the beginning…
Hopeless romantic and believer in magic, Olivia finally starts to experience the type of love she long yearned for when she meets John. However, as their love story unfolds, Olivia can see herself changing, slowly morphing into something else. Even crows seem to follow her, and she wonders if her faith in magic is not about to take a much darker turn than she could ever imagine.
Nobody wants to start at the end. People want to witness the story being born, new beginnings taking form as they make up their mind about the characters presented to them. Love stories, especially, can be boring and predictable: the lovers make it or they don’t. What comes after though, that’s the real meat on the bone. What really matters. Yet people are just content with the chewed-out parts, what they think they know and expect to find, rejecting the complexity of the post-coital bliss and what comes after, once passion dies out. If you ask me, this is the only part we should be curious about: what happens behind closed doors, when the lovers are finally left alone to face the unguarded version of their other half. Even better, let’s crack open their skulls later, once they are no longer together. Let’s peek inside the grey matter and see what they are really made of.
One day we were together, and by the next, I found myself following you home, even though you had taken back the keys and banished me from your life only a few weeks ago. Or was it days? Hours, maybe? See? When you start at the end, time seems obsolete. It’s a good thing you told everyone I was crazy. Because right now, considering what I intend to do, you might be right for once.
Time might be blurry, and seconds seem they last for days, but you are still the first thing on my mind when I open my eyes, and the last person I picture before closing them. This is the kind of heartbreak too many songs and books waste words about. The only difference is that I didn’t let go gracefully. I didn’t choose to go my separate way and move on. Instead, I decided the real story would unfold at the end, and that’s why when I could have taken the high road, I instead followed you home last night, the word revenge buzzing in my ears.
I am still not quite sure ‘followed’ is the right word, though. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until I passed the garage where you work. It had rained all day and I saw the sign’s shiny reflection on the wet pavement. When I looked up, I understood where I was, although I couldn’t remember how I had gotten there. It was just out of habit I guess, my body craving this route even though I have no reason to take it anymore. Then I saw you. You were only a few feet ahead of me, your pace fast and steady, head high and staring straight ahead. You never turned your head once. I always liked that about you. What is behind you always stays there. You only look at the future. It used to feel exciting to me. This hunger for the next project, your fear of boredom; I respected that side of you tremendously. Until I was part of your past too; another half-finished job left to rot when you got bored. Except even though I am trying to look ahead too, there you are again.
I could have stopped there. The moment I realized what I was doing, I could have just turned around and left. It would have been the smart decision, the good kind of impulse: run and hide. But when it comes to you, I’ve never made the smartest moves. So, I kept going. You never felt my presence, and that too kept me moving. It hurt but it angered me too; it motivated me. After all the love we shared, I wanted to believe we’d always knew when the other was near. Maybe that’s just the hopeless romantic in me, but our tendency to be so fucking dramatic made me desperately hold on to the belief that our connection would last forever. Or maybe your inability--or refusal--to notice me just confirmed what I, deep inside, knew all along: I was the one who loved more.
Seeing you like this, careless and free, your life just going on when mine is over, made me want to scream to make my presence known. Instead, I felt a familiar pain, stomach twisting and mouth filling with saliva, the urge to bend over and throw up. I almost wished I could be sick so I could feel better after, but nothing came up. I kept walking.
We reached your building. You were searching for your keys in the pockets of your winter coat, and I remember thinking they would be in the inside one. That’s where you always put them, but every night, you go through all the pockets, a tiny ritual I used to find endearing, until it began to annoy me. But last night, it just hurt not to be able to tell you “Baby, you do this every time, they are in the inside pocket.” Obviously, I don’t have keys to your place anymore. Not that it really matters. I didn’t want to get in, not last night. So instead, I watched you close the door behind you while I stood there, on the sidewalk across the street. I stared at the stone steps, and the gigantic, black wooden door. Then at the restaurant next door, where we used to get takeout. I observed people walking near the building, as if nothing has changed. I wanted to be lost in the crowd, but also apart from it, so I could observe this scene properly. I need to get used to all of this. This new version of us. The one where I don’t get to be fully there. I am an outsider now. In this neighbourhood, in those people’s lives, in yours… and I am not sure how I feel about it yet.
***
I quit smoking. I miss it. The first inhale, the slow burning in the lungs. Before it turned into a routine, mechanical and boring. That’s how our love felt at the beginning: exciting and dangerous; suffocating but in a good way, you know? I miss smoking because it was an instant relief. The same way I needed us: I knew it wasn’t healthy—eating me up from inside, even as it brought me a strange peace. Now, I must make my own peace and it takes so much time, so much conscious effort. My breathing is clear and free but laborious. I have to work at it. My life without you is constant work. I am exhausted. I thought it would feel good to be finally free. I thought getting rid of you would bring me back to myself. But it’s more complicated than that. Everything always was with us, wasn’t it? I wonder how we got here. I haven’t smoked in a while, but I still remember the smell of unlit cigarettes in a brand-new package. The fresh scent of tobacco and the smooth feel of the white cigarette paper between my fingers, the sound of the Zippo giving birth to the flame, and the sizzling of the first lick of fire against the end of the cigarette. That first inhale. That first exhale. The instant calmness falling over me. I haven’t smoked in a while, but I still fucking miss it.
Often, getting rid of something toxic doesn’t make us want it any less. What makes you think I would forget us? Most importantly, how dare you believe I would forgive you so easily?
The Lovers by Dana Willow is, at its core, a thriller/horror, filled with passionate romances and supernatural occurrences. Think Gone Girl, with hints of The Lovely Bones, a chilling story where the central female characters are both victim and perpetrator.
The plot follows two women: Olivia, a knowledgeable bookshop owner and Violet, a spiritual being stuck in a form of purgatory while witnessing events in the immediate aftermath of her death. While on the surface the needs and drivers of Olivia and Violet seem to be completely separate from one another, when Olivia enters into a budding relationship with the charismatic and charming car mechanic John, all bets are suddenly off. Despite initial impressions, it would seem there is more than meets the eye to the relationships between the living and the dead, especially when dark magic and tarot cards are involved.
I absolutely loved this book. The writing quality is flawless, the descriptions and sense of place beautifully presented in every page. In each scene you feel very much planted in the location, from the haunting woodlands to the bustling bars next to Olivia's thriving bookshop. With two female characters sharing a lot of personality traits my concern was whether the tone of voice would be able to adapt, yet Willow as an author conquers this huddle with finesse. It is the first self-published title I have read in a long time where I genuinely could not tell the quality difference between it and any competing traditionally published title in the same genre. It is also one of the few books where I reading quicker than I could turn to pages! As an overall package it really does the independent publishing community proud.
The Lovers is a book I would recommend to anyone who enjoys reading thrillers. Whether you believe in superstition and ghosts or not, this title will have you completely hooked. 5 stars, a must read.
AEB Reviews