I Spy
1.

:.:

Cousin Damiano suggests the worst.

When he sees the name, his lips part, and he stares at you, terrified. Both of you have heard the stories: the strange. Those strange who are taken away, beaten, screamed at, forced to choke on their own insanity. A cycle of torture, a direct path to madness; but nobody talks about those places.

That is a woman's name, red and glaring in your flesh.

It depends on the person. Some have a name scarred above their breast, others down their arm; some at their hip. The unfortunate have a name dug into their cheek, but they are rare, and you are relieved, so very relieved, you are not one of the unfortunate. Your name, her name, is hidden behind a veil of clothing.

Margaret Violet Carter burns a few inches from your right breast.

And Margaret is a woman's name.

You do not know who Margaret Violet Carter is, and you hope to never know. Cousin Damiano shouldn't have seen the name; he walked in on you changing out of your diner uniform, and you yelled, and he screamed, blubbering apology after apology and then he sees it––the names are always so ugly. Cousin Damiano gapes at you, as if you've betrayed him, as if you've committed something so very sinful.

Later, when you're decent, he sits you down and suggests you peel off the name.

Others in your position have done that. Skinned their bodies.

Too scared to face their inevitable fate.

You can't. You can't erase the name. Margaret Violet Carter is your demise. One day, Mama and Papa will see the name. They'll point, they'll burst into tears; oh, Christ, how dreadful their sweet, darling angel is strange. Her soulmate, her soulmate, is a woman. A woman. Mama might think it's a mistake, but fate doesn't create mistakes; the name is not a mistake.

Margaret Violet Carter is not a mistake.

You shudder at the thought of shredding the name away, the blood which shall drip to the floor. The shock of mutilating your body. Cousin Damiano drops his gaze when you refuse. He gulps, and looks you in the eye afterwards, the terror lingering; he's sincere, concerned, he doesn't want you to be taken away.

So, he says: hide it.

Show no one.

Hide the name.

:.:

And that is what you do, for the remainder of your life.

High collars. Buttoned blouses. Heavy clothes.

You hide your soulmate, and you count the days until your efforts are worthless.

:.:

Babies are not born with names engraved in their skin. The name develops as the child ages. When one hits puberty, the name stings, growing with the body. By eighteen, the name is fresh, clear and brutal. Most people hide them, either embarrassed, too private, bashful. Or in fear.

It comes in handy for those fighting in the war.

The deceased have their soulmate's name carved into their body; it's obvious who to contact, and sometimes it's not so obvious. Sometimes the one they've married does not reflect the name. Soldiers have no choice but to bare their name, and some are beaten for it, some are shot in the skull, some imprisoned.

Until Howard Stark came along, and developed a brilliant system which overwrites the name. A secret invention of his. One has to go through multiple hoops in order to reach him.

He helped Captain America.

Changed the name James Buchanan Barnes to Margaret Violet Carter.

Steve was forever grateful for Peggy's cooperation.

She, however, had no need for Howard's magic pen. The name printed in her skin is, indeed, a man's.

It stays, even after death.

Steven Rogers.

:.:

Your best friend, Joey Brown, disappears.

The last time you saw him, he was bright eyed and bushy tailed, informing you he would join the army. That it was his destiny. You smiled, and nodded, ignoring the regret and shuddering anxiety rushing through your body. Joey promises to write, or, at least, say a good bye before he's sent away.

He doesn't say good bye.

He doesn't write either.

You do not ask.

You do not dare ask.

So you hide yourself in your bedroom, and cry a little, because you dread the idea that your hunch is correct. He's like you. They saw the name. They saw the name, and made him disappear. They strike off his existence, set the name on fire. You sob, and weep over your poor friend, and then stop.

You breathe.

Run your fingertips across the name, near your breast. You feel the outline of the M and shiver. Holding your knees, you bow your head and hide yourself away for a few hours, a few hours until you're okay. Until it's okay to stand up, leave the privacy of your own room, and walk back into reality.

The name Margaret seems so forbidding now.

:.:

Six o'clock. Sharp. It's cold, wet and dark outside.

And she walks in, head high, back straight, her heels clacking against the cool floor. There's purpose in her posture. A sense of authority, but her eyes are masked in dark paint, hiding the truth. You only need to study her once, and she is your open book. A maze of mystery, wonderful and yours.

The girl smiles, as if the world is about to end.

A soldier.

She's fought in the war. There are black rings under her eyes, a droop in her gaze; she's grieving. You don't smell the slightest hint of alcohol until you lean over and top-up her coffee. Alcohol, lavender, nicotine, ash and blood. It's the most beautiful scent you've endured, and you're startled momentarily. Fortunately, she doesn't catch your surprise.

Concern hits you.

You look at her, and suddenly her health is your top priority.

'Rough day, hon?' She'll lie. She'll meet your eyes and lie.

'Nothing I can't handle.'

Close to a lie.

You tilt your head. 'Need me to bend an ear? I got plenty a'time on my hands.'

There's the smile. Happy, yet guilt-ridden, as if she knows the world will scatter to dust tomorrow and only she knows. Maybe the world already is dust, maybe the world has already died, and you and she are its last survivors. When you watch her, lost in those dark, warm eyes, you think––

––I'd die for you.

'Please,' she insists, 'I'd hate for you to get into any trouble.'

'What? For helpin' out a customer? You act s'if I ain't done that before.' You grin at her; you flirt, and you shouldn't flirt, but it's hard not to. She's beautiful, broken, and she doesn't belong here.

'I'm fine,' she says, pleasantly. Red lips slightly chapped. Mascara isn't dry. She, too, has cried today. 'Although your concern is sweet.' Your cheeks redden. 'Sometimes, one enjoys silent company, and I fear I may bore you with my woes.'

'I don't think you can bore me, English.'

The nickname spills, and you're too slow to catch it.

But she laughs. Or, chuckles. And you smile.

'You don't know me.'

'Let me know ya.'

She squints her eyes, and you're being challenged.

You accept.

'Let's start with a name. Or do you wanna be called English?'

'As endearing as it is, I agree that I should introduce myself: call me Peggy.'

Then she offers you her hand to shake, and you're flabbergasted. It's so bizarre, you laugh and happily do as she wishes. Peggy. 'Short for Margaret?'

'Mhmm. But, please, Peggy will do.'

Your smile drops.

A coldness envelops your form, and you suddenly feel nauseous. Peggy softens her expression, 'Are you all right, dear?'

'Yep! I––I'm Angie.'

'It's lovely to meet you, Angie.'

You hope a customer requires your attention, but none call for you, and when you meet Peggy's eyes again, you're stumped, frazzled and a monster is slowly eating away at your mind. Ask. What choice do you have? You won't sleep tonight if you don't ask, but you won't sleep tonight if you do ask.

What choice do you have?

Ask.

'Got a second name, English?'

'Carter. Why do you ask?'

'Curious, I s'ppose.'

She frowns, lowering her chin; she's trying to read you, but you won't allow her to. But now it makes sense: why you felt so compelled towards her; why you do feel compelled towards her. Why her smile, her laughter, her eyes––break you. Make your heart beat with life.

Finally, you have met your demise.

A soldier, an alcoholic; shattering.

And she takes your breath away.

:.:

When a customer eventually calls for you, you wish her a farewell, in which she returns affectionately.

As you brush past, your arm touching hers, a spark bursts.

You see the name. Her soulmate.

Engraved over her wrist, like a bracelet.

:.:

The name does not belong to you.