soulmates

Disclaimer: this story is based off a soulmate au you’ve probably seen on Tumblr or Pinterest or something, I didn’t come up with the idea, I just wrote the thing

Charlie had always really worried about the words inked on his collarbone. His friends had normal sentences, even funny or flirtatious ones. His best friend Blake had the question “Can I sit here?” stamped under his jaw in tight print. Blake had met his soulmate Marly last year at the bus station. His seven-year-old sister Emmerson had the phrase, “One cappuccino, coming up” stamped on her shoulder blade in scrawling letters.  She hadn’t met her soulmate yet, but he seemed to be an angel, from the way she talked about him. His mum always used to laugh, her head thrown back as his dad’s face turned a blotchy red, while she told them the story of the first time she had heard the words, “You must be a magician, because whenever I look at you, everyone else disappears!” 

But no one ever really talked about Charlie’s words. What is one supposed to say when the letters scribbled across your collarbone read “You’re going to be dead by tomorrow”? It was easy for Charlie to keep it covered with a shirt. But still, he couldn’t help some people from finding out, and now whenever his friends teased each other about finally hearing a girl say the words, they would look at him and slowly go silent. 

What did it mean? Charlie used to lie awake at night worrying about it. Was it serious, or just meant as a joke? Was he going to find his soulmate, only to realize that there was no chance for them? And how would he hear it? Said solemnly by a nurse beside his hospital bed? At the very end of his life, after he had waited for her for years? He tried not to think about it. Maybe it was a prank, or an accident. Maybe the whole soulmate-thing was a joke.

So he tried to live normally. Whatever happened, happened, he told himself. No use waiting for everything to end. He joined the hockey team, tried to keep his grades up, yelled at his sister, walked the dog, went out to the movies with a handful of friends. Life was normal. Life was going to stay normal. He was never going to meet her, he would make sure of it.

Kipling was a daydreamer. The words painted on her wrist simply provided another thing to fantasize about. Since she had been old enough to realize what the words meant, she had always imagined the fated meeting. One dream would happen at a coffee shop, all warm smells and shy eye-catching. Another would take place under a starry sky, the result of a bumped shoulder and a gasp. Then the words, flooding into her like a wave: “You. It’s you.”

The words were memorized and imprinted on her mind, so she would know when she had heard it. Now she just had to wait. Kip hated waiting. She tried to fill it with dance lessons and drama class and cupping her hands with the earth at her father’s greenhouse. Years dripped slowly by, the the last drop of rain from a leaking spout. 

She grew up. She was still a romantic, hopelessly lost in her head. Sometimes she managed to get out of it for minutes at a time, surrounding herself with real people instead of imaginary ones. Drama helped. She immersed herself in the fun of it, being able to act the heartbroken lover or shady villain. Audition after audition, class after class, role after role. She had never considered it seriously before, it had always just been an outlet, a way of getting un-stuck and out of her mind. But now it was the last semester of the last year of high-school, and things weren’t figured out. Maybe she would go to uni for drama, maybe she wouldn’t. She didn’t care. 

Life was confusing enough at home, without having to think about her future all the time. Her idealism was slowly slipping away, through her grasping fingers like sand. Dreams and romance and those words were being forgotten. It had been bound to happen one day. Growing up always takes its toll, sometimes it just happens later with some people. It was a shame, she thought, that she had to loose that bit of herself at all. But maybe it just came with life, like when you buy a product without reading the fine print. Maybe it was just a result. Maybe the words would never be heard. Maybe it was best that way. The letters on her wrist were just another thing to joke about with classmates and girlfriends. Half of them had heard their words already. Maybe it would just never happen to her.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!”

Charlie tossed the words behind him as he tumbled off the couch, pencil dropping from his hand. A phone call, any phone call, was more interesting than homework. He propped the receiver against his ear with his shoulder, leaning against the counter and crossing his ankles.

“Hello, Charlie here.”

“Hey, Chuz. It’s ya boy, Blake.” He heard a laugh from the other end of the line.

“Blake,” Charlie grinned. “Wassup?”

“Dude, you okay?” his friend asked.

“Uhh—”

“Just wondering if you were ever planning on answering your texts.”

Charlie slapped a palm to his forehead. “Ahh, sorry, man. Shoulda told you. I lost my phone.”

“Again?”

“Yeah.”

Blake laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, man. Must take real skill.”

Charlie groaned, reaching across to the fridge and examining the contents. “Something like that. Anyway, what’s so urgent?”

“I need a ride.”

A ride. Charlie grinned. “Again?”

“Yeah, sorry man. Marly wants me to come see the thing her music class is putting together. It’s just after school tomorrow, twenty minutes max. I need a ride home.”

“Nah, I can do it. But you owe me one.”

He could almost see Blake smirking. His friend was amazing at getting out of favours.

“Sure thing, Chuz. Talk later.”

Charlie took a swig out of a juice jug just as his sister walked in. “Right on. See ya.”

Emmerson was grumbling before he even pressed the phone off. “Ew, you’re gross. You’re getting your filthy boy-germs all over the jug.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “So wipe it off. Not everyone has time to find a glass, I’m in the middle of homework.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Em scowled. “You’re too lazy for homework.”

Charlie pushed past his sister, ruffling her hair to make her scowl harder. “Whatever you say, Ems.” He stopped at the end of the stairs, raising his voice so his mother could hear him from her room. “Mum! I’m going to be home a little later tomorrow, I’m giving a friend a drive.” 

Catapulting himself over the end of the couch, Charlie pulled his homework to him, raising an eyebrow at his sister. “See? I’m working.”

Lines. Memorize the lines, Kip.

Kipling groaned and rolled to her stomach on her bed, tossing her phone across the room.

“Too many distractions,” she muttered. “This is exhausting.”

She rummaged for the sheath of papers under her bed, flattening the wrinkles against her sheets. Five minutes till she had to leave, and she hadn’t even read over the script yet. Oh well, she would have to find time during school. It was already seven.

Shutting the door to her room behind her, Kip stole up the stairs to the main level. She grabbed an orange and her keys, checked her hair in the front hall mirror, and headed to her car.

School was uneventful. Her grades were decent, probably could improve. At least her design teacher hadn’t had to tell her to get her mind out of her head again. She was getting better at focusing. First period, then second. Lunch came and went. Finally she was in her last class, eyes on the clock as the hands ticked away. The minute hand shifted a fraction of an inch. Kip jumped to her feet.

“Class is over,” she grinned. 

Her teacher looked up, surprised, and glanced at his watch. “So it is. Once again, Kip, you were the first to let me know.”

She tossed her bright hair, the ends grazing her shoulders, and shrugged. “I’ve got places to be.”

Despite her careless tone, her teacher smiled. Kip had most of them wrapped around her finger. “Get going then,” he said.

Kip waved at him across the room of students, all rising from their desks and beginning to head for the door. She beat them to it. At least she was good at drama. At least she would pay attention there. 

The familiar blue door greeted her as she approached her only after-school class. A poster tacked over the window shouted a familiar hello, flapping as she banged it behind her. The auditorium was small, but Kip loved the red velvet seats and flowing curtains hung across the stage. At least it looked the part. Now all she had to do was get the part. This school play would be her last, and Kip intended to make the main lead, or at least the supporting lead.

“Hey, Ms. Martinez.” Kip shrugged off her backpack and tossed it into a seat, bounding up the stage steps. The black floor echoed under her. A group of girls stood in the corner of the stage; some reading lines, other chattering. Several guys stood across from them, talking and laughing.

“Attention, students,” Ms. Martinez clapped loudly, adjusting her red-rimmed glasses. “I assume you’re all here for auditions. If you’re not, the door is that way.”

Kip grinned. She loved her no-nonsense teacher, who always knew how to keep order while teaching something interesting. 

“We’re auditioning for The Wallpaper Magazine. You should all have the lines for the parts you want. If you don’t,” she glanced at them all, raising an eyebrow, “well, like I said—the door is that way. I expected you all to come prepared.”

The short woman began to move among, assigning roles and asking questions. Her tanned skin shone under the stage lights, casting shadows on her face. She stopped finally at Kip.

“Auditioning for?” The empty question hung in the air, accompanied by a sharp glance.

Kip quickly glanced over the two separate sheets of lines she had memorized. Lead or supporting lead. Hero or villain? She looked up, grinning.

“The villain.”

Ms. Martinez looked amused. “The role hardly suits you, Kipling.”

“I know,” Kip shrugged. “I never take a role that does.”

Her teacher raised an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised.” Then she turned to face everyone.

“We’re going to run through this as a rehearsal. The scripts I’ve given you are one scene from the play. They consist of a musical number, dialogue, and some single moments to shine. This gives you the opportunity to show me your variety of talents. We’ll run it through completely, going alphabetically through your surnames. Adrian Belfast will be starting, for the role of the reporter Joshua Clark. Begin when you feel comfortable.”

Satisfied that she had explained herself clearly, Ms. Martinez swivelled around and stepped down to the seats.

Charlie thought the nearly-empty school was rather eerie. Empty hallways, silent classrooms, no basketballs echoing through the gym. He was waiting on Blake, who was waiting on Marly, who was trying to excite him about her music project and getting a half-hearted response in return. 

He walked the halls, too bored to sit in his car for the next half hour. The only rooms occupied were the music room and the office—and the auditorium. Huh.

Charlie paused a moment at the door, examining the poster tacked to it. The Wallpaper Magazine - a murder mystery musical. It looked alright; he wasn’t a huge fan of theatre. Definitely not high-school theatre, where the props were falling apart and the actors were hardly tolerable.

The door squeaked when he entered, but didn’t raise a head inside. Two girls were already sitting on the red velvet seats in the back of the auditorium. Why not? Charlie shrugged. He continued down the line of seats until he was several rows in—close enough to see—and picked the middle seat. A red-cheeked girl stood in the middle of the stage, wobbling her way through a song. Her hands flayed awkwardly, and Charlie grimaced. If the next one was as bad, he was leaving for sure. Finally she finished, earning a patter of applause. Charlie leaned back, arms resting on the seat backs behind him.

“Thank you, Marissa.” An older woman sitting at the front nodded. “Theresa Cason, you’re next.”

A thin, blond girl stepped forward, clutching a paper. She cleared her throat twice. Charlie sighed. Maybe the music room would be better. He stood up slowly, easing himself out of the seat so the back wouldn’t whack up and make a sound.

“Wait a minute, Ms. Martinez,” someone said.

Charlie ran a hand along the seats as he slid through them.

“You have the list mixed up, I should be next. Brinley is before Cason in the alphabet.”

Charlie chuckled to himself, reaching the end of the row. Drama in the drama room—how ironic.

“Ah, so it is,” the teacher replied. “Thank you, Ms. Kipling, for speaking your mind.”

Charlie glanced towards the stage. A girl, her dyed hair curling around her square jaw like a pink cloud, shrugged. She grinned, a gap between her teeth showing.

“Not a problem,” she replied. “Shall I start, then?”

“Yes, of course. With the musical number, please. As is written.” She turned to the others. “Kipling Brinley, as Bonnie Duke."

The teacher sat down again as a piano recording started playing. Charlie’s hand that had been resting against the top of a seat slipped, bring the seat swinging down. He quickly straightened, loosening the seat and letting it whip up, making a dull bang with the speed. The drama teacher swirled around, her eyebrows narrowing.

“Please sit, sir. We’re about to begin a number.”

The girls sitting in the back of the auditorium snickered. Charlie raised his palms apologetically, quickly sitting in the seat and shuffling his long legs into the row.

The girl with the pink hair scowled, but it slipped away as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The piano music started up again. Then her voice rose, winding around the music and steadily growing stronger. The music was low and almost sinister, cellos joining with the piano on the recording. Kip—Kipling was it? continued singing, spinning her character’s history of anger and pain, spitting out the lyrics with bared teeth. Then she was grinning, almost laughing, as the lyrics began to hint at revenge.

Charlie’s spine tingled. It was creepy, the way her face was changing. She had a good voice, he admitted. It was husky and warm, blending with the words and reaching across the hall clearly. And her acting was…well, better than all other high-school actors he had seen. No, he’d give her more credit. It was brilliant. The music ended, and the girl grinned.

“Well done, Kipling,” her teacher was saying. “Now, Bryant, please join her for the dialogue."

A boy from the group stepped forward, his teeth flashing in a smile. He nodded to Kipling, but she was scowling furiously back, her expression murderous.

Acting? Charlie thought. Must be. He had seen her laughing with the same boy earlier, while the other girl had sang. The two began a fast-paced dialogue, Kipling hissing and spitting like a cat, accusing the boy’s character of betrayal. He argued defensively back. Kipling’s face was enchanting—she was a shapeshifter, only she dealt with emotions instead of forms. Tears sprang to her flashing eyes as Bryant’s voice rose.

Charlie absentmindedly stroked the words on his collarbone, his attention captured by the scene. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the seat in front of him, running his thumb along his teeth.

Kipling was sparking like a gas fire, lashing forward. Bryant was a decent actor himself, but sometimes he stumbled over a phrase, breaking up the flow. The girl always managed to fix it, jumping in with her retort before he managed to damage the stillness further.

Charlie was beginning to understand the story. Kipling’s character was a journalist in love with Bryan’s, but he had broken her heart. Now he was joining a competing newspaper company who had ruined the reputation of her father to be with another girl. Right now she was vowing revenge.

“You will rue this day, Joshu—Mr. Clark,” Kipling rasped, her expression seething. “And I will never let you forget it. I wish I were fate. There’s no happy ending for a man like you—”

Her concentration broke for a moment, and she looked out into the audience. Her gaze caught Charlie’s for a split second as she finished her lines. It almost seemed as though she were throwing her lines directly at him.

“I would vow that you’re going to be dead by tomorrow.”

The dialogue continued, with Robert’s character exploding back, but Charlie forgot to listen. He stared blankly at the pink-haired girl, noticing her eyebrows dancing, how the freckles smattered across her cheeks jumped when she wrinkled her nose in disgust, how the gap in her teeth was so noticeable when she bared them like that. 

Charlie jumped to his feet in a delayed reaction. Anger flooded, surprising him. He had finally heard the words—finally found her—and he could only be angry for worrying about this moment his entire life, when it had only been a play. Did she know how many sleepless night he had spent worrying about that line?

You’re going to be dead by tomorrow. How it had haunted him. You’re going to be dead by tomorrow. How it had made him vow never to meet the girl, so he would never have to hear the words. She was fate, Charlie thought. He couldn’t keep her from happening, but she was a plot twist he had never expected.

“You!” he shouted, finger pointed at the stage, his voice cracking. His eyes narrowed. “It’s you!”

The play stopped. Bryant gulped his line, looking wide-eyed towards his teacher. Kipling whirled to look at him, then at her wrist, then back at him. Her eyebrows rose in sudden disbelief, her lip twisting. He wasn’t sure whether it was a grimace or a grin.

“That’s really not how I imagined that being said.”

The students were murmuring, catching on to what had happened. Ms. Martinez frowned, standing up.

“Excuse me,” she turned on Charlie, “didn’t I tell you to be silent?”

Charlie ignored her, eyes fixed on the girl in the middle of the stage.

“It’s their tats, Ms. Martinez.” Bryant offered an explanation. “They’ve got each other.”

“Oh.” Ms. Martinez folded her hands against her stomach. “Oh. Well. How interesting. Shall I give you a moment, Kipling?”
“No.” The girl was frowning. “No, we should finish.”

“Nonsense,” her teacher tutted. “I’ll have Theresa audition. You go say hello.” She glanced at Charlie again, more interested. “Have you two met before?”

“No,” Charlie muttered, repeating Kipling’s refusal. “No, we haven’t.”

The girl stepped down the steps, clearly aware of her classmates eyes on her. Her body was rigid, stretched so taut that Charlie thought she might snap.

“So.” She stopped in front of him. “You.”

“You,” Charlie said. 

She glanced him over, the disbelieving look still stamped on her face. She looked at her wrist again.

“So what did I say?”

Charlie pulled the collar of his shirt down an inch, revealing the tattoo. Her eyebrow raised a fraction higher.

“Kinda freaky out of context,” she said.

“Can I see yours?” he asked.

She frowned but nodded, turning her arms over. There—on her wrist. Three little words scratched out in his messy printing. You. It’s you. It sounded romantic when he read it. No doubt he was a disappointment. 

Kipling hadn’t stopped staring at him. Her grey eyes bore a little hole into his collarbone hidden under his shirt.“What’s your name?” she asked.

This was awkward. It shouldn’t be like this. None of his friend’s meetings had been this odd.

“Charlie,” he replied. 

Kipling narrowed her eyes. “Huh. It doesn’t really suit you.” 

“Oh, really?” Sarcasm flicked into his voice unbidden. “Sorry I’m such a disappointment.” 

“You are, rather,” Kipling agreed. “I was expecting a mysterious man dressed in black, with bright blue eyes and the whitest teeth. Your hair should be curly,” she frowned, a finger resting against her lip. “And black. It should be black.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. But you look all wrong.”

“I look all wrong?” Charlie’s brows lifted. “You’ve never seen me before.”

“Well, no, not in person. But I’ve dreamt of this a lot.”

Girls, Charlie cringed.  They have to go and make thing more awkward. But Kipling didn’t seem embarrassed by her admission. She was still sizing him up, making Charlie want to hide. How can we be soulmates? he wondered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m Kipling.” She outstretched her hand for him to shake. “Call me Kip.”

He nodded, shaking her hand as though she were a total stranger. She is a stranger, his thoughts argued. Well, not really, he argued back. I’ve been hearing her voice for years now.

“You’re good,” he gestured to the stage, “at…uh, acting. And singing, and…stuff.”

She nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

They stood, waiting awkwardly, while someone on stage belted painfully the song that had sounded so captivating earlier.

“That’s Theresa Cason,” Kipling grinned, the gap showing up again. A dimple rested in her cheek. “She can’t really sing, but she tries.”

“A little too hard,” Charlie muttered. He was rewarded with a husky laugh from the girl in front of him. He looked at her, surprised, and smiled.

Kipling ran a hand through her pink hair, her eyes softening into almost a friendly gaze, different from the calculating look she had given him earlier.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “That’s better. You look like what you should be—er, what you looked like in my head, I mean.”

His smile was replaced with reddening cheeks, earning another chuckle.

“I just said I liked your smile,” she teased, hands on her hips. “why’d it go away?”

Charlie rubbed a thumb against his collarbone, shrugging awkwardly. Kip leaned back, her eyes dancing, but didn’t tease him again.

A shame, Charlie thought. He liked her teasing. He would have liked to tease her back, but the words that used to come so easily had him all tongue-tied with her. This was definitely not how it should be with a soulmate—right?

Kipling was talking again, handing him a scrap of paper, the edge ripped.

“Here’s my number,” she said. “So you can call, or text, or whatever. I gotta get back to practise.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Charlie took it, his thumb brushing hers in the exchange. “Yeah, I should go too.”

“Well…” Kipling drew a circle on the floor with her toe, looking at him expectantly. 

“Well,” Charlie repeated, staring at the paper engulfed in his hand.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Bye.”

“Oh, bye,” he said quickly. “I’ll, um.” He waved the paper in the air. “I’ll text you.”

“Do that,” she grinned, taking a step back to the stage.

Charlie turned to go, but Kip’s voice stopped him.

“Charlie?”

He turned again, looking at her. “Yeah?”

“Please don’t actually be dead by tomorrow. It was just part of the play.”

Her eyes were dancing again, fingers rubbing her wrist. Charlie grinned, shaking his head.

“That sure would have been nice to know years ago,” he chuckled. “But thanks, I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” she replied smartly, tossing her hair as she leapt up the steps.