I follow him, because I am bored and drunk and it is late. I am lonely in a way that never feels like loneliness but, instead, an inescapable kind of hunger. 

I follow him, because I recognize (albeit through a blur of whiskey and moonshine and wine—a combination that could kill, really) that I have never had a proper conversation with him. In fact, in my inebriated state, I cannot even think as to why he occupies our estate as he does. I know it has something to do with Ruth, and if she were any of my other siblings I might assume they were lovers. But, because it is Ruth, I think instead it is far more likely that he sold his soul. 

(As much as the men in my family would like to claim semblance to our magical mother, I think it is the women—I think it is Ruth’s hard eyes, and Hagar’s cunning, and Miriam’s anger, and Delilah’s—well, Delilah’s otherness).

And anyways, he is handsome, not that I have particularly high standards. It is simply a matter of—well, curiosity. 

Yes, curiosity. He is far from the other occupant’s of Pilate’s festival, in a corner where the music sounds like the memory of music instead of its actuality. I don’t mind. In fact, the quiet I find on the fringes of the gathering is a welcome respite. I am tired of painting, and being painted. I had seen where he had gone from the corner of my eye; the “accident” had caused quite the commotion, and I knew with such a previous injury Ruth would be busy at work practicing her medical skills. 

Room’s occupied. I’d recommend against interrupting. 

I don’t allow the words to dissuade me, but push past. (I might even find it more entertaining, the idea of walking in on something I am not supposed to. I am nearly disappointed when he is alone). The door slams too loudly on the opposite wall. 

“Ah, my apologies.” I say it in a way that makes it clear I am not truly sorry. “Although, really—it is my house.” 

He does not belong here. He does not belong in the Ieshan estate. He does not belong with my family. I wonder if, perhaps, he is under some spell, to remain—or perhaps we entertain him.

It is different, for me.

I can’t leave—blood is thicker than water, and all that bullshit. “What was I interrupting?” My voice is softer, less ironic; it belongs to this dark room, and this quieter space, and the way that my hair falls wild and unkempt into my emerald eyes. 

|| "Speech." || @Ishak