bitch you gotta take it
When I duck into the store, I am hit with a wall of warm air filled with the acrid smoke of incense. It washes over me like a tsunami of the highest caliber; as I skirt the corner and come tumbling inside, I am briefly made breathless by the change in temperature and the strength of the scent, which swirls in to burn holes into my nostrils and tongue. I cough. My lungs have run ragged. I don’t feel tired at all, except for the tightness in my chest, which might only be from the smoke—the rest of me is unnaturally awake, sparking all over like a livewire, coiled too tight to unwind without breaking.
Tense, my movement stilted by the buildup of energy, I creep further into the store. I am struggling to keep my breath even, filtering it through my clenched teeth. The shopkeeper glares at me from behind her counter, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. But what can I say? What explanation could I give to satisfy her? Instead I smile at her. It’s the smile that has kept me out of trouble since childhood, the sweet, plastic grin of a boy made of royal gold and raised on a steady diet of diamonds. I can tell she isn’t pleased—her mouth tightens a little, and her gaze tracks me around the room—but she doesn’t trail me or chew me out, either, and in this case I think it’s the best I can hope for.
Slowly the pounding of my heartbeat ebbs away. Slowly the rushing pulse in my ears fades, replaced by the ringing that always accompanies silence when I’m in it. The store is still as an oil painting, pretty in the way of all things old and overgrown: crumbling at the edges, weighted with age, everything coated in a fine layer of golden dust. Each ornately carved shelf is laden with heavy candles, their bodies strewn and decorated with dried flower petals. Some cabinets hold bundles of dried herbs and butterflies in glass containers; others are filled with carefully pressed cones of incense, stacked like Egyptian pyramids, and sheets of beeswax still patterned by the honeycomb they were torn from.
For a moment, despite the knowledge that a rabid Lilliputian miscreant is after me with a vengeance, I am entranced. I feel peaceful, warm, and pleasantly tired. I peek into each aisle and find myself smitten with the place’s completely unrefined charm, pastoral to the point of peasantry, so different from the clean and lavish places my family takes me to and the market stalls they manage. It’s strange. It’s enchanting like the temples of old, like runes carved into the sand. Enchanting like nothing else I’m allowed to love.
Then there is a sudden noise, the clicking of hooves on tile. The opening of a door.
Instantly I snap out of my haze. The hairs on my back and shoulders rise, a chill runs through me like a spear, like a flash of thunder—I bolt a few short steps, slinking behind the auspice of a bookshelf, where I can peer around and try to see Andras before he sees me.
Pilate. The way he says my name makes me want to give up, give in already like I don’t have anything left to prove—like rolling over and playing dead should be enough. I inhale, exhale, measuring my breaths to make sure they’re slow and faint. I can see his shadow moving across the floor, flickering in the dim light of the candles like he’s just learned how to change shape.
I blow out another breath. He’s in front of me now, back turned to me, in just the wrong place for him—just the right one for me. Careful to stay silent, I hand Andras’ glasses off to one of my snakes, who reaches out and holds it in his smiling mouth like a faithful dog.
Then, with a laugh suppressed into a growl, I grab a piece of Andras' tail in my teeth and gently, selfishly pull.
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