prince pilate of
house ieshan
house ieshan
you think you are possessing me
but I've got my teeth in you.
P
ossibly for the first time in my life I think about someone else’s feelings.That is: with the cold, spice-tingly taste of mint still burning its way across my panic-dry mouth, I think about everyone else I passed this glass of liquid amber to, and I wonder whether they’re feeling the same breadth of anxiety.
Are they, too, drowning under the rush of blood in their ears? Do they feel every frantic heartbeat more loudly than the last? Does their skin buzz, every square inch, with the cold electric impulse of panic? I wonder where they are. What corners of my home they stand and shake in. Out of the corner of my eye, I find myself glancing at my guests sidelong, hoping with a desperate impatience to see one of them falling apart the way I am.
Or—even worse—perhaps none of them feel any of this at all. Perhaps I am the only one who panics at the thought of being forced to tell the truth, because I am the only one afraid of who I really am and what I’ve really done.
Everything hurts. I am solid pain, all the way through, aching with the force I have to use to keep myself from falling apart.
The world is gone now; we live in our own little bubble, pressed up against the cold marble of the bar and under the sparkle of so many twinkling white lights. He is so handsome, I think—unbearably handsome. Every time I meet him I think I notice more of him. Tonight, I am entranced in particular by the gray glow of his eyes under their round glasses: the little changes in color from atom to atom; the thick swoop of his lashes; the way I can’t quite tell whether the look in his eyes is confusion or indignation.
I know him. At least, I would like to think I know him. To look at him, this boy I wish I could love—it hurts and it heals, and no matter how much I think I might break apart, I cannot look anywhere else.
My throat is unbearably dry, I realize suddenly. I turn my eyes down; I swallow. But my gaze flashes back up just as quick when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and I see with a disbelieving start the cheetah-fast rise and fall of one of Andras’ wings. Like—like he was reaching for me.
Absolutely wrong. The only thing I've ever wanted for myself, the only thing, is you.
I want to know who you are.
I can’t believe. I can’t believe it. He can’t be serious. But I think I do—believe it—at least, some part of me. I swallow again; I bite my lip until the taste of mint is overtaken by the faint tang of blood.
“Should we go?” I ask carefully. “…somewhere?”
And even I don’t know what the right answer is.
