A bitter pang of jealousy, swiftly quashed. She was a Fiend with Benefits (as she’d called herself) – nothing more. I had no more claim to her than I had to the sun. No matter how I might feel about her, she was not and would never be mine. She was a demon, a Succubus, roaming, true to her nature. How could I expect her to… change?
Intense black loneliness descended on me.
I stared out into the night.
And suddenly, the desire to see Caitlyn again eroded what little of my strength remained.
It was a stupid idea, but I couldn’t put it aside.
I felt an overwhelming physical need to go to her.
I had to at least check that she was okay.
I knew there’d be hell to pay later, but in the here and now of my horrible isolation that seemed… unimportant, somehow.
I couldn’t rest, couldn’t move on without knowing.
And… nobody would miss me here.
Perhaps there was some good that I could do for her.
Why else would I know where she was if it wasn’t to… help her?
And anyway, it wasn’t like things could get any worse.
Could they?
So I closed my eyes, and focussed, and… shifted… to a small, dark, stuffy room in a small, dark, stuffy flat in a nondescript building that rattled and shook with the road noise outside.
And I stood for a moment, getting my bearings, listening as the eddies of air from my manifestation died away.
I looked around, and felt profound sympathy as I noted the peeling wallpaper and cheap curtains.
The room’s only notable features were a desk, and a bookshelf, a plate complete with half-eaten slice of stale toast, a laptop computer (still on, still displaying a photo of Caitlyn and Rhiannon at some younger, not-quite-adult age)…
And her.
Caitlyn was lying, mostly nude but for a pair of shorts, half on and half off her bed.
One arm was tucked under her head, the other trailed on the floor, showing off her delicate shoulder blade.
She looked so small and fragile; a porcelain doll in many respects.
A truck rumbled past outside; her window rattled but she didn’t stir.
I sighed.
I slowly and carefully adjusted her so she was comfortable, and pulled her sheet up over her to keep her warm. She made a soft sound of protest as I bent to kiss her hair-hidden brow, frowned briefly, then relaxed.
I stared down at her.
She was so… beautiful.
“Be at peace,” I whispered, touching my fingers to her cheek.
I turned, and was about to leave when I noticed something on her desk, highlighted in the sodium-lamp monotone that leaked through what little darkness she’d claimed.
A drawing pad and pencils.
I paused, bit my lip nervously, glanced at her to make certain that she was sound asleep.
Then I gave into curiosity.
I carefully opened the cover, and stared.
A near-lifelike portrait of Rhiannon, frail but smiling.
flip
A woodland scene, wonderfully detailed down to the individual blades of grass.
flip
A kitten playing with a toy, hair and whiskers beautifully rendered with fine little lines.
flip
A little girl reading, the folds of her skirt nearly photographic.
I hesitated, then quickly rifled through to the final drawing.
And paused, suddenly fearful.
My face peered up at me from the page, perfect in nearly every detail… just prettier than I felt was strictly fair.
I turned one page back… and stared.
She’d captured me with fast, harsh pencil strokes – everything from the folds of my frock to the way my braids tended to fall over my right shoulder.
And she’d captured my wings as well.
“Shit,” I breathed.
Caitlyn stirred on her bed.
“Whasthere?” she murmured, muffled and indistinct.
Panicking, I shifted.
I glimpsed papers and drawings scattering in my wake, and I cursed my clumsiness.
And I was in my bedroom, staring at myself in my mirror.
And my eyes were dark and haunted and her drawings were still clutched in my shaking hands.
“Shit”, I whispered. “Oh, shit, oh fuck me, oh fuck…”
I stared at myself, then down at my unintentional loot.
I’d just stolen from her.
And scattered what little she owned all over the place. Probably wrecked half of it too.
Oh fuck me.
I sank down on my bed, fingers fiddling with the binding of her drawing pad.
Slowly I opened it, and flipped to the portrait of my face.
She’d captured my gentle curls, and the triangular profile of my chin, and the haughty eyebrows and the small little blemish on my right cheek. She’d given my irises intricate detail, making them almost real, and she’d softened my bone structure to an approximation of beauty. She’d even somehow managed to capture a hint of eyelashes…
She was an amazingly talented artist.
Precisely the sort of person that Azrael had implied was the worst kind to… perturb.
For fuck sakes.
Now I’d really done it.
I clenched my fingers, then stood and slipped the drawing pad into my bookshelf, such as it was.
I stumbled to a cupboard.
I found my half-empty bottle of Don Julio.
And I began the process of finishing it.
******
We may not get Cirrhosis, but we do still get hangovers. It’s Ineffable, or something.