Page 1 of Possession

Chapter one

I am with the darkness. Surrounded by it, breathing with it.

The Dark says to me, “Let’s rule the world.”

“Rule the world?” I scoff. “How ridiculous.”

It pauses. Considers this. “Of course,” it says. “We should end it instead.”

I wake with a jolt, my hand immediately going to my neck to check if the amulet is still in place. The length of the familiar octagonal edges, jagged like a bow knife and cool to the touch, settle a stomach that went tense without my notice. Just a dream, I tell myself, taking a breath to calm my remaining nerves as I stroke the gem in the center.

This is what I do every morning, what I have done every morning since the amulet first went on. Though it can’t be removed and the cord fastening it can never be broken, I still find myself reaching for the necklace before my eyes even open. To feel its rough lines and the setting of the central ruby is to be reminded that I’m still in control.

For now, Aris says. His voice is quiet, the promise of a knife before it cuts into flesh.

My eyes shoot open, and I’m met with the sight of an unremarkable gray ceiling. Like the walls that border our cell, it’s made of cement several feet thick. The walls are decorated with colorful tapestries, and the bed I lay on is queen sized with fine sheets. The furniture is well-made, and for all intents and purposes, it’s a room a young woman would be considered lucky to have.

But it is indisputably a prison. There are no windows, not even with bars or covers or locks, which is what disturbs me most of all. I’d never understood what a privilege it was to know the temperature outside, or if it was raining or snowing. I thought I would always see the sun.

Many things have been given to me. I have electronics, though none connect to the internet, fashionable clothes, most untouched, since there is no reason to dress up, and soft, plush animals for me to lay or nap against. I’m even allowed a bookshelf, which I can request particular books for, though they must be approved materials. I store my DVDs and tapes on the bookshelf, too, and whatever other media they think is appropriate for viewing.

I sigh at the familiar sight of my room and stand to make my way to the bathroom. It has a large tub with a waterfall spray shower and a clean toilet. In the cabinet under the sink are any cosmetic appliances I could think to use—hair curlers, straighteners, dryers, though their cords have been shortened so I can’t hang myself with them. On the counter is where I keep my dental products, which is mostly all I use.

As I switch on the faucet and wait for the water to warm, I glance in the mirror. My skin is pale and delicate enough that someone breathing too close could bruise it. I’m thin, gaunt; I’ve lost some weight over the last few months. Given my other luxuries, one would assume I have well-cooked meals, but all I’m offered is gray mush. It’s hard to swallow something without a smell, something I can’t even identify, so I typically choose to remain hungry.

They don’t like that—they think I’m making myself sick on purpose. They’ve threatened to force calories into my body through wires and tubes, knowing I don’t like needles, so I eat the food.

You are weakening our body.

I splash some water on my face and lean against the marble countertop. “I just woke up,” I say aloud. “Do we have to do this so early?”

I don’t understand how starving yourself is in either of our best interests.

“You know how bad it tastes.”

Excuses.

The water drips down my face as I study myself again in the mirror. From my eyes alone it’s clear how unhappy I am.

I make a face at myself and feel amused, but this is not my amusement.

It’s difficult to describe feeling what he feels, but it’s something like a body at war with itself. One part wants one thing, one part wants another. It reminds me of being sick, when I’m forced to cough or sneeze. It’s not something that can be held back or contained, a necessary symptom.

You’re quite testy this morning, he says.

And you’re as pushy as ever, I answer in my mind. Speaking aloud makes me feel crazy sometimes. After all, he is just in my head.

Hm. He doesn’t take my words as an insult, amusement lingering. He briefly swirls about my body like a viper’s venom before settling by my heart, which is his favorite spot.

I walk back to bed sleepily, glancing at the clock that hangs opposite our cell. Below it is a guard, since there is always a guard. They tend to be young, which makes me think that watching me is a job reserved for acolytes. Their main responsibility is staring at me, but they bring food as well. It’s about to be nine in the morning, which means the shift changes soon.

The guard on duty now is new, slumping forward with his cheek on his palm. Though initially half-asleep, it doesn’t take long for him to notice I’m looking his way. His eyes suddenly widen, and he straightens, hands going for the wand at his side. It rests in its holster, a silent threat, and I look away on instinct.

Aris hisses in my head, and this time the resentment I feel comes from us both. It’s not that I don’t understand the guards and the confinement and the constant fear and hatred. I understand it fine, but I’ve never struck out. I’ve never hurt them. Can they say the same?

The guards are trigger-happy. People new to magic are often caught up with power; they feel compelled to use it on anyone they think might deserve it. Luckily, they can’t do anything permanent, and most importantly and inarguably. They can, however, shoot things through the barrier, often making a game of it. They like to watch me run around and hide in the bathroom.

No one is ever punished for this, because there is no one to care. So long as I live, so long as I stay trapped, nothing else matters.

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