Page 24 of Possession

Aris’ displeasure at the sight is a palpable thing. My veins feel like they’re vibrating, humming as his annoyance grows and gets hotter and hotter. It like I’ve walked too close to a fire, though the fire is inside me.

I lightly trace the purple fingerprints on my wrists. I’m not happy that Cera hurt me, but that isn’t what bothers me the most. What I’m wondering is why the bruises are even there. The knife didn’t wound Aris when Cera hit him, but somehow, I’m hurt from when she kicked me. How does that work?

“So much is changing,” I murmur. It’s only been a day, and everything I knew about myself and Aris is different. All Cera had to do was touch the amulet to change the rules of the game.

Nervously, I rake my hands through my hair. It already looks somewhat presentable, but I want to cover the mark on my neck. I try arranging and rearranging it for about a minute before I give up with a sigh, limp, brown stranding fall over my eyes in defeat.

Aris watches. I can feel him staring, and I turn away from the mirror.

I start fingering the amulet, staring at the new, black stone like it might give me some answers. It’s dark enough that I can see myself in it, my eyes shrouded and desperate.

How come I can get hurt, and you can’t?I ask.

I’m assuming that you’re vulnerable when you are in control. He pauses. Another reason why I should be in charge.

It’s my body, Aris.

He tuts. And you call me territorial.

I scoff. I’m just trying to figure out what’s changed. You’re able to take control now, but my body is different when you do. Do you remember—you were able to break Cera’s arm. I can’t do that.

My essence gives strength; I am strength.

And what does that mean? The questions start to pile. Aris had me eat last night, but does my body even need food anymore? I remember being hungry, but maybe we only need food when I’m in control.

Not knowing doesn’t sit right with me. There are certain things intrinsic to human beings—eating, sleeping, and dying. If I can’t do those, what does that make me?

What happened last night? Did you sleep?

No, says Aris. Nothing has changed.

I let out a breath and glance in the mirror to gently rub the discoloration under my eyes. I don’t normally sleep well, but Aris doesn’t sleep at all. According to him, he is fully aware while I am unconscious, which sounds incredibly dull to me. He’s said he can see my dreams sometimes, which has led to a few awkward conversations—especially considering the more explicit dreams featuring Henry.

My cheeks heat. Right. Good, then.

I must say, for someone lamenting about a “death cult” ten minutes ago, you seem to have gotten over the situation rather quickly.

I study my surroundings, glum at the reminder, thinking back to what Silva said last night. I have to admit that this room is like something out of a castle. It’s bigger than the first floor of the home I was raised in, with ornate furniture suggesting expensive taste. There’s a stone, ashless fireplace with wood stacked neatly beside it, surrounded by fine chairs with velvet cushions.

I can’t find a speck of dust anywhere. The room seems like it’s never been used, but it’s spotless. I wonder just how long they’ve been routinely cleaning, waiting for Aris to arrive. I briefly picture generations of maids, each walking in the footsteps of their predecessors, dusting a desk they will never see used.

After deliberation, decide to explore for a few minutes, quickly finding a bathroom. Large and clean with white tiles, it gives a good first impression. It isn’t until I walk further inside that I see that the shower and bath are undeniably dated.

There’s another room which leads to a dining area. A large, mahogany table is set for twelve, while more intimate tables are designated for smaller meals. Well-upholstered couches and chairs stand next to carts with tea and alcohol in crystal glasses, ready to be sat in.

Back in the bedroom, I find myself face-to-face with another strange painting. Unlike the others, this one is smaller and easier to miss, but it’s difficult to look from once noticed. Something grabs at my spine and forces me erect as an onslaught of goosebumps coat my arms.

It’s a simple picture, really. There’s a silhouette of a man sitting at a dinner table; he’s a shadow, a contrast to the colorful piece, but I can see that his lips are turned upwards and that he is happy. Before him is a plate of meat, which he has pierced with a fork and has raised to his mouth to eat.

At the other seat at the table is a woman. She sits with flowery details on her yellow, button-up dress, pretty peach skin, and hair tied in a classic updo. On her face is a smile, and she would seem very calm if not for her strained, pinched eyes. There is true and genuine terror there, painted so masterfully that my own heart seizes in my chest.

From the elbow down, the woman is missing an arm, and the removal was recent if the puddle of blood beneath her is of any indication. Most disturbingly is the woman holding her own torn limb. Instead of gripping it in panic or in an attempt to reattach it, she extends the arm across the table, as an offering to the silhouette.

“That is so creepy,” I mutter.

Aris shrugs mentally. Art. Who can define it?

Spotting a plaque by the bottom of the piece, I squint to spot a title: ARIS THE DEVOURER.

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