Smother
I wish I was as friendly as I appeared. I know I appear friendly—beautiful facial expressions, wide eyes, curved nostrils and a sculpted frame—but I am a dangerous soul to surround yourself with. My mind is consistently wandering to my devil’s aid, consistently yearning to stir the pot.
If only I knew how heavily grandmother plays in my genetics. Much like her, I long to be remembered whether that be as good, or as evil.
I hadn’t taken into account how I might appear with a dangling male python clinging to my neck like an over-knit scarf. Someone played too much with heavy needles and sewed a pale yellow scarf a little too thick and plentiful, and somehow I ended up with the mess of an accessory placed along my body.
Turkish was far more flattering than some tacky wool accessory, however.
We have a stalker.
I follow my partner’s gaze, intrigued more than anything by onlookers. I liked strangers, I liked how they analyzed me before coming. I liked how I sparked caution. It meant I was intimidating.
Or, Turkish was. Regardless, we played with hesitation.
He is plenty handsome, and I say that with honesty. I have played with relatives, and crazy newborns, and a couple elderly souls but I have yet to play with someone who I feel reflects my maturity. He is intelligent, wading in the distance before deciding to approach.
Stop gawking.
I am not.
He comes in long strides and the entire time I keep my eyes steady on his figure. I did not get this far, living, by letting off my guard. Thankfully (a bitter sweet feeling, really) my father had gifted me the art of intellect as well through genetics, and I knew better than to take for granted the safety of the field.
I don’t like him.
I don’t believe I asked your opinion.
“Hello,” I respond, my voice far more firm and dominant verses the usual female “harp” like song. I got my boldness from my father, my strength from my father, and my aura from my father. Everything about me is because of my father. I can only reflect the one who raised me.
Of course, I certainly must mirror my mother in some way or another, but because of her famous abandoning well… Your guess is as good as mine.
He called us interesting. He thinks we are fools.
Enough, Turkish.
I should eat him to stop the mockery.
You’re proving his assumption right.
He is smiling at me…
Say something, then.
“Turkish,” he practically snarls. I don’t react to his animosity, certainly I would be threatened if looked at like an alien. I do not correct his behavior, nor justify it. I just let his comment hang in the air like clothing on a laundry line.
I continue to watch him momentarily as he eyes Turkish with an uncomfortable smile. He plays the greeting game well, perhaps better than I have yet to experience. I feel Turkish tighten around my neck momentarily, correcting my glance and reintroducing my attention to the general conversation.
I am not a fan of small talk, I have the attention span of a fruit fly.
“Smother,” I pronounce somewhat guarded, my attention redrawn to evaluating the quality of stallion before me—he is a reflection of his home.
Turkish draws from my neck, slithering down my neck like a vine. The whole process is quite enticing really. His body takes a full minute to unravel from my neck, slip down my shoulder, wind down my leg, and glide on the ground. Ten feet of him stretches out like a child’s slinky being pulled from window, to window.
He hisses, momentarily coiling himself within his own body. I personally hate snakes, I hate their demeanor and how flexible they are. I hate that he is fast in water and can climb higher than I can see. I hate that he can break my leg by just squeezing his body, compressing my bones till they shatter beneath his grasp. I hate almost everything about him, except for the fact that he has been the only creature to truly understand me. Do you know what it feels like to finally feel… relatable?
I must have certainly been a snake in another life.
Whatever he is selling, I am not buying.
Fine, live in the field by yourself then and see how long it takes you to get around without a taxi service.
“We might be in search of something… That all depends on what you are offering, however.”
Something tells me Magnus doesn’t offer anything short of his own standards.
I also have a feeling those standards are relatively high.
Needless to say, I plan on buying what he is selling.
