Page 14 of The Cannibal

“How am I seeing color if Vipera are colorblind?”

Phoebe straightened. “Excuse me?”

“Silas can only see shades of blues and red when the blood doesn’t fill the eyes,” I said, lifting my head. “Over there, I can see yellows and oranges on that child’s clothing.”

Phoebe shook her head. “Hosts who turn keep all the senses they’re turned with. Silas and I were born this way, as are all Vipera who are born rather than turned.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “is that why you only wear pink?”

“No,” she scoffed.

“Silas said he wears black because he knows it will always match.”

“Well, I just like the color.” She was rather defensive about her fashion. “It matches my hair.”

“I see.” I laughed, nudging her with my shoulder. “I suppose you will be advising me on more than just fashion now.”

Her eyes lit up, clasping her hands together. “I have been making a list while I waited for you to wake.”

“I suppose there wasn’t much else to do.”

My gut clenched; the rumbling of my stomach was beginning to hurt. The pain was like a cramp during your monthly. I had no doubt it would get worse.

“Alina?” Phoebe’s voice was muffled, shut out from my head.

I groaned but could barely hear myself. Her hand rubbed up my back, touching my neck.

The colors around me bloomed vividly enough to strain my eyes. I felt a hot prickling in my sockets. No matter how I rubbed them, they kept itching. Noises became louder, more abstract. The squeal of a child then the whinny of a horse, the clopping of hooves and foliage rustling, the hiss of a cicada turning into a rumbling in my throat.

A clicking.

“Phoebe.” I swallowed, looking to her.

I was entranced, frozen in my overstimulation. Just the vibrating blurriness of Phoebe’s jugular, thump thump thumping.

“Make it stop.” I felt hot tears on my face. “Please make it stop.”

She tipped my parasol to the side and pulled me in. Her fingers brushed along my head, holding me still.

“Shh, calm yourself, focus on one thing,” she coached.

A thumping. It wasn’t my heart, no, someone else’s.

I could hear her heart.

Each pump now a squelch, the rushing of liquid. Each beat now matching the pulsing in my gums, like a terrible toothache. If I could tear them from my mouth, I would.

I stared down at the pond, the clicking in my throat softened, and I could hear the cicadas again. One of which squirmed among the carnivorous plants, its wings caught between the jaws of the bog plant.

6

THE POISONER

Itold her I was retiring for a midday nap. After what happened at the park, she didn’t argue much. But I’d had enough sleep, several months’ worth. What I needed was to be alone.

Visitors were sparse, but there was company at all times on the upper floors. A stray wanderer taking advantage of casual leisure. A hobby afforded by very few. I suppose that was me, as well, now.

I swiped an apple from a decorative bowl, though the first bite betrayed me. A chalkiness dried my mouth. It was bland as raw corn straight from the husk. I pushed it from my mouth with my tongue, plopping it in my hand. Surely, I thought it may be a decorative apple. Except this one was, aside from taste, normal by all means.