Selic opened the door to the hot springs. The chamber was large and tall, probably as tall as the inn itself. In fact, Vincent wouldn’t be surprised if half the building was dedicated to housing it. The walls of the chamber stopped at a large slab of volcanic rock near the back. Apparently, the inn had been built around it.
Steaming water cascaded down its face before separating into several different falls, all of which had been diverted to separate stalls. The same luminescent crystals which had hung from the ceiling were now placed in various holes along the rock, causing the falls to glitter. Condensation sweated from the brick and mortar.
Large wooden doors rested on each stall, closing them off from each other, a feature for which Vincent was very grateful. Selic told him that a set of clothes would be placed on top of the door he chose. Then he left Vincent alone. The rush of the water echoed off the walls in a constant drone, filling the air with their warm humidity. Already beads of sweat were forming around his snout. He chose a stall at random, opened the door and shut it behind him.
The stall was spacious. A wooden bench sat in the middle of a floor with crude stone tile. Further in, the floor sloped into gravel, which had been artfully placed in mortar to imitate a riverbank. It continued to slope until it dumped into a flowing basin into which the waterfall poured. Water from the stall to the left flowed in from a grate at the bottom of the wall before exiting into another grate to the right like an artificial river.
Vincent stared at it with an odd mixture of excitement and revulsion. Excitement because something like this would have been a luxury on Earth, because it was fucking awesome. People would pay hundreds to go to a venue like this. He felt revulsion because he suddenly became conscious of the prison his mind was trapped in.
“Oh this is screwed up,” he said in a slightly musical voice as he shrugged off his shirt, “I’m going to get fucking plastered tonight. I need a drink after all this shit. I’m going to get absolutely wasted.”
He held up the Falian garment and saw it was stained with crawler guts. He slapped it over the top of the door, then he placed his clawed hand on the moist grains of the wood.
“Yes door,” he said, “I am going to drink until I fall over and puke. I've never wanted to get wasted this badly in my entire life. I should have been drinking from the moment Lorix’s Eye spat me out into your stupid world.”
He tried to stay focused on how drunk he was planning to get instead of thinking about the task of hygiene. But he couldn’t do it. He had cleaned himself before since awakening, but had never fully taken anything resembling a bath since coming to Falius. He pressed his back against the wall and slumped to the ground, folding his legs across themselves. The roar of the water did very little to drown his thoughts, it did not hide the fact that every cell of his body had been violated and transformed into something ridiculous.
Vincent vaguely recalled seeing a movie as a kid about a little boy who was transported to some cartoon magical land and transformed into a cat. How charming that seemed at the time. But movies like that did not...perhaps could not, convey the shame and revulsion such a transformation would cause.
The steam from the spring caused the rest of his clothes to cling to him like claustrophobia. He simply stared at the dull gray bricks in front of him, which were mottled with mineral deposits and green growth. Shame permeated the senses along his inhuman limbs like it was an inseparable part of his being. His clawed digits dug into the hoodie until they were on the verge of tearing fabric.
When Selic returned, he was accompanied by Slade. The innkeeper's son called out to him, flopped a new pair of clothes over the door and took the old one. Vincent called a half-hearted thanks and waited for him to leave. He was hoping Slade would leave with him, but he heard her humming a tune that reverberated around the cavern. The muscles in his neck throbbed as they held his clenched jaw.
“Go upstream,” he called, “I'm going to puke.” When Slade didn’t appear to hear him, he said it a little louder, “Hey, go upstream from me. I'm going to puke!”
“Are you well?” she called.
“I am sick and tired of answering that question!” He stared up at the ceiling and let his voice climb to an angry rant until he was almost shouting. “Let’s do a little thought experiment: Let’s pretend somehow your mind was yanked from your own body and thrust into an animal. Would you ever be ‘well’ after that? Huh?! Would you be content with your fate? Or would it fucking sicken you to death?! Wouldn’t it nauseate you now that you have to bathe this fucking thing? Because I tell you what, it sickens me! I don’t think I have the vocabulary to describe how much this shit offends me. So, unless you want my puke water lapping around your ankles, go upstream and stop asking if I am 'well'!”
He closed his eyes and waited for Slade's response. What he got in return was her humming. The splash of water let him know she had chosen her stall. The melody was incoherent and unsteady, yet it imparted a little bit of calm upon him. He was tired, angry, and hurting.
He summoned up his courage and removed the rest of his garments. Then he carried his malefic form like nausea to the stream. His vessel was the byproduct of experimentation; he was a freak walking among the walls of stone. The mockery had been written into his very DNA and displayed on every curve, every joint, every membrane and every horn. When his feet sank into the basin and came to a rest on the bottom, they gripped a foot full of gravel as if by reflex.
In his mind’s eye he could still see the grin of the malformed kelta bowing to him. He could see its chest opening like a maw. It yawned with the stench of excrement and decay. He put his hand on his own chest, feeling the alien geometry of the strange bones underneath the blue flesh.
He keeled over and retched into the stream. His mouth filled with the burn of bile, which stung his cheeks and ate away at his lips. Strings of saliva dangled from his mouth and swung until they fell and disappeared with the current. He gave his situation a four-lettered curse and stepped the rest of the way into the basin. He reached a clawed hand out to the fall and diverted its path with his fingers. Rivulets trickled down his arm and lapped at his side. Without any further hesitation, he plunged his head into the fall.
He tensed his shoulders as the torrent deafened his ears, but then he began to relax. His nausea rapidly vanished and it was replaced by giddy pleasure. At first the beating water seemed to sting against the back of his scalp. The rush of the current against his ears turned the entire world into a muffled roar. But it was pure bliss. It had been days since he experienced the luxury of hot water. Did it always feel this good?
Another step took his entire form into the fall. The wings acted as umbrellas, scattering the streams into the basin. The force of the torrent almost knocked him into the stream. He stumbled and caught himself on the wall. When he opened his eyes, he found they were blinded by the strands of green hair. He swept them aside and scowled at the brief reminder of his malformed vessel, then he stepped back into the fall.
Fuck me...this is amazing! he thought.
The warmth of the water was welcome on his aching limbs. The heavy currents washed away the dirt from his hair and the caked blood from his skin. Though it failed to wash away the transformation itself, the fall was pure bliss. His muscles relaxed and with them, his tension melted away. But the sensation made him vulnerable, and he was overcome by a plethora of emotions. He felt a sudden sense of grief at his bereavement, of his robbed humanity.
Water cascaded around his mouth, forming a film that hid his shuddering gasps. His shoulders heaved as he tried to push back against the storm. Any sound that he could have possibly made was obscured by the tumultuous sizzle of the fall. But then he took a deep breath and shoved all that aside.
So with some effort, he bottled his self-pity and basked in the tumult as the waterfall beat against his back. He took pleasure in it in fact. He allowed the torrent to knock him down into the pool, the sand cushioning his fall. He twisted around in the current and floated belly-down like an alligator, grinning as the streams crashed against his snout. He had the urge to thrash around and splash all over the place like a child at a waterpark. But he brushed the mint-colored hair out of the way before opening his eyes. Looking around, he noticed for the first time that something appeared to be missing.
“Hey, are you still there?” he called out to Slade. Her singing had stopped.
“I am.”
“Did they give you soap?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“Soap!” Vincent repeated, “I don’t see any soap.”
“What is ‘soap’?” she asked.
Vincent stared at the wall in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Your people can build all this awesome crap, you can create bridges that defy gravity, but you don't know what soap is?! I can't just rinse myself off. Even Xalix had some sort of oil–”
“–Trylics,” she interjected.
“What?” Vincent was not sure he heard her right over the echoing cacophony of the falls.
“Use the trylics.”
“Trylics?” Vincent repeated, “I don’t know what those are.”
“You will find them behind the waterfall, in a dish filled with sand.”
Vincent waded past the waterfall to the alcove hidden behind it. There, he found the dish she was talking about, but he couldn’t see anything resembling soap or oils. Instead, he saw several stones on which mollusks the size of baseballs clung to.
“Uh...I see the dish, but I don't see anything other than a bunch of rocks with these giant slugs on them,” he yelled.
“I do not know what a 'slug' is. But the creatures are trylics. They will feed on your grime.”
Vincent picked one up in his claws and it wriggled around in his grip. It buckled back and forth until it found his finger. Noodles of white appendages wriggled out of an orifice which he assumed to be its mouth and began to wrap around his digits like parasites, tickling his knuckles.
“What in the hell is wrong with you people?!” he shouted, tossing the creature back into the dish. “No! I’m done! That is disgusting! I'm out. I'll work on the hair a little bit, then I am out! Dammit!”
He cast one more glance at the trylic he had picked up. Its noodly flagella scoured the rock for food. Quivering, he looked away and scraped his scalp viciously with his claws. Slade said something, but her words were drowned out. He asked her to repeat what she had said.
“They are a luxury,” she called out, “you will not find them in many places. I suggest you take advantage of them while we are here.”
“Is that so?” he replied, “well, they look like something I'd find lodged in my cat's intestines. So, forgive me if I come across as culturally insensitive, but hell no! You people need to discover lye and mix it with animal fat. Your historians can thank me for this invention later.”
Vincent left the pool, grabbed the towel that Selic had supplied and used it to dry himself off. Then he spent the next few minutes figuring out how to put the new clothes on, a challenge exacerbated by his aching muscles and his injured ankle. The garments were woven with a red and orange diamond pattern, the inn's colors, and fit more comfortably than the leather garments Xalix had lent to him. He dumped the rest of the soiled garments in front of the stall as Selic had instructed, save for the hoodie, and pushed through the door.
He headed up the hallway and then waited. Apparently, his confusion was obvious because Gin's daughter took notice. When he told her who he was with, she showed him his room, which was located on the second floor, right next to Slade's room. It included a round bed, a table, and a couple of chairs. It also had a basket with several samplings of Falian food in it.
He thanked her and shut the door behind him. There, he waited in silence and went to town on the gift basket. The flavors and textures were equal amount amazing and befuddling to his human brain. When he finished, he waited until Slade returned. After telling her he was going to hit the sack for the night, he closed the door and pretended to go to bed.
It was a lie.
He waited until he was certain she was in for the night as well. Then, with as much stealth as he could muster, he opened his door and headed down to the bar. Why he was being stealthy, he wasn't sure. She hadn’t prohibited him from getting drunk, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t approve.
He was still surprised she was giving him such a free leash. But he supposed she must have been wiped out from the confrontation with those Lovecraftian horrors and the Devourer itself. Therefore, her judgement was impaired. So be it. He was going to take advantage of this while he could.
Ignoring the curious stares he received from the patrons, he approached the counter nervously and took a seat, acting as casual as he could. These creatures were in his head...no need to be so twitchy. Selic was visibly pleased to be given the opportunity to serve him.
“So,” Vincent began. The words sapped the nervousness from his chest. “So...I'm not from around here.”
“I have been told,” the youth said, “yet you don’t have an accent. You speak perfect Meldohn.”
“I uh...appreciate that,” Vincent said, perplexed at Selic’s claim. But then he remembered Xalix had been speaking another language when he first arrived. Something had changed, allowing both his and Xalix’s dialect to be spoken and understood. But he continued his charade. “I've been studying for a while so...thanks. But I am telling the truth, I'm kind of an outsider. I don’t know what your specialty is.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Specialty?” Selic asked, obviously perplexed.
“What do you recommend?” Vincent gestured toward the barrels. “Do you have anything strong?”
“Strong? As in a drink with spirits?”
“Uhh...yeah?”
Selic seemed to be taken aback by the inquiry. “I was told most channelers avoid spirits,” he said, “my father even said it is prohibited by most sects, unless you aren't practicing?”
Vincent secretly blanched at this revelation. But he recovered quickly. “I forgot. My eyes glow, so you think I’m a channeler,” he said, “makes sense. Here’s what happened, you see...what...what do you call somebody who makes uh...false conduits again? What's your word for them?”
“An aluntai?”
“Yes, that’s the one!” Vincent said, “a friend of mine back home is an ‘aluntai’. Not a very good one. In fact...he kind of sucks at it.”
“Sucks?” Selic repeated, unfamiliar with the slang.
“It just means he's not very good at it. Anyway, he was trying to make a false conduit that would uh...put...a light...on my...forehead.”
“A light? On your forehead?” Confusion racked Selic's pointed face. “Why?”
“So uh...if you’re traveling in the dark, you can see whatever you are looking at,” Vincent said, secretly amazed at his own whopper. How the hell was he uttering such bullshit? “He wanted me to try it. So I put it on. Next thing I know, I heard...I heard an explosion, and it sent me flying across the room. And...I mean, I survived, obviously, but now I have these eyes and green hair. I used to have brown eyes and black hair but,” Vincent shrugged, “my idiot friend says it is temporary. But until I recover, I get confused for a channeler...a lot.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody with your colors,” Selic admitted, “wow! I think you should get a new friend.”
“So what will it be? I mean, what do you recommend?” Vincent asked, hoping his mendacious bullshit sold.
At first, Selic did not seem to be buying it. But then he ducked under the counter and produced several stone bottles. He pulled out their stoppers and allowed Vincent to smell each one. The fruity aromas indicated that they were a beverage similar to wine. He was never much of a wine drinker, so he looked at Selic and asked: “What's the strongest stuff you have?”
“He wants the Devourer's Bane, Selic,” a gruff, elderly Falian said, taking a seat two stools down from him. “That's what you want isn't it? Fake channeler?”
He clearly meant the title to be an insult of sorts, as though making some sort of accusation, but Vincent went along with it.
“What he said,” he pointed at the elderly creature with his thumb, “I’ll take the Devourer’s Bane.”
Selic removed the stone bottles from the counter and withdrew a large black flagon. While he was preparing the drink, the gruff elder gave Vincent a warning. “I tell this to all of you young ones, this drink will knock you into darkness before you know it.” Then he turned to Selic, “when you're done preparing to poison this kid, Selic, get me my usual.”
“Yes, Don.”
Selic mixed several drinks together and slid the cup towards Vincent. A group of Falians who had been conversing behind him fell silent and watched. He ignored them and grabbed his drink. He took a whiff and inhaled the familiar scent of alcohol. The fragrance was reminiscent of moonshine with a hint of lime.
He awkwardly clasped his hands around the vessel and lifted it to his snout, allowing the contents to pour into his mouth. Fire swarmed around his cheeks and throat, filling his sinuses with flame. He put the glass down and gasped, coughing as tears filled his eyes. He uttered a profanity as the drink continued to inflame his throat. Behind him the group of Falians began to laugh.
“Do you need water?” Selic asked. Vincent nodded and a moment later Selic placed a tumbler of water on the counter. He used it to chase the fire down his chest.
“Damn!” Vincent exclaimed and gestured toward the Falian called Don, “he wasn’t kidding. That shit hits hard.”
After the initial burn subsided, he took another drink. Another conflagration raged at his chest, but he quickly chased it down. Don, who glanced at him sideways, sighed.
“Ease yourself, kid,” he growled, “take it easy or else you will make a wing-flapper of yourself.”
“Oh come on Don,” one of the Falians sitting at the table said, “he is new here. Let him have some fun.”
“Hey, fake channeler,” one of them said to Vincent, “come sit over here with us. Don will sour your mood.”
He turned to look at them. Three of the creatures sat at the table, each of them holding a foaming stone mug. From their looks alone, it was difficult to judge their age. Yet from their voices, they sounded as if they were his own age, maybe a little bit older. He pondered for a moment how odd it was to be invited by these creatures to join them. But the Devourer’s Bane was already nulling his anxiety and taking the edge off his nervousness. Why the fuck not? Drinking with aliens had to be every geek's dream.
“Come on, come join us.” The one who spoke had a snout of orange pastel. “We like to meet travelers.”
Sighing, Vincent grabbed both of his mugs, got up, limped over to the table and took a seat.
“What happened to your leg?” one of them asked, eyeing his ankle.
“Oh uh...I twisted it.”
“We would greet you,” the orange one said, “but we are lazy and Don is nearby.” At this, the other two snickered. Vincent didn’t see what was so funny about the comment. But he had the impression that it was some sort of inside joke between friends. “I am Jacet. The gray one is Milo, and the fat one is Frisk.”
“Oy!” Frisk said indignantly, “My mother always used to say ‘Frisk, no matter what anyone says, always be proud of your rolls.’”
At this, Frisk purposefully avoided looking at the others. He tried to keep a serious face on his snout, but as soon as a grin curled his lips, he raised a glass to hide it and took a sip. Milo snorted, triggering Frisk to choke on his beverage. Soon the three were cackling like goofballs. Frisk extended a wing and smacked Milo upside the back of his head. Vincent could tell the creatures already had a few drinks in their systems. It was...charming.
“Vincent,” he said, “The name’s Vincent.” At this, he took another drink of the Devourer’s Bane and washed it down. “He called me a wing-flapper. What the hell is a wing-flapper?”
“There is a tale about a child who rammed his head into a wall,” Jacet said between snickers, “after he recovered, he ran around flapping his wings, thinking if he tried hard enough, he could fly. A wing-flapper is a brain-damaged idiot.”
Vincent should’ve felt insulted, but instead he dwelled on the imagery it invoked. In his mind, he could see a retarded little dragon slamming into a brick wall, then run around flapping his wings like a beheaded chicken. He slapped his leg hard, accidentally scraping it with the claws on his fingers. It was a terrible, yet hysterical scene.
For the next few moments, he repeated “wing flapper” to himself, going into hysterics every time he said it. The spirits of the Devourer's Bane tickled his chest and filled his blood with glee, relaxing his muscles and easing his tension. He looked around at his bemused reptilian companions.
“That reminds me of an insult where I’m from,” Vincent snickered. “Window lickers. It’s what you call the stupid kids who lick windows.”
“Where are you from?” Jacet asked.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.” He raised the glass and took another drink.
“Are you from across the Skein?” Frisk asked.
“The hell is the Skein?” Vincent asked.
“He wants to know if you are a Jalharan,” Milo clarified, “I heard Jalharan airdancers are lithe and their horns are curled.”
"Oh, we got a Jalharan in here!" Jacet said, "stay near crystal, boys! Just like my mother's parents said! Stay near crystal and their magic can't get you!"
Vincent shook his head. “Oh yeahhh. The fuck is up with that? Everybody I meet keeps thinking I’m one of them.”
There was a silent pause where the three friends exchanged brief looks. Then Jacet broke the silence. “So, you crossed the Devourer’s domain without dying?” he asked, “that is quite a feat.”
“Yeah, that was fucking nuts,” Vincent blurted out, “I...I...” He stopped and looked down at his drink as though it had been drugged. It was intoxicating him far faster than usual. Perhaps Falians were more susceptible to alcohol than humans were, or maybe this particular drink made its way into the system more efficiently.
“Fuck me this stuff is fast,” he said, “back home, I'd have to throw down several shots of moonshine to feel like this. But yeah, that woman. She's like 'let's go ride over this Lovecraftian fuckfest because of reasons. It'll be fun!' and I'm telling her 'Let's not! Let's go around.' But 'nah'. Then we got chased by these fucked up kelta. Tell me something, are all of your females insane, or is she just special?”
Again, the three of them seemed to exchange looks. “Silith is insane,” Frisk nodded, “this is common knowledge. That woman navigates the Devourer’s thread more casually than anyone I know. Because of this, she emasculates us all. If only I could be a man like her.”
At this, both Milo and Jacet burst into uncontrollable sniggering. Vincent could see Don, still sitting at the bar, shaking his head. “No, our ‘females’ are not like her,” Frisk continued. “They are less terrifying. What are your ‘females’ like? You still haven’t told us where you’re from.”
Vincent could feel his head filling with intoxication. He leaned in close. “You won’t believe me when I tell you,” he repeated quietly. “I told–the fuck's his name– Selic, I told Selic that I’m not a channeler. But the truth is...” He paused. “I am not...a channeler.” He stopped. Had he misspoken? “Not...a chan...Falian. I’m not a Falian–you see this face? This fucking face?” He gestured drunkenly at his snout. “This is not me. When I told Selic I’m an outsider I wasn’t kidding. I’m not even from this damn planet.”
He watched the three creatures exchange wry glances at each other and view him with intrigue. They were amused by his claim, perhaps thinking it was the alcohol talking. Jacet opened his mouth and stopped to consider his question.
“Is this...are you a fivendai?” he asked, “is that why you are traveling with her? Are you her prisoner?”
“He does not have the medallion of a fivendai!” Milo exclaimed, gesturing toward Vincent’s chest. “Besides, it is not against the law to be one.”
“Doesn’t stop the law from arresting them,” Frisk said, “Remember when our lovely Diac kicked the last two out of our town?”
“Fivendai...I have no idea what that thing you said is. Heard it before, forgot what it was.” Vincent took another drink and was disappointed to find that his glass was empty.
“A Fivendai is a traveling storyteller who tells their story while acting as one of the main characters,” Milo said, “while they wear the medallion of the fivendai, they never break character.”
“Ahh...ha ha ha haa...” Vincent pointed a finger at the clever Falian with a wink. “Ingenious. Fivendai...haha.” What was ingenious about it, he forgot. “But seriously, I'm not from here. I was–” The words evaded his grasp, slipping through the constraints of his perception. “–minding my own business when my car crashed...”
As the night went on, Vincent slowed his pace and began to relay his drunken tale to his enthralled audience. They laughed at the most absurd of things and asked him questions about Earth. “Since–” his words were now slurring through his heavy lips, “–I got here...I've been trying...what?” He had formed a thought, but midway through speaking it, the stupor stole it from him. He stared into the air with lidded eyes and shrugged. Then he smiled at his new drinking buddies.
“Dragons! Can’t fucking believe it! I...you eat our villages...a-and...” He paused. “I don't have a fuggin clue what I was 'bout to say. But you guys are like brothers I never had. Mutated brothers with w-wings. Pretty sure I had one of you as a stuffed animal when I was a kid. Then the dog chewed you up or...something. Sisters, have them, you know. Father...have one too. Mother?” He faltered at the hint of pain and loss. “I had one. She croaked. Got cancer and fucking died. I...” He looked around and saw that there three more of the creatures in his audience now. Friends of his drinking buddies perhaps? “What? Where da hell did you all come from?”
“You said you had the Bane, how do you live with madness?” one of them asked. He could no longer tell who spoke. They all blurred together in a meaningless collage of snouts and wings.
“I crashed my car a-and turned into one of you,” Vincent slurred, “boom! Schizophrenia cured! Maybe if you go mad, i-instead of dying, go crash landrider into tree, wake up as a human on Earth. H-hey!” he added, “wanna hear something funny? I picked up a rock once. It called me an idiot, a freaking moron, told me it fucked my mothe– THE HELL?!”
A white hand belonging to a black arm grabbed his wrist and slammed it onto the table, spilling its contents all over the wood. Before he could react to what was happening, he was being dragged away from the table by his horns. His feet knocked over the chair as the world spun out of control.
“The hell?! THE HELL??! GETOFFME!”
His captor gave him a moment to stumble to his feet before grabbing his arm and pulling him up the steps. The next moment, he felt himself being hurled into a room, where he tripped and fell onto the bed. When his body crashed into the cushion, the force of his landing sent the world tumbling. Then it began to wobble on its axis as Slade slammed the door.
“I told you not to make a scene!” she hissed.
“Oh...you...” Vincent slurred as he stammered to his feet, using the walls for support, giggling. “I didn't...do it...wasn't me. Some jackass with green hair and glowing eyes framed me. I swear h-he looked like a gay dragon!” He paused and grinned at his joke, but then froze, swaying as he realized he accidentally uncovered a terrifying revelation. “A gay dragon! Oh my God! I-I look like a gay dragon!!! That's what I've been turned into! I'M A GAY DRAGON! I'M A FUCKING GAY DRAGON! I mean- (hic)-he does. The jackass! He is...what? What are you doing?”
Slade was placing several objects around the perimeter of the room, but he was too drunk to discern their purpose. The weight of his wings pulled on his back, causing him to pivot on his arm until he smacked the back of his head against the wall, his horns serving as a protective cage.
“Ow.”
He spun around, reached up and grabbed onto the ledge of a circular window, then he pulled himself up. There, he pushed his head out the wooden lid that covered it and sniffled the outside air like a dog. He felt a cool breeze brush against his snout, revealing the cold sweat that had been forming around his face. The world would not stop its ceaseless spinning. He couldn't tell up from down, nor left from right, so he held on for his life, hoping it would stop and let him off.
His ears twitched at the sound of children's laughter and suddenly he felt a surge of mischievousness. The wooden lid obscured his view so he couldn’t see their owners, but he knew there were kids lurking in the street.
“Brats!” he hollered, “miscreants! Get the hell off the streets!! Stop laughing at me and go crawl back into your nests you little winged bastards–”
Slade yanked him away from the window before he could finish his sentence. He rocked with crazed hysterics at his own antics, but when he saw her face, they slowly died into a small murmur. His eyes kept falling, refusing to focus on her gaze. Why? Why couldn't he keep them still?
“Can you hear me, Cordell?” she snapped. He gave a weak nod, the simple motion sent the entire world tumbling through the cosmos. “Then get up.”
“Has anyone told you–” Vincent stammered, sliding up the wall to his feet. “–that you look like a skunk? That white stripe in the middle of yer face, I swear to God, you look like that damn skunk from Bambi.”
Slade hurled several words his way, but he only caught a few of them: Fool, something about making an idiot of himself, offended. It was the last one which caught his attention. All the mirth and gaiety vanished in an instant and was replaced with instantaneous drunken fury.
“Oh?!” he shouted, “yer offended?! (hic) That'ss cute. Lemme tell you...about being offended! I was kidnapped–all this shit–I've been through!! You! The cliff! Every time I look into a mirror! Every time I p-piss and shit! Do you know how disgusting it is, to piss and shit with a body that isn't yours?! HUH?! (hic) Guess what, p-princess? G-guess what? I'm never g-going to be sober again! Fuck your asinine dogma! Don't have time for th-that banal bullshit! Go on! Do your worst, you high and mighty stuck up bi–”
The blow came in the blink of an eye. Vincent stumbled with the force of it and fell over, his face landed unceremoniously into the padded cushions. Pain marred his right cheek where Slade had struck him, shocking him with her rage. A searing anger rose in his chest, calling for blood, but it quelled as the sting spread across his skin like fire. A loud, pathetic, drunken keening poured forth from his mouth as tears ran from his eyes.
He completely forgot why he had been struck or where he was, only that Slade had attacked him. Fragmented memories raced through the haze of alcohol and illness, rolling with the world's spin.
“What the fug was that for?!” he shouted, slurring the words together like syllables. “I dint do anything!” The world around him continued to tumble until it had no direction. “I dint do anything...” he repeated, not knowing anymore who he was talking to, if he was talking to anybody at all. “This isss not mee. I need helb...but you treat me...like a fuggin animal. This...is abuse. This body...is abuse. They took I am...and fucked it...”
He curled into a fetal position and massaged his pulsing temples, “This...isn't...me,” he repeated, “I don't belong...I don't want to...be l-lucid...in this...nightmare...shit. I’m not a killer...fuck...”
His words were interrupted with violent heaves and the dizziness of drunken hyperventilation. Stars raced across his vision as a chill sweat moistened his snout and hair. A high-pitched whine of tinnitus accompanied the ache in his head. At some point, Slade smeared something on his nose and he smelled the scent of flowers, just as darkness swam over his vision and he fell asleep.