Entwined in This Infinity

2. Poison - Bridget

“Well hey there, honey, why don’t you come check out the wares?”

You pause mid-step, sparing an unwilling glance at the vendor. You are in the thick of the crowd, countless people grumbling and shoving you on their way about their chores, but it is unmistakably you he is leering at.

Curiosity itches at the tips of your fingers, but you clutch your shawl and turn away. Like the citizens passing you, you have business to attend to, and none of it involved a greasy merchant with an enticing smile oozing a practiced congeniality.

“Honey, I don’t think I told you to walk away.”

You struggle to avoid looking at him, jaw set. There’s nothing to do about your feet, because they are more or less literally glued to the ground and refusing your instructions to step forward, but you can control your eyes. They begin burning from the effort of keeping a straight gaze, and from the side the vendor chuckles.

“Oh honey, you’re looking a little stressed. Why don’t you come over?”

With a jerk, your muscles flow into movement, four or five measly steps bringing you to his stall where he leans his elbow on the wood and grins with ruler-straight teeth. You are seething when your feet stop in front of it, a molten glow under your ribs and in your throat.

Your mouth opens and sound declines to manifest. It doesn’t bother you, because you know by his growing smirk that he is catching every word spat in his direction. There’s no need for horror or trepidation – mutants such as he don’t deserve it. The only reaction he will twist from you is anger and loathing, a negativity that will bite at his heels and remind him of the monstrosity he was born as.

His eyes spark.

Electricity dances around his eye sockets.

His whites and pupils fade to the same unnerving clear cobalt of his irises. They remind you of lenses. A thread of primordial fear taints your rage.

“Why, honey, the tongue you have!” he chortles. “You have some rather poetic insults.”

You snarl.

“Ah, there it is. Tell me, honey, how can you call me a beast when you’ve been reduced to baring your teeth?”

He reaches forward, his hand stopping half a foot from your face. His nails are sharp and cobalt, miniature arcs of lightning skipping from one to the next.

You swallow reflexively; the fear engulfs the remnants of rage.

“I’m proud of you, honey. No pleading words, no shaking.”

His strike is swift, snake-like. He grabs the junction of your jaw and neck near your ear, and his nails sink in, snake-like. Like fangs.

He has fangs. You can see them when he smiles open-mouthed.

“You should be grateful to me, honey.”

The pain is blinding. It replaces every sensation, all sensory input.

The pain is blue.

“This is the fairytale where the princess learns the valuable lesson of tolerance.”

Maybe you’re screaming. It must be pretty, because he is smiling.

“Enjoy your fairytale, honey.”

He releases you, and you collapse, your forehead slamming into the wooden counter.

He just chuckles.