Forbidden Fruit

A Flash Fiction Piece

A sharp nail trails across my jawbone, gentle enough not to pierce my skin but sharp enough that the point's scratch is sure to leave a track. Spirits could push, shove, use their energy to burn marks on my skin, but never had I felt the heavy weight of their arm around my waist or the material form of their hands. My back is pressed up against him, his beastly form towering over me, and something wet licks up the small of my back. It's warm, dipping underneath the jagged edges of my frayed top, and goosebumps rise in its wake. The band of my shorts sticks to me, and I realise it's drooling – whatever it is.

       "Sorry, little blue." His voice is low, deep and twisted, as if his tongue isn't fit for the language it's speaking. "You smell so good and, you see, my stomach has a mind of its own." The patch grows and it takes me a moment before I realise it's the flat of a tongue, as wide as the body behind me, languidly lapping at my skin. The texture rolls against me, decorated in rough feline barbs; they make me itch, almost sticking to me like velcro that’s a struggle to peel off.

       I push away, spinning on the spot to catch a glimpse of him, and I expect to see nothing – or, at least, I hope to. The figure stands out of the streetlight that trickles through my bedroom window, slipping past the closed curtains and casting across the unvarnished floorboards. His height is mythic, bending his body so his head wouldn't hit the ceiling, and his shoulders are near as broad as my wardrobe. He'd blanket me if I hadn't moved, been able to cover me with himself and feed with the tongue that had been so interested in my flesh. My stomach flips and I shudder, the cold winter air brushing across my damp clothes. The shadows move behind him, slithering around his feet in a circle, and I try to keep my attention on where I could only hope his face was. A silhouette climbs from his head, curving into the shape of ibex horns, and he's dotted with faint red glows.

       "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." There's a teasing tone to his words, playful, and I could imagine the smile on the face that hides in the shadows. An uneasiness washes over me – which face? "You can't be surprised, can you? What do you expect to be lurking in old buildings and tormenting the living?" Something red glistens as it sneaks across the floor towards me, and I catch the unnaturally bright scales of a snake before it disappears into the darkness again. Not a moment later it coils around my ankles, pulling them together, and I grasp at the nightstand behind me. "People like me, of course!"

       He steps forward, a hoofed foot clipping on the wood, and he's uncovered. Eyes the colour of rubies spread across his body, black pupils thin and shaped into crosses. White hair tumbles over his shoulder in a loose braid, framing his jawline and setting off the cool toned tan of his skin. A tongue lolls out of the empty space of his abdomen, edged with sharp teeth that shimmer with saliva. I force myself to focus on his face, detailing everything from the way the edges of his human eyes crease with his smile and how his cheekbones are softer than his other features. His ears stretch into a point, almost as long as his horns, and they're decorated with small hooped earrings. They're golden, warm compared to the rest of him.

       My arms are trembling and I've lost the feeling in my legs, as if I'd fall if I loosened my grip on the table, yet I swallow hard and gather the courage I need to speak. Silence was weakness in the face of unfamiliar and inhuman beings. "You followed me home," I say; it's meek and quiet, but it's a start. "You've been watching me for a while too, I thought I felt a shift in the air." I'd ignored it and in hindsight that'd been stupid of me. Now I know better than to let my guard down anywhere. "You've been moving my books and turning on my music, haven't you?"

       He holds his hands up in an act of defense, but the prideful smirk he wears tells me that he's not denying it. "I can't resist when you have such an interesting playlist." He purses his lips and cocks his head to the side, though the movement is barely noticeable with how slouched his frame is. "I can't say the same for your book collection."

       "What's wrong with my book collection?"

       The snap in my voice falls short to his ears and he dismisses me with a small shrug. "I wouldn't call steamy romances struggling to hide behind a half-baked plot literary genius. That's besides the point," he says. "I'm here to feed, not diversify your reading habits."

       "Why don't you go and feed on some university scholars then, Einstein?"

       He's in front of me, swift and graceful like a predator closing in on it's prey. The side of his index fingers sits under my chin, propping it up so my neck is craning towards him. A dull ache blooms at the base of my head, the position difficult to hold, even as he adjusts himself to my level; out of my peripheral vision I can see how his backwards knees are bent, hovering above the floor, and he'd surely no longer be on his hooves if he were to drop down any more. My tongue runs against my bottom lip, the dry and chapping skin rough against it despite my nightly routine of applying treatment.

       "None are quite as attractive as you." My cheeks heat at his words, flushing down my neck and blossoming across my chest. It tingles through my veins, electrifying me in ticklish sparks. Then it drips to my chin and I can feel it fall onto – no, into – his finger. He hums, my blurring eyes managing to catch the faint reflection of light on his teeth as his mouth falls open. "That's it."

       The praise that engulfs me tears a hole into the cloud nine that he'd placed me on and I realise there's something not right about how I feel as if my feet are no longer on the ground. My back hits the edge of the nightstand and I let go, planting my palms firmly on his well-defined chest. It's smooth, solid, and as warm as any human body would be; it grounds me again, the world that was once spinning slowing to a steady stop. And I shove with the little strength I'm able to conjure up.

       He stumbles, his touch leaving me, and I'm jolted with the weight of my own body. The air is knocked from my lungs and I sink down onto the floor, the snake that was once wrapped around my ankles slithering back behind its master. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I'm breathless, my words coming out in short huffs.

       "Feeding."

       I swallow, forehead creasing, and I parrot his answer back to him. "Feeding?" A beat passes between us as I try to gather myself. "Your idea of feeding is sharing my emotions?"

       "You could say that." There's hesitation to what he says, as if there's semantics at play. "I feed on life force; anything that holds it becomes a source. Blood, emotions and energy are all viable sources, but emotions are easier on those I take it from." It's almost as if he cares about others, but I know better than that.

       There's scenarios running through my head so fast I can't keep up with them, and organising them into something coherent proves hard with him as close to me as he is. Blood, emotions and energy are all regained as easily as they're taken; his definition of life force isn't absolutely and, despite the heady feeling his syphoning washed me with, I can already feel my composure returning to how it was before. He's in my home, taking my life force, and while he's doing that there's not a need for him to do it to those ignorant to his existence. It's better to know and be compliant than unaware and unable to make the choice.

       I nod. "Okay." My eyes find his in the darkness, meeting in an unwavering gaze. "Let's make a deal." The snake's scales shimmer as it slips around his bicep, covering a cluster of his eyes. A part of me wonders whether they're cosmetic, a false warning. "You can stay and take what you need from me on my terms, in the way I say. In return you can't feed from anyone else without permission."

       Silence falls between us as soon as I stop speaking, so I ask, "am I clear?"

       "As the sky is blue!" His answer is melodic and playfully lilting. "Do you want to write up a contract?"

       "Do I need to?"

       "Do you trust me?"

       It's the middle of the night and I'd only slipped out of bed to get a drink of water, and I now find myself booting up my laptop and typing up an airtight contract with whatever spirit had attached himself to me. He leans over me, pointing out loopholes he should be delighted to see, and explaining how the contract needs to be hard for him to circumvent – if I want to be safe, which I clearly do, then I need to make sure there are no ways I could be in danger. He doesn't imply the danger is him, there's no pride to him like there was when he'd admitted to getting my attention.

       I can't expect a malevolent spirit to admit to their own danger, not when they need me for something, but to admit there is a danger at all isn't something I've experienced before. There would be a warning, a guttural get out, and that would usually be my cue to work through it. He speaks in third person, they could do this and they could do that, yet when he speaks about himself it's in first person, trust me and I feed. Perhaps I'm mishearing, it's late and I'm tired, or perhaps he's trying to confuse me on purpose.

It doesn't matter once the contract is signed by us both and I climb into bed, offering him a feed on my energy. He declines, wishing me a good night, and his presence disappears before I drift off. There's a brief moment I stir; I could swear that I feel someone's palm on my cheek and smell the fresh floral scent of a meadow. It's a dream, I tell myself. It has to be.