The Siren's Scion
And guilt, fed by alcohol, was a dangerous, beautiful thing.
I didn't need to speak. I just had to be a reminder of his worst memories. I settled near him, a silent ghost at his shoulder, and I reached into his mind, slick and invisible as oil.
I pushed.
He flinched in his chair, his knuckles whitening around his glass. He took a large, burning swallow, as if trying to wash the memory down.
I pushed harder. I gave him the sound. The sickening, composite thud-crack of my body hitting the glass table. I made sure he knew, in that moment, which part of the sound was the furniture and which was the breaking of my bones, my skin.