Hermes | Book 1

: 11 :

The  Light was in debt; the darkness was a more comforting presence than he thought she was.

Chapter 11

ASTA'S KNUCKLES  where white in stark contrast to the shiny black of the steering wheel.

When the light moved, her eyes looked like bottled smoke in the rear view mirror; toxic, suffocating and trying its hardest to escape its cage. Her pale skin looked paper white and her lips swelled a bright, painful red from the constant, harsh grazing of her teeth over its sensitive surface.

She kept breathing in, and forgetting to let it out and then finally when her fingers on the steering begins to tremble she lets it all out in a breathless whoosh.

Then she would take another breath in and in perfect sync, her fingers would tighten around the supple leather of the steering.

Hermes was torn between fearing for the steering wheel (admittedly, he was a car fanatic and his heart sang in tone deaf agony every time her fingers clamped over the beautiful leather and suffocated it) and Asta (purely for his own interests; she was his way home and his only food supplier).

He looked at the rear view mirror then he looked at Asta, then he looked at the rear view mirror and then, he looked at Asta; it was like an endless tennis match, a torture fit for hell.

Asta was obviously unsettled about something, but it wasn't like Hermes could ask her outright what was wrong.

If she was any other girl he could've- would've- asked what was wrong, but when it came to Asta, Hermes could only expect jeers or sarcastic comebacks; a civilised answer did not even dare to touch his imagination.

He never really liked being inferior to anyone, being a God only swells that feeling into an incredibly large size. Now that he was human and any body could treat him like dirt and not be scared of his wrath, Hermes was more guarded and his wild words where held in tight leash.

It was a restricting feeling, like a choker latched tightly around his throat, but oddly he didn't seem to mind it as much as he should've.

Hermes felt mystified and slightly terrified of himself. Then he gave a quiet chuckle. Look at him, turning into a male Asta by seconds; it was almost surreal .

Green, green grass; tall and wild.

An ancient lawnmower, scavenged from some dump in the south corner of the gate, home to monstrous red ants. A peculiarly clear memory; it clung to skin with its pincers if you go near it. It hurts.

Cold, cold air; harsh, painful, freeing.

Blackness (darkness?).

Sickening height. It was a cheaply painted ledge on the terrace. Slippery.

Rain pouring down in a deafening cataract. They felt like needles but slowly the weight became muted. It felt good.

The ledge was flooding with fast moving water. No matter; the friction between skin and peeling paint was strong.

In the distance there was a figure. A man? No, no, a statue.

A statute of a man.

No, a statue of a god; a tiny statue but one nonetheless.

He hated it.

As if somebody had pressed the un-mute button, reality slammed into his senses like a brick wall.

His ears rang; the faint rub-dub of the engine seemed amplified and played into his ears through a thousand invisible stereos, all set to full volume and the previously pleasurable smell of musty leather and dust forced up his nose and made him gag.