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vote or i'll cry
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She's jittery.
I watched her drink two cups of coffee at breakfast this morning, her tired black eyes growing brighter and roused with each sip. Now, she's filled with all this energy. I wouldn't be surprised if magic began spontaneously sparking from her fingertips. We're in the library where we're supposed to be researching just how to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, and though there are hardly two or three volumes in here even mildly relevant to it, I would appreciate it if she stayed on task for just ten minutes rather than walking around and touching all of my father's antiques.
"I doubt you'll find anything on Vanishing Cabinets by clumsily prodding my mother's favorite vase," I say with a meticulous voice as I flip a page in the heavy book on my lap. "It's from Vietnam, by the way, and it is very old. Don't break it."
"Please," she scoffs, her finger tracing the design on the side of it, "I'm not clumsy, thank you very much."
"No, not typically, though you do have the tendency of tripping when you're performing the very hard task of walking, and it doesn't help that you have more caffeine than blood running through your veins right now," I retort dryly, sitting up a little straighter when I see something about cabinets in the book I'm reading, but then slumping with a sigh when I realize it's just a theoretical piece on time traveling cabinets.
"Please. I don't even drink that much coffee."
"You had two cups at breakfast, Celeste," I respond impatiently, snapping the book shut and placing it on the table beside my armchair, "and I doubt that thermos you're holding is filled with water."
"Observing me, are you?"
I watch her carefully as she walks around her end of the library. Despite her fingers tapping incessantly against her thighs and her dark eyes flitting rapidly between every antique and book in sight, she walks slowly, purposefully. I ponder for a moment, resting my chin on my fist and frowning gravely at her, how she can move so slow and deliberately when it takes all my effort not to ravage through these books like a madman. I wonder how quick and hard her heart must be beating.
She isn't taking this seriously. She takes nothing seriously.
I'm in the middle of a boiling, fiery sea. My raft is overturned, bobbing in the violent waves a few meters away. The water consumes me, burns my skin without singeing it off my bones, devours my body without even touching it. I feel it destroy my nerves, and yet the destruction never ends, because the sensation never falters. It wants to kill me, and at the same time, it doesn't want to, because it's so much more satisfying watching me struggle to keep my head above its choppy surface.
