This is when it hits me that I’m not all here.
I cannot think straight.
Oh! That bearskin rug lives in the library!
Focus, Paul!
Something is not right.
Something is really,reallywrong with me.
I wake up in the dirt. The heaviness is… absent. The sense of suffocation… gone. The idea of wearing a bearskin rug as a coat and sitting on the Iron Throne… ridiculous.
I really need to stop watching TV. It rots the mind, it truly does.
And then I am laughing. Dirt falls into my mouth, and it tastes like brownies. Which only makes me laugh harder and then it’s filling up my throat and I’m clawing my way out of the ground and sitting on the hillside, looking at a full moon, and I’m pretty sure I’m a werewolf now.
I laugh again, hysterically, and I think… I think I’m stoned.
The next time I wake up, Ryet and Syrsee and I are in bed drinking and fucking as it should be. “Thank God,” I say. Then I panic, because I don’t thank God for anything. Ever. I believe in the idea of God, of course, but we don’t have much of a relationship at the moment.
So I know it’s not real.
None of this is real.
I’m fantasizing about becoming Jon Snow and wearing his amazing fur coat—which is so much better than a bearskin rug, there’s just no comparison.
I’m not stoned out of my mind.
I’m just… insane.
Ryet stops his drinking of Syrsee and turns his head, blood dripping out of his mouth, eyes red as scarlet. “What did you say?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. You said you’re insane.”
“Nope. I didn’t. Never said that.”
Ryet laughs. Then Syrsee is stirring. “Keep drinking,” she moans. “Take more.”
I let out a long breath, tired of the confusion. “Ryet,” I say, and I use my stern Paul voice. “What is happening?”
“Come here,” Ryet says. His voice is soothing and calm. He hand is reaching between my legs. “Come on, just come back to us. I’ll take care of you, Paul.” And then he’s fisting my cock and?—
I sit up. Straight up. Which takes a huge amount of effort because it displaces a lot of dirt.
Then I just stare into the darkness. Lowercase, not proper noun Darkness.
What is real?
Is this real?
Has anything ever been real?
I don’t move. Don’t turn my head. Just let my eyes look around a little. Then I listen. I hear the beating hearts of scions in the ground, and the voices of scions above—the ones who didn’t partake in the ritual. They are looking for us. They have found the fresh dirt. They are thinking about digging us up because they want blood.
Josep says, “Don’t go up there.” His voice is calm, and low, and deep as it always is.
