“Do you want me to feed that to her?” I ask.
“No. You drink it, then feed her. That’s the best way because your body will metabolize it better and she will have fewer reactions.”
“What will it do?”
Paul smiles. “Save her, of course. It’s going to save her and—” And then he stutters or… hesitates. Like he almost said too much. And I know—I know—this is the important part. That I should make him say it. That I should refuse to drink whatever’s in that vial until he does. That I should seek the truth.
But I’m tired and even though the thing that loves me most in this world is a mere ten feet away and he’s offering me his version of salvation, I feel forsaken.
So I see the logic in the poetry. It makes all kinds of sense because it’s a way to pretty up the evil.
Paul stands up, walks over to me, and offers me the vial.
I take it and then he turns away, heading towards the door. “Hey, wait,” I say. “Where are you going?”
He doesn’t turn and look at me, just throws a side-eye over his shoulder. “I’ve got things to do, Ryet. We’re on schedule now so don’t procrastinate with that blood. Drink it, feed her, and then we’ll talk.”
He walks out.
