Ghost Pains

[shosen]

The fire crackles happily as I turn the fish meat carefully, watching to make certain it doesn't burn.  It's not much, just a Smallfish, but while I won't eat it raw (the way my kitten prefers), I also won't eat it burnt.

But I will eat it.  I'm still not wholly resolved to that.  I tried, for a while, to continue as I have.  I even avoided the meat dishes at Nenuial's dinner party.  It's been complicated, however, by two things: my favourite food is Nightfin Soup, and I finally see what I was doing, why.

 

I never had Undel's motivation.  It was never about not wanting to eat another being, or worrying about fish schools or anything like that.  It wasn't even about heath, not for me.

It was about control.  Most things are, when I really stop to look at them.  I've had enough though.  I need to stop.

So I'm cooking the Smallfish, and the smell of smoke and roasting meat are floating in the air, thick as perfume.  I can taste the fish already, just from its scent and I know I won't need spices or a fancier cooking method to enjoy it.

I can feel the fire on my skin, hot where it's already started flushing red.  I'm used to being cold now, to feeling even the slightest draft like a brush across any part laid bare.  The fire is a nice change, though I image the other will be welcome soon enough.

The fish is done, and I pull it back from the flames, sitting down and stretching my legs out in front of me, feeling the pull and burn.  I've been running a lot lately.  The horse I'd been renting from the Brill stables went back on its own, after.  Like the bankers (not to mention the inn keeper and the flight masters), the stable master refused to believe I am who I say.  Really, though, I don't mind the running.  I like the feeling, the way my arms and legs move without hitch or hesitation, the way my heart pounds faster and my breath begins to catch, to turn against me with slight pain.  I pay for it when I'm done, of course, in these stationary moments, but I'll bear that burden willingly.  It's better than not being able to feel it at all.

The kitten is standing, paws resting on my knees as she tries to snitch a piece of the fish.  I move it out of the way, and her little claws dig into my skin like daggers.  I bite my lip as I reach down to move her away.  Sometimes, letting myself feel it all isn't exactly enjoyable.

I'm trying to find it, the balance I once had.  That mid-point between feeling everything and feeling nothing.  It's elusive, however.  That part of me that wakes screaming from nightmares of dead skin and ill fitting form wants to lock it all down again, hide away.  It can't be real, something will take it from me again, so there's no point in getting used to it.  The rest of me just can't grasp that.  This is me, mine, no one can take it from me, that's ridiculous.

In the end, the conflict steals whatever sleep I might have had remaining.  After that, the lack of it dampens everything down anyway, and so it resolves itself until another night.  Not exactly a desired method, but effective enough, I suppose.

I stare at the fish, knowing that I can't leave it long enough to cool, and then take a deep breath before a small bite.  It tastes better than it smelt, flavour tinged by woodsmoke and flame.  I almost choke on it.   I chew slowly, willing my throat to relax, my stomach to calm, and I soothe myself with the thought that this is control.  Granting myself the ability to change, to make a choice, this is control.  It is a long meal, that one little Smallfish; I decide not to attempt another.