( he lunges out at the young girl, stretches out his arm to her in order to stop her in her path. she twists her body around, startled by his outstretched hand. his next capture within reach -- a young, fresh-faced indian-american college student. she fits exactly who he seeks; prince wants no more than those in pursuit of a system that is failing them.
she steps back, “may i help you?”
“i’m guessing your interview didn’t go well.”
as he replies to her, prince appears pleased about the success of his confrontation; there’s a half-smile starting little fires around the corners of his mouth and eyes, and the tension of his body’s joints start to loosen, and just as that moment he hands the girl with the spidery frame a decorated flyer with chunks of information on it. he watches as her hand makes contact with the paper, curious -- his favorite sight, curiousness -- and glancing over the words. she can see herself in my movement already.
the second her hand touches the paper, he recognizes her interest. she does not need to ask questions. why should she, as she flips through it and skims? her energy shifts, shifts away from cautiousness to intrigue, and soon she’s in the thick of it -- wonder, that is. “so you’re a reformer, then.” )
his grin had been so wide, she had never forgotten it.
the eyes in the back of her head send false alarms that he is watching. she can still hear him, clear as day, above the din of the prisoners conversing with one another, slamming their trays, their shouts and laughter drowned out by the voice in her head. surely, he must be there. it would be hard to miss with prince: a strong, distinct presence of a person that’s impossible to ignore, less with outright charisma but with enough care in his words you can feel it sinking into your skin, a layer of warmth, a suit of armor that he uses to command those who follow. she knows he is not, but he remains all the same. prince’s phantom turns her mind away to the stack of books in her cell that stain her hands with dust, books who’s pages fail to sweep her away, despite the inner contents inside. she has to will herself to read, in order to distract herself from the ghost of past years in the abandoned compound she had dedicated herself to. willing herself to read and forcing herself to observe every word with copious amounts of attentiveness, which with luck take her away from california sun, the rustle of trees, grass caresses, brown earth, sweat, and the rare luck of prince’s driftwood smell transferred by embrace.
but he does not let up tonight. she’s tried reading already. it’s as if darshana can feel him looking at her as she watches the flicks of light on her darkened ceiling, darting her eyes to follow the balls flying to and fro -- another hallucination, though this one more frequent. he wants to capture her attention. she’s accustomed to the feeling by now, accepted her psychosis. she no longer marvels at this feeling as she once did, anxiously trying to describe it to her psychologist. prince’s grin will forever be imprinted in her mind, and his arms will always be clasped around her. no matter how much she screams, wriggles, attempts to elbow her way out. a reformer with a creased face had captured her that day, in that split second that she had froze up, staring at a pamphlet. his apparition grins at her.
the woman below her stirs.
