and {I} k n o w [Briar]

I'd do anything to keep my house of cards from breaking down around me piece by piece. Held together be webs spun by tall tales to conceal the liquor and the drugs behind a screen of fables masquerading as reality. I'm supposed to be me magnificent but how can I be when I'm at the bar of some spoiled brat's mansion who I've never even spoken to in my life with a drink in my hand rather than training, resting - how can someone who's magnificent stray so far from the righteous path?

I would've called it a riddle once upon a time. Now it's a riddle, scratching at the back of my mind, eating into every action, forcing over-compensations and promises of regaining my integrity.

But it's forgotten when I spot her cheeks turn bright pink and flush with the color of the autumn sunset, a dying flame.

I'm good at that, making women and girls blush by twisting my tongue and rolling them in hollow compliments that may or may not be true. I suppose I could call myself a charmer, charming my way through their sturdy defenses, worming my way into hearts encased in ice and stone before leaving them broken at unrelenting feet. I need to, it distracts me from the weakening foundations supporting my house of cards held together by tall tales. I'm slowly already beginning to forget the concept of magnificence already.

But then she smiles and it feels like I have neon running through my veins and lucent lights glowing in the corner of my mind. This dance is well known to me, I give a close-lipped smile right back. "Congrats, you're cute," she replies and she takes a sip from her wine. "But you know what I think? I think you'd look better in my bed, if I'm being honest."

I've gone through the motions, played with all the notions - this dance has been a familiar dance to me for a good three years. "How about you tell me something I don't know." I am a beacon of confidence, and it radiates from my flesh. I'm a player in the game and I'm fluent with the dance, with magnificence my ace of spades up my sleeve, nothing ever goes wrong. Keep vulnerabilities hidden, the need to not be sober, the distance between me and the righteous path,

cards on the verge of crumbling around me.

But I can hold the world on my shoulders.

I can see it and smell it, alcohol. On her breath, in her eyes and hear it in her speech. The way red pours down her throat. "Would you like a drink?" She asks and I pause, mulling over the decision. "Or are you already drunk enough?"

No, I've been here for less than an hour and I've already thrown self-control into the wind and started trying to pick up the first girl I see who's face doesn't look like she's run into a brick wall one time too many.

I smile. "Sorry to disappoint, but not quite," I'm quick-thinking on my feet, playing with twisted tongues and charms. "Perhaps you can fix that for me, but then again, I suppose there are things a lot a lot nicer than wine I'd rather have in my mouth right now," I pause before shrugging my shoulders and chuckling, "I guess I'll have to settle for the liquor for now."

Now isn't that a tragedy.

Small trickles of alcohol running through my veins and a white euphoria shining in the back of my mind. I smile, biting back the words woven by longing and lust; I'm only supposed to let it sound in short bursts and streams or the whole thing goes to shit. I'm supposed to be good at this, this has been second nature to me for years; like watching a knife soar into a target or breaking a false skeleton with a hammer.

I'm supposed to be good at this; I am good at this. The way her cheeks burn bright pink with the color of a dying and the way she smiles and giggles instead of recoiling as if I've said something reprehensible like every average run on the mill flirt would say. I'm more than just an average flirt; I was born wearing the mask of magnificence.


"Mmm, for now," she says, the promise dripping from the tip of her tongue. "But I like to know the names of the people I mess around with, mine is Styx."

"Nice name, unique - I like unique," I say before the red wine is sitting in a glass in my hand. "Mine's Atlas," I state and I leave the line there, surnames and bloodlines are insignificant right now. "Well, Styx, let's hope you're unique in more ways than just your name."

I was always good at this.

I resist the urge to twist my face at the bitter backlash of taking a deep sip. Wine's always been strong, not in the way blood is metallic like rusted iron or the way gin burns the back of my throat and leaves me parched. But I've always been good at this, wearing a mask, twisting words, and threading the fabrics of reality to achieve an end. I make it look like the bitter lash is nothing, like it's routine and I'm not just doing this to get myself drunk enough to not care about getting in her-

"Once we're wasted enough, what d'you say we go back to my house?"

Judging by the scent of her breath and glazed look in her eyes she's far past wasted enough and I've been left behind. So I raise the glass to my lips, the movement automatic, and take countless sips until I swear the whole room blurs for a quick instant and the idea of sobriety and self control is nothing but background noise behind her pink cheeks and the neon fluorescence I see when she smiles.

It's slowly hitting me way sooner than I imagined, crawling up my back and phantom tendrils entwining with my hair and wrapping around my throat; I'm supposed to be good at this.

"Only someone's who's blind, deaf and stupid would say no to that idea," I say with a straight smile, ignoring the thought of what my parents would say if they could see me like this. It's a good thing I'm too tipsy to even fucking care and I'm lost in anticipation at the hours to come and the mirrored look of lust in her eye.

Or maybe the liquor's just playing tricks on me.

Liquor forming rivers in my veins and self control a fading static in the back of my mind. Everything but her becomes blurred and lost in the indistinguishable fog when I lift my hand so it's running through her hair, to the back of her skull and bring her lips to mine.

Between the second and fourth glass the whole world blurred into a fog of neon red. But the way she tasted still lingers on my lips, persisting through the red bitterness on my lips and the mix of fake and alcohol induced giggles at every little thing she did. The way her cheeks burn, her grin and wide smiles - fuck this feels so right.

Walking down the streets under the night sky and the sounds of the two of us stepping on concrete. She says we're going to her house but I swear I've been down this road before, I just can't put my finger on it. In truth, I think there's too much alcohol running through my system to even care about caring.

Anyone else would take this as a signal to raise the white flag and put down the bottle, but this is the norm for me. I'm good at this, it's exciting, it's exhilarating, like staring in the face of fluorescence and watching a sturdy house of cards that just won't f-

"And this is where I stay most of the time."

Damn, her house is massive - bigger than mine - but it doesn't matter, bloodlines mean nothing now.

I smile before giggling and looking into her eyes.

"I'm freezing out here."

I can think of at least a hundred other ways I'd be spending passing time with her right now but every single one involves us being inside.

"Think you can warm me up?"