Jealousy - Elis

Araselis has read a lot in their thousands of years being alive. They were there when Homer wrote his epics, when Shakespeare crafted masterpiece after masterpiece. They’ve read about love, betrayal, jealousy…

They never really knew how it felt, though.

They are bloodshed and violence. The proof of it is marked on the side of their face, shown in the claw marks dragging a line down the bottom half of their cheek and along the curve their jaw. They are fire and fury, they have no place in civilized society.

They want it, though. They want it so very badly.

As much as they know about mortal concepts of affection, the finer details sometimes escape them. They watch others to learn, but ache too badly to continue their studies for very long.

What they do know is violence. That is one thing they never had to study; it is engrained into their very being so much as they might loathe it.

So they watch, sipping what that cambion friend of yours calls a frappe. It’s sweet and tastes like chocolate coffee, which soothes the bitter edge. They enjoy it.

What they don’t enjoy is watching the man standing next to you at counter. The campus coffee shop is small, and Elis can see the whole thing. See the way the man grips your wrist, see the way your frame tenses for retaliation.

Elis knows all kinds of violence well, including this kind with all its subtle intricacies.

So they stand, drawing closer. They can hear the whispers, the hushed grating voice of the man making their ears twitch. You say nothing, only watching him with rage in your eyes. They’re proud of your fire.

You needn’t do anything, however. The coffee shop is empty, the barista in the back brewing another pot. Elis slide up to the man’s other side without a sound, relishing the way he startles upon noticing them.

He had held onto you tight. You’ll likely bruise.

Grabbing the man by the jaw, Elis forces him to look them in the eyes. The bloody red of their gaze is unsettling, and they see the sweat breaking out along the man’s brow.

Elis doesn’t say a word. Nothing changes in those few seconds aside from this one man’s mind. Horrors and war and fighting and bloodshed; he sees it all. Elis projects every bit of it into his head, and they happily watch the scum break under their grasp.

Elis might loathe it, but they know violence better than anyone else. Certainly, it’s one game where they’re consistently the victor.

The man stumbles away; shaking, gasping, crying, he lurches toward the exit. You watch him go, stunned, before turning to face them.

“Why?” You ask.

“It’ll wear off.” Elis shrugs, not looking you in the eyes.

They see your lips purse in their peripheral, “That wasn’t my question.”

“You don’t deserve that.” Their glance cuts down to your wrist, where red marks remain from the man’s grasp.

They know violence, and they know they never want you to experience it. Not like they have.

Your hand twitches, coming to rest gently on their arm. They stiffen, startled; brutal actions don’t typically beget softness in return, they’ve come to learn.

They finally face you. They never understood, when reading Homer, why Penelope waited decades for Odysseus to return. Looking into your eyes, they think they might finally get it.