II. An Interview With Autumn Breeze

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There are two things that bother me as the servant slides the obnoxiously large, immaculately carved, mahogany double doors open

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There are two things that bother me as the servant slides the obnoxiously large, immaculately carved, mahogany double doors open.

It's not the fact that it's impossibly dark down here, as though even light is afraid of what lays beyond these mammoth-sized doors. And neither is it the fact that every eye in the building has been watching me hungrily, as I sauntered through the winding, twisted halls of this ancient, falling-apart monstrosity.

I'd like to claim that it was somehow flattering, being able to capture the attention of those who belonged to a society obsessed with trivial things, like money and fame, so easily. But the truth was, their eyes are ravenous, wicked, and devouring. And the tension, it's so thick, it feels as though a pack of wolves are moving in on their kill and time itself stands still to bare witness.


What bothers me most is the heat.

It's drier than a bitch in a dry spell down here. And the temperature does nothing but disperse the courage I'm trying to work up mentally. All I can focus on is the humidity, and the fact that my hair is frizzier than a show poodle.

I'm telling myself, shit! What's the worst that could happen?

But I'm honestly afraid to let myself dwell on all the ways I could be seriously fucked over by the world.

Because, fuck! There's a lot that could happen. After all, the second thing that bothers me most is the fact that I have willingly -- voluntarily -- offered myself up to deepest, darkest depths of Hell.

And for what, you may be wondering dear reader?

Well, that's simple.

An interview with Wattpad Star and Best-selling LGBT author, and advocate, Autumn Breeze.

The door opens.

. . . It gets stuck.

There's an awkward silence, and a pointed, throat clearing on the other side.

I stare at the servant. He stares back, blankly.

"I didn't come here to do exercise," I feel the urge to tell him when he makes no further movement towards the door. "Like, do you mind, or nah?"

His eyes tell me he does mind, indeed.

But he grits his teeth and pushes the door open, narrowing his eyes as he does.

It slams against the wall with a resounding thwack! that jostles my eardrum, and I can't help the wince that shudders down my spine even as I remind myself that I will not show an ounce of weakness. Not here, of all places. Not when I'm trying to make a good first impression.

The servant turns on his heels, muttering lowly beneath his breath, "the more flesh to devour from your bones, foolish human."

I am a true master of denial. And thus, I deny ever having heard a word fall from his thin, sneering lips. The onyx tiles signal my approach as I step through the threshold, lost in the dip of the high, arched ceiling stretching overhead, depicting images of shadow-kissed angels forever falling. They follow me as I clutch my notepad and voice recorder closer to my chest, and trudge onwards, squaring my shoulders with more bravado than I truly feel.

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