Painting It Red (The Oracle Series - Book One)

Chapter 9: Guardian or Tormentor?

-Nora-

    Doing my very best to stay upright, I enter the kitchen seeking a distraction. One glance at Pablo and I know I've found one. Laughter bubbles up from within, and bursts out uncontrollably at the sight of this poor clueless man.

    Watery soap suds are slowly forming persistently dripping trails down from the sink, and Pablo sits on the tiled floor in the middle of the resulting puddle. Suds cling to his now mussed-up hair, and a smudge of pizza sauce marks his nose. One of his hands is encased in a large yellow rubber glove, while the other is completely bare.

    Hastily, I step over Pablo and his puddle and lunge for the knob, shutting off the tap swiftly and allowing the overflowing basin to finally drain.  Grabbing a nearby dish towel, I mop up most of the puddle and plop down next to my inebriated host, joining him on the floor.

"What's up, buddy? You seem... out of sarts. No. Out of sorts." Still fairly drunk myself, I laugh airily at my blunder.

"I am fine, amiga, just missing a dear friend."

"Invite them over! We can make more pizzas!" My eyes widen with childlike excitement at the thought.

"I cannot. But that is a story for another time." He seems to snap out of his temporary fog, and finally turns to meet my gaze. "I see you have found your guardian. Bit of a double edged sword though, really."

"My.. my what?"

    He crinkles his thick brows in a show of confusion that matches my own, before apparently coming to some sort of conclusion.

"I apologize mi amiga, I am getting ahead of myself. Surely you will learn soon. Our expert visitor from the supernatural division will be arriving tomorrow, yes?"

    Pablo tucks me in, after insisting I spend the night on his couch bed. He made a convincing argument, citing that none of us have any reasonable excuse to drive anywhere in our current state. I mumble my thanks, or try to, before falling into a deep, heavy slumber.

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Something is wrong. My swirling shimmering sands are flickering, their colors shifting as though in a state of confusion. My child-like ally with the mystifying purple eyes once told me to tame the sands. I am trying, for the first time, to command them without his interference.

It seems I may be failing.

Letting out a groan of frustration, I narrow my concentration, studying each passing grain and willing it to hold the brilliant glowing white hue that I so desperately desire. Pouring every ounce of my power and strength of will into the vexing mists, they finally achieve the ethereal appearance I need. It holds momentarily for a fleeting, awe-inspiring second, before fading to a slightly muted variant, somewhat off-white in tone.

"This will just have to do, I guess..."
Whispering softly, hoping and praying that I can accomplish the task I've set for myself, I close my eyes and raise my outstretched arms--grasping for the familiar hold of coiling sentient tendrils.

After a moment of hesitation, they bend to my will. I feel an electrifying tingle running up the length of my arms. The sensation is different than I remember, but I pay that no mind. My concentration was far purer last time, with the aid of my strange and omnipotent friend.

In the most resolute and commanding voice I can muster, I call to the sands as they pull me into their conscious depths once more.