Whiskey On The Tongue
It was like holding the air.
One hand reached out, and in that palm, she felt Buddy, his labored breathing, his scrambling in her sphere. Felt him, but couldn't see.
Violet saw nothing at all.
She only felt it. She reached down with that muscle within, her free hand moving with her. Felt them, so many levels below. She knew that room, walked in it so often during her short life, trailing behind her parents. Knew the people in there too, could almost differentiate the feel of them all against her fingers; their heartbeats and breath buzzing against her palm like a hive of insects.
She could feel them, and she pushed. It wasn't like beating a wall until it gave way, not like before. She gave up every sense she had, of sight, of sound, of herself, and poured all of her power into this sixth, newfound ability.
It felt like floating, like leaving her body and becoming something light, almost ephemeral; liquid and loose, burning sweetly like the taste of amber bourbon swirling in her mouth.
The only solid thing about her was her shields. One encasing a villain, the other trapping heroes like flies in a jar, all of their bright lives buzzing against her container. She held them both and refused to let go-refused to sacrifice one for the other–protected them with all the life within her.
beepbeepbeepBEEPBEEPBEE-
And then Violet's
world
went
white