"All men die. But first, they live."
- George R.R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire

Adjusting my pad of paper, assorting my papers, I asked her where she wanted to begin. She told me – surprisingly shyly – that she wanted to start with Lolita. That had been the penultimate event, she said. This conversation was recorded, and all written dialogue from here on out is an exact transcript of her words.

"I guess, I mean, I don't…I don't know exactly how to start, but I guess I should start with Lolita, with forbidden love. I read it when I was seventeen," she said," a bookworm, but not as obsessed as I became. I remember how different it was: the whisper of words on the page, the simple eloquence of it. I was envious. I had tried writing, we all have – journals, essays, little short stories – and I knew how hard it was." She smiled bitterly.

"I knew when I was in the presence of a master, and I wanted to be one too. It was, it was like -- was like reading the word of a seraphim." She shakes her head. "I must sound like an idiot, talking about just a book this way." Equilibrium lost, she leans back in her chair. The full habit she is wearing – like a nun – covers her face, but I can tell she is frowning.

"It changed everything, because it opened my eyes to a secret. I have, this, this sense of intuition, right? I've had other people describe it as supernatural. I don't, y'know, sense a bullet coming," she said, chuckling, "but I can tell a lot of things. Like how good a card hand is, if somebody I know is gonna get hurt, that kind of thing. Strange stuff, but nothing you wouldn't find in a dozen books of myth. There's a feeling that comes with it, a tingle deep inside my chest. This time, it was more than a tingle – it was a wave of sensation. Overwhelming," she muttered, "unmanning."

She doesn't talk like a real person, I thought, almost like a character in a novel. It's like dialogue somehow.

"I had never felt anything that strong before, and it wouldn't go away. It's kind of hard to describe. The feeling was like psychic nausea. It lessened when I was reading, though, so I did. I didn't realize yet why I had the feeling, or why reading changed it, though I eventually did. It was when I read It. 'Reaper of a most ruthless sort' is early in the book; it describes the waters of a flood, I think. So, reading that, I realized: there's a power in words. Any writer knows that, of course," she said, "but I'd never really gotten how the interplay of words creates an effect, charismatic and potent. It was a strange realization. I wanted that power. So I consulted my intuition. Without words, it told me: just keep reading. Read, read, read. Of course, I did; I wanted my Hidden Power."
I couldn't keep the question in any longer. "Why? Why did you want that so badly?"

She seems surprised. "I don't…I don't really know."

I don't believe you.

"So I did my research, read all the dark, bitter, pretty novels I could: Dracula, It, The Shining, anything! Anything that had words with that effect that I wanted so badly. I felt in my intuition, my finger on that eldritch current, for something, anything – a sign. Over years, with practice, it became easier: there were certain words, certain ways of writing, that could create charisma. Fascinated, I worked even harder to figure out how to translate this into words. My writing improved. My speech improved. It became easier and easier to make friends, to convince people, anything with communication. And I just kept getting better and better. It seemed like I could do anything." She stops.

"Something wrong? Or is that all for today?" I am curious. It doesn't feel like the end. She stands.

"No. No, it's not. I'm no- I'm not ready to talk about the first time I used it, but I can tell you my first secret. Better yet: I can show you."

"What do you me—" She pulls back the hood of her habit. Her face was smooth and pale, lovely and young – but her hair was black, streaked with striations of white as bright as comets in deep space. Her eyes, yellow, stared at me with a furious fire that bitterly contrasted the sorrow on her face.

"My name is Sibilant. I named myself for sound. For speech."

"Wha-"

"I look this way because of what happened when I saved myself. I kept getting better and better, like I said – and eventually, I couldn't deny it any more. It was supernatural. I was terrified and thrilled at the same time; I could finally save people, finally do something with my life," she frowns, gesturing forcefully, "and I was scared, because I could feel something changing inside me. I went to the only person I knew who might know something about it: my father. We had never been close: he'd never really liked me since I told him I didn't like science, but he was studying psychics in controlled conditions. He was trying to prove that they didn't exist. I didn't know who else to go to, you see?" She sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

"We can stop if you – "

"No! I need to-" Her voice catches. "I need to finish this. I went to him to find out what I should do. Instead of helping me, his daughter, he recruited me into his experiments, theorizing that I was a 'telepath,' that I knew how to manipulate people because I knew what they were thinking. A good theory, I suppose, for his mindset. At least he didn't try to deny it." She starts to cry.

"He tested me and tested me and tested me. No sleep, no reading; my psychic nausea was driving me insane. I could feel the changes speeding up. I was panicked. White and gray were appearing in my hair. My eyes were flickering." She wipes away tears.

"They used to be blue, did I mention that?" I shake my head.

"I was so scared. I guess I – no, I did. When the guard came to my door to escort me to a testing room, I killed him. I talked to him, convinced him; I took the gun from him, shot him, ran. I was so scared, don't you understand that?"

No. And I don't think I ever will.

"I got out…but not before I ran into my father. He was smiling. Smiling! He was watching me change into something else and smiling about it. Smiling, damn it!" Angry, focused, tears drying on her cheeks, she shouts.

"And with his damned device, as well. He called it a 'drainer,' maybe? A 'psychic energy drainer?' Something like that. If that's not what it was called, it's what it did. He trained it on me – and I could feel my intuition draining away. It was like a shout, then speech, then a whisper, then only the echo of a whisper – than it was gone. I didn't care, then; I was running past him, hoping I could get away. I didn't realize what that meant - that I didn't know how to understand my power any more. I didn't have my intuition." She pauses.

"It got out of control. I couldn't help using it. I had to be careful with what I said, because people would do it, and with no regard to their own safety, only my convenience. It was terrifying. I could do so much evil with it – or so much good." We're both silent - but it's a good silence. Almost intimate. Her eyes say "Tomorrow?" I nod.

"Thank you," Sibilant says, walking out my door.