I look at Gideon’s soft-looking neck, the artery just under the skin, pumping. “Are you okay?” he asks. And then I move quickly. I bite, and he struggles for a moment, but I pin down his arms like he is a bird, and stand on his shoes like I am a child dancing on her father’s feet. I drink, and, as I do, I see and feel things—his life: his birth, and then years at school, sitting quietly at the back of a room of boys behind desks; studying; grieving for his mother, then his father; then becoming a father himself—a sweet little girl with plump cheeks and dark hair; and, then, later, women—women he looks at like he’s going to consume them; carrying a young woman into the shadowy part of a huge garden somewhere, laying her down on the grass under a tree and looking greedily down on her body; pinning her arms to her sides, pushing her back into the grass; and then, much later, in the gallery, seeing Shakti; watching her walking down the corridors; talking to her, looking at pieces of her artwork on her phone; then in the dark, finding her arm, and then her breast; watching her neck, like he might bite; finding her lips with his lips and, as she tries to pull away, seeking them out again, pressing against them harder. And then, a couple of months later, seeing me. I’m outside the Otter, and he is watching me from a window, talking to me on the phone, rebuking me for calling myself a girl and not a woman. Then I’m on the stairs. I’m coming down them. The box of hangers is covering my face. All he can see are my legs, my feet carefully treading, feeling for the edge of each step. I look so small. And, then, just as I reach him, it’s as though his memories become my own and his hand becomes my hand, and I’m reaching forward, trying to take what isn’t mine—or what is, now, I suppose mine. I reach forward and feel my back, feel it react to my touch, and then I move my hand down to my bum, and I grab it like I’m plucking an apple from a tree, and then watch as I climb down the rest of the stairs. It doesn’t stop after that—soon after, I’m at the opening, and I’m watching me again, watching me undress, seeing the side of my breast as I swap my gallery T-shirt for my shirt; picking up the T-shirt when I’m gone and smelling it, inhaling my scent, lowering my hand and touching myself; and then I’m here, locking up, then I’m approaching me, excited at the prospect of being in this dark, quiet space, at nighttime, alone with me. And, then, right at the end of it all, I feel fear, intense fear—Gideon’s fear of me, of being confronted by a monster—and I drop him, his body that I have emptied and possessed and taken away from him in its entirety.