"You hate me."

He almost delights in saying it.

Cardan falls back against his bed, staring at his ceiling in a drunken haze. He can't lie; and yet, he can still never be honest. Only when there's liquor on his tongue can he say what he means without twisting his words into a false-truth.

"You hate me," he repeats. "You think yourself a liar, but you're an open book."

He knows hatred when he sees it. It's familiar. It holds him in its arms at night; keeping him from cold.