She watches with a placid face, nearly sleepy. There is the faintest of smiles that touch the corner of her delicate mouth, her pretty brown eyes deceivingly apathetic as he devours the flowers. She hums just slightly when she notices the effects start to take place, when his pule contract, when his breath turns to wheezing, when he begins to stumble. “Wait,” she answers on an exhale, barely making noise at all as she continues to watch the poison begin to whip through him, lacing through his very bloodstream.
So this is what she had asked for.
It was fascinating to watch it take hold of him. Fascinating to see it take the boy to his knees—and were she not fond of him already in that toxic way of hers, perhaps she would wish it take him further. As it were, she does not wish death upon him. Just the blessed awe of watching his body tremble and jerk, his legs giving out. She watches him convulse with a studious, detached air that gives away none of the pleasure that ripples through her—the excitement that clutches at her very throat with possibility.
Finally, when she feels as though she has seen enough, she walks closer to him, pushing through the grass with her slender body. She reaches down, keeping herself material this time, and presses the rose petals of her lips to his forehead—letting them linger there against the dust that has accumulated there.
“Thank you,” she breathes, sincere for once. “That will be enough for now.”
What she does not say is that it will never be enough. That she is content with just this sampling because it is a faux version of what she truly lusts for. The next time that he stares at Death, it will not be because of the poison she has found and dug up for him. It will be because of what she herself has wrought.
but in all chaos, there is calculation