the lord will smite thee with madness; arithmetic

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. They say time is a flat circle. If it’s true, she’s in the center, and she’s laughing. It doesn’t touch her, time, not in the ways it should (the ways it should - she should be dead, god, what I’d give to have her rotting in the ground). Time slides over her, like raindrops on an oilslick. Untouched and untouchable, my corpse queen. Sometimes she looks dead – a glassiness to the eyes, see, and a sluggishness of the gait. She lacks grace – always has – and yes, sometimes she moves like she’s climbed out of a grave. (And her smile, oh - like a dead thing, a rictus on those wretched lips, yet girls and boys alike fall for – fall to – it.) But looks and are are not the same, no – Chantale, she persists. She is an erratic thing, my corpse masterpiece, she slumbers and rises again like some great old god (though she is nowhere near so formidable, even in all her maddening glory). She does not know what happened, not really, only that Beqanna shook and stumbled and cried out. She slept though most of it, she doesn’t remember it, not really – a hazy idea of a figure or two, a taste of blood, the snap of a wing. But now she wakes – she rises – and she moves in the meadow, gait lurching but eyes fever-bright, the madness awake and well within her. She eyes them with her own animal cunning, an intelligence that does not befit her to discuss philosophy, but something baser. She’s awful to look at, in a way, an endless array of perfection, curving and smooth. There is no imperfection to mar her beauty, to enhance it, what’s left is an assault of curvature and her strange, smooth (dead) skin. She sees him, hones into him. There is no rhyme or reason for her sudden focus, he is not special, he’s not her type. (Her type - a desert queen. A girl with blood on her mouth. These women, she loved, or almost loved, or would have loved, if dead, mad things could love.) But. She is bored, too long idle, and he is there. She sidles up to him, bold, making no attempts for grace. “Hello,” she purrs, “you look lonely.” chantale how original a sin.

@[Arithmetic]