07-15-2018, 04:15 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She is cold, in the winter. She is always at least cool to the touch, my corpse masterpiece – but in the summer, sometimes the heat will soak into her skin, and it’s almost like she’s like them. It doesn’t bother her though, the cold – she feels it, but dimly, a prickling on the skin and nothing more. He does not run from her – some do, a flight instinct triggered by the glassiness in her eyes. She’s glad – she has no desire to give chase. Most others are simple creatures, moldable as clay, and her hands are at the ready. His muscles are drawn taut under her cool touch, and she sighs as some of his body heat seeps into her cool – almost cold – skin. She doesn’t need the warmth, but she enjoys it, taking a piece of them so easily. She smiles, lowers her gaze for a moment, as if she is suddenly demure. She isn’t smart, my girl, not really – but there’s a certain animal cunning to her, and maybe that’s worse. “I’ve come,” she says, not quite answering his question, “because I’m lonely, too.” This isn’t quite a lie – she is lonely, as much as things like her feel loneliness. She’s been gone awhile, too long since she’s felt flesh against her, under her, in her. “My name’s Chantale,” she says, “what’s yours?” how original a sin. |