01-22-2019, 12:47 AM
ryatah
hell is empty and all the devils are here
He says he finds her intriguing, but she doesn’t know why. In her opinion, she has long since passed the point of possibly being interesting. Everything about her was worn smooth; she had no more rough edges, everyone else had already ran their fingers over and through almost every single part of her – across her body, through her mind, and into every corner of her heart. She was used, in almost every sense of the word, having let everyone feed off of her until she was empty. It was her own fault. She never stopped them.
Maybe that was why she would rather be here, than anywhere else. Maybe that’s why when he says the place needs new blood, it makes her skin turn hot, and she wonders if he’ll see the way her eyes flicker with something that almost looks like desire – wondering, hoping, that he’ll actually do it. The closest she has ever felt to being alive, is when he’s been here, stoking that fear that she thrives off of.
It grows lighter, when he asks her of when she died – the first time. ”My daughter killed me,” It is said so simply, as though he had asked her about the weather. She watches, as their surroundings give way to the beach; the smell of salt, mixed with blood and decay. It was so long ago – she had almost forgotten she had gone to the beach because it reminded her of her first home, before here. She had missed the waves, and the sounds of the gulls, but Beqanna’s beach wasn’t like that. It was littered with corpses, and sun-bleached bones scattered across the sands. It’s an illusion – or at least, she thinks it is – but she steps forward anyway, as if she could walk straight into the waves. ”She struck me over the head. I’m not really sure why. I never got the chance to ask her.” It had been sudden – she had hardly had a chance to even utter the name Séduire before she received the deadly blow. It hadn’t stuck – obviously. Death had spit her back out quickly that time, her heart only stopping long enough for the black mare to think she had finished the job, and temporarily wiping her memories.
But she glances back to him, and slowly she steps around to face him again, the waves at her back. ”I’m not afraid of dying, or of being dead, Carnage.” He is toying with her, she thinks, trying to figure out what ignites the spark in her. Trying to figure out his best way to inflict pain. There is something reckless that flashes in her eyes when she steps towards him, when her pale muzzle touches against his neck, and down his shoulder, her words taut when they leave her tongue, ”I’m afraid of being alive, and not feeling anything.”
Maybe that was why she would rather be here, than anywhere else. Maybe that’s why when he says the place needs new blood, it makes her skin turn hot, and she wonders if he’ll see the way her eyes flicker with something that almost looks like desire – wondering, hoping, that he’ll actually do it. The closest she has ever felt to being alive, is when he’s been here, stoking that fear that she thrives off of.
It grows lighter, when he asks her of when she died – the first time. ”My daughter killed me,” It is said so simply, as though he had asked her about the weather. She watches, as their surroundings give way to the beach; the smell of salt, mixed with blood and decay. It was so long ago – she had almost forgotten she had gone to the beach because it reminded her of her first home, before here. She had missed the waves, and the sounds of the gulls, but Beqanna’s beach wasn’t like that. It was littered with corpses, and sun-bleached bones scattered across the sands. It’s an illusion – or at least, she thinks it is – but she steps forward anyway, as if she could walk straight into the waves. ”She struck me over the head. I’m not really sure why. I never got the chance to ask her.” It had been sudden – she had hardly had a chance to even utter the name Séduire before she received the deadly blow. It hadn’t stuck – obviously. Death had spit her back out quickly that time, her heart only stopping long enough for the black mare to think she had finished the job, and temporarily wiping her memories.
But she glances back to him, and slowly she steps around to face him again, the waves at her back. ”I’m not afraid of dying, or of being dead, Carnage.” He is toying with her, she thinks, trying to figure out what ignites the spark in her. Trying to figure out his best way to inflict pain. There is something reckless that flashes in her eyes when she steps towards him, when her pale muzzle touches against his neck, and down his shoulder, her words taut when they leave her tongue, ”I’m afraid of being alive, and not feeling anything.”