astarte

She watches him where he stands. He is stone and he is cold. He wonders what he would be like to touch – cold? Rough? He has an eye as listless as her heart. As she stares she feels them die together a scarred heart and a scarred eye. Tissues that turn grey and withered as the time tick, tick, ticks its way into oblivion.

Had she thought of evil? Yes.

Had she taken the demigod son of the God of Darkness as a lover? Yes.

Was she the cliché girl with a lust for dangerous men? No.

Did she love her son of Darkness? No.

Rather, this girl - this beautiful creature of bone white skin and long dirt ridden limbs – is little more than a husk. Her insides yawn like the black maw of oblivion. Like a black star it eats her from the inside. Immortality is like a parasite to her. It leaves sewage in its wake. It poisoned her heart too long ago and now her lips are acid and her tongue is poison.

She settles her chocolate eyes, the windows to that hideous black within her, upon him and she feels a kinship. She feels as blank as his one eyed stare. She is the ghost in the crowd, a beautiful wraith twisted and jaded and unseen weathered away like rock over time.

She is in front of him, and it is unclear to anyone when she moved. Silent limbed, light limbed; unremarkable. Her skull tilts and the blackness breathes but at least she can watch through her blank eyes. Lashes flutter closed upon her cheek like a feather fluttering to the floor, but snap open like a valve.

See me. She murmurs. It is a request, a demand and curiosity all rolled into two silken words that tumble from her tongue like gravel upon the earth.