love is the red the rose on your coffin door, what's life like bleeding on the floor?
Where my mother's were merciless, cold in places that should radiate warmth and love and a passion all to it's own, I am merciful. I dig the graves for those lost, forgotten bones and place stems of wildflowers atop each, silently wishing them well. Perhaps part of me was fantastical, to believe that where they would go would be far better than here. It is sweet, bitterly so, how life can be taken with a seductive kiss and a deathly blow. All their memories, flooding the ground with their crimson life. That thought alone is enough to send shivers across my ebony frame. Would their souls cling to me, thinking me some form of a saviour, against the beasts that lurk within the shadows?
Being around the tang of scarlet, has made me quite immune. The scent of death and decay is like rose petals to me, and yet, yet I long to feel the sun warm my cold, cold bones. Where the shadows kiss my skin, I long to feel a shiver of light stroke me with it's delicate fingers. Ah, but I was not born of grace and light or roses and wildflowers. I was born from sin and magic, dark and seductive and rot and decay. The thought is enough to potentially drive those off of cliff faces. Well, from what I have seen. Indeed.
But I do not. Instead, I walk away from the kingdom of blood and of bone. I'd covered my tracks and the entrance with the remnants of autumn's large leaves and large branches. Forgotten for now, until later. My steps are small yet purposeful as I go, and it is then as I breach the tree-line, I detect the twang in the air. Of life, of crimson. Silver eyes, like the moon's many mysteries, scan the meadow. Many lingered in groups in the vast expanse, some idled beneath the trees, whilst others parade with egos the width of the skies, never-ending. Ah, but then there is he, the one that scarlet touches with it's cruel caress. watch him for some time before deciding to approach. He is another, a breathing one, and yet, he seems as broken as those bodies that line up beyond the trees.
'Did it hurt?' I say, breaking the silence with a haunting whisper. Eyes surveying him, noticing the wounds, gaping holes were something used to be. Perhaps pride, perhaps purpose. but now, now he seemed to sprawl against the backdrop with very little, and it is that observation that touches my mind, and claws at the throes of my insides. 'It always hurts, though. Doesn't it?' Whether it be mental harm of bodily infliction, it hurt, it hurt right down to the wick of your soul. And burnt, oh, it burnt. The deadened eyes that stared right through, the lick of a bloodied tongue and the harsh snap of sharpened teeth.
'I'm Vaermina.' Because, in all of this broken up world of sin and of trouble, there is always someone worse than you, always someone just like you. Perhaps it is them, those that I desire to find, to see. To not feel like the outcasted one, the one living on the edge of society, like a glimmer of the mysterious moon, but fading into the cold, winter's night. 'Who are you?' he could be anyone in the world, anything he wanted and yet he is here, bleeding and broken and purposeless.
v a e r m i n a
chantale x nykeln