09-12-2020, 11:11 PM
i think i'm better on my own but i get so lost in you
She watches him from a place hidden, shrouded in shadow, and artfully placed away from the fading light of afternoon sun. There is a cruelty blossoming in her chest, a sickness whose roots dig into her heart and spread around her ribcage. She recognizes him easily enough, he being just one of the many images she had plucked from her mother’s subconscious when she was younger and perfecting her craft. Ryatah had been the best and the worst victim – frustrating for an amateur, trying to rifle through her ever-changing and fickle heart, but once Desire got out into the real world, truly, hardly anyone else compared. They were easy compared to her mother.
She doesn’t know why the sight of him ignites something that could only be described as jealousy. She does not know if she is jealous of her mother, jealous that her heart breaks apart to love anyone when Desire’s can hardly love one, jealous that men still come back to her even though there was nothing redeemable about her.
Whatever it is, when she steps from the shadows, she has already erected her illusion. A pair of gold-tipped angel wings are held close to a delicate, porcelain-colored frame, and an amber halo rests above her fine head. The eyes are similar to her natural eyes, but softer – still impossibly dark, but not the endless black that hers were. In the shadows, there is the ethereal glow that Desire had never found fitting, but was necessary to complete the image.
“Ashhal?” She asks in a voice that she hopes is similar to her mother’s, though it is warped and almost too sweet. Her face is fixed into a look of concern as she steps lightly through the snow, not quite coming alongside him but stopping close enough. He turns to glare at her, and she does her best to feign a look of mild surprise and a bruised kind of hurt, angling her face down as she says softly, “Sorry if I interrupted you.”
She doesn’t know why the sight of him ignites something that could only be described as jealousy. She does not know if she is jealous of her mother, jealous that her heart breaks apart to love anyone when Desire’s can hardly love one, jealous that men still come back to her even though there was nothing redeemable about her.
Whatever it is, when she steps from the shadows, she has already erected her illusion. A pair of gold-tipped angel wings are held close to a delicate, porcelain-colored frame, and an amber halo rests above her fine head. The eyes are similar to her natural eyes, but softer – still impossibly dark, but not the endless black that hers were. In the shadows, there is the ethereal glow that Desire had never found fitting, but was necessary to complete the image.
“Ashhal?” She asks in a voice that she hopes is similar to her mother’s, though it is warped and almost too sweet. Her face is fixed into a look of concern as she steps lightly through the snow, not quite coming alongside him but stopping close enough. He turns to glare at her, and she does her best to feign a look of mild surprise and a bruised kind of hurt, angling her face down as she says softly, “Sorry if I interrupted you.”
i think i'm better on my own but i'm so obsessed with you
desire
@[Ashhal]