10-12-2015, 04:20 PM
KINGSLAY
‘You ran,’ he had thought.
It was the last time, and she was a wildflower that he had wrapped around then like a weed threatening asphyxiation. He had watched her wilt into him. He had watched her leaves curl and skin prickle. She might have loved him. He might have killed her.
‘You ran,’ he had thought. They always ran. They were always supposed to run. They were bone and stringy off-white sinew and tendon. They were red muscle and yellowed-fat all strung together with flesh and hair, and he was carnivorous. He was teeth and fire and black soot. He was made of different atoms. He was made of magic and hunger. He had been kissed by dirtied nails on witches’ fingers. He had been eaten by fire and come forth unscathed. They always ran. He always chased. He always won.
‘You ran,’ he had thought the last time, and it had turned her from god to mortal in his eyes. He had felt the heat of her body draw him in like the iron tang of blood on the lips of hungry sharks. They were just two bodies tangled, lost among the waves of a black ocean, and they looked just like lovers when his lips pressed against the flesh of her neck while he discovered in his mind all of the ways he could tear her open. They looked just like lovers as he imagined what the life would look like spilled out of her veins and into the sea they were drowning in.
She might have loved him.
He might have killed her.
It took every ounce of humanity inside of him to leave her alive, or that’s what it would look like. It would look like kindness when he left her quaking in a sea of meadow grass lit on fire. It would look like the monster loved the girl enough to let her live because she was a fever inside of him that burned hotter than the flames he was made of, because she pushed at the edges of his insides, curled his innards into cursive letters that spelled out her name.
But it isn’t true.
He has come back.
It was the last time, and she was a wildflower that he had wrapped around then like a weed threatening asphyxiation. He had watched her wilt into him. He had watched her leaves curl and skin prickle. She might have loved him. He might have killed her.
‘You ran,’ he had thought. They always ran. They were always supposed to run. They were bone and stringy off-white sinew and tendon. They were red muscle and yellowed-fat all strung together with flesh and hair, and he was carnivorous. He was teeth and fire and black soot. He was made of different atoms. He was made of magic and hunger. He had been kissed by dirtied nails on witches’ fingers. He had been eaten by fire and come forth unscathed. They always ran. He always chased. He always won.
‘You ran,’ he had thought the last time, and it had turned her from god to mortal in his eyes. He had felt the heat of her body draw him in like the iron tang of blood on the lips of hungry sharks. They were just two bodies tangled, lost among the waves of a black ocean, and they looked just like lovers when his lips pressed against the flesh of her neck while he discovered in his mind all of the ways he could tear her open. They looked just like lovers as he imagined what the life would look like spilled out of her veins and into the sea they were drowning in.
She might have loved him.
He might have killed her.
It took every ounce of humanity inside of him to leave her alive, or that’s what it would look like. It would look like kindness when he left her quaking in a sea of meadow grass lit on fire. It would look like the monster loved the girl enough to let her live because she was a fever inside of him that burned hotter than the flames he was made of, because she pushed at the edges of his insides, curled his innards into cursive letters that spelled out her name.
But it isn’t true.
He has come back.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.