01-03-2016, 10:45 PM
KINGSLAY
And right before she goes, right before the light leaves her eyes forever, she screams.
It’s muted, she’s weak. It warbles in the emptiness of the night before it’s lost, but regardless it shatters his illusions. Because she would not scream. If she were real she would lean against that fatal kiss – and that knowledge is what draws him in, that knowledge is what makes him seek her out in ways that he shouldn’t. He looks for her in the narrow hips of strangers. He looks for her in the plain curves of their bodies, the galaxies in their eyes. He looks for her in ways that would make her stomach turn against her – in ways that would leave he blood running cold.
And then he ends it.
He smothers her quickly, without drawing out her death, and the crack of her vertebrae sound almost like lullabies, and the quiet that settles afterwards feels almost like relief, like a salve on an oozing wound. And for a little while, there is nothing.
Until there isn’t.
“Oh,” she says, and he hears the breath catching in her throat.
It isn’t all that’s snared. He’s caught, too. Off guard. His walls are down, merely fragments of stone against the ashes of his kill. He isn’t hungry, and it’s like she’s pulled the stars into alignment, because he’s always hungry. There is always a need. There is always something.
If he were worthy of existence, he might smile. If he were anything less than wicked, he might lose his breath in awe of her. But he has never been won by beauty, or fate. And he has had his fill of the beautiful moments. He craves the terrible ones instead.
“Run,” he says, and his lips are almost smiling. Almost.
It’s muted, she’s weak. It warbles in the emptiness of the night before it’s lost, but regardless it shatters his illusions. Because she would not scream. If she were real she would lean against that fatal kiss – and that knowledge is what draws him in, that knowledge is what makes him seek her out in ways that he shouldn’t. He looks for her in the narrow hips of strangers. He looks for her in the plain curves of their bodies, the galaxies in their eyes. He looks for her in ways that would make her stomach turn against her – in ways that would leave he blood running cold.
And then he ends it.
He smothers her quickly, without drawing out her death, and the crack of her vertebrae sound almost like lullabies, and the quiet that settles afterwards feels almost like relief, like a salve on an oozing wound. And for a little while, there is nothing.
Until there isn’t.
“Oh,” she says, and he hears the breath catching in her throat.
It isn’t all that’s snared. He’s caught, too. Off guard. His walls are down, merely fragments of stone against the ashes of his kill. He isn’t hungry, and it’s like she’s pulled the stars into alignment, because he’s always hungry. There is always a need. There is always something.
If he were worthy of existence, he might smile. If he were anything less than wicked, he might lose his breath in awe of her. But he has never been won by beauty, or fate. And he has had his fill of the beautiful moments. He craves the terrible ones instead.
“Run,” he says, and his lips are almost smiling. Almost.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.