how original a sin; circinae

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. Moments like these seem to come to her often, for such a monster, she is also a lucky thing. And it must be luck shining upon her, to have such a girl materialize before her like an apparition. Except my corpse masterpiece doesn’t consider her luck, she considers it a sort of right, a course of nature. The girl laughs and Chantale smiles, sickly-sweet as honeysuckle. The girl eats up the lie like a cat and clotted cream, and it’s easy, this hunt, this game. Closer – just a bit – a half step, closer to her, to the green richness of her coat, the heat radiating from it, closer to that laughter (like bells, it is, like bells). “Of course,” she says, when the girl professes that she does not know her name, “I’m Chantale, remember?” Still smiling. “And you’re…?” She doesn’t really need the girl’s name, but she’d like to have it – a trinket, a thing to cradle against her chest. She wants to whisper it, purr it, use it to grant her closer access. She is patient, though. Sort of. She is patient, and she is cunning, and it is the cunning part of her that reads the moment of fear writing itself on the girl’s pert features, and Chantale shakes her head, a stiff movement, rotating dead joints in their sockets. “Don’t be scared,” she says, cooing, though it’s more demand than request, “I’m very kind.” chantale how original a sin.