06-25-2015, 09:56 AM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. You were never allowed games, indeed, never even knew they existed. You were taken from your orphan state by them and instantly sculpted, shaped, taught to be demure, to be simple – you were shoved and beaten into a mold. And you stayed awhile, taking the bruises, carrying the baby – but when that baby came, that wretched, stupid baby that carried your doomsday in its perversion of a body, its two heads and broken lungs, when that baby came you broke from that mold you were so perilously crammed into. Leaving your baby to die does something to you. It breaks something – or maybe just exposes something. Because you were born with the seed of madness in you, a strong one rich on your mother’s lunatic blood and your father’s bloodthirst, and maybe the baby’s death only reaped it. Whatever the case, the baby that they all expected to be another step to becoming their perfect Stepford wife turned out to be your melting point. Your madness point. Ironic, how they pushed pregnancy upon you in the hurry to mold you and in the end it made you insane. Funny how things work. The air smells of new season, whispers of budding flowers that lay in wait beneath snowmelt, of bluebirds and honeysuckle. Such purity, such beauty of the world – and amongst the natural glory walks Chantale, beautiful only in form, in the flawless sculpture of her bones, the silk-sheen of her gray pelt, in theory she should be stunning but for all her composition she has no life in her, she is corpse art, a dead masterpiece. Her eyes are like glass. She barely breathes. Nothing about her shows vivacity, or sparkle, or a personality to shine forth – she is hollowed, a void filled with madness to substitute emotion. She rapes nature with her existence, her filthy, dead beauty. She does not belong – not here, not anywhere. The only place she belongs now is six feet under. But even if she knows this (and she does, she knows she is contaminated and carcass sculpture in her secret heart) she does not care, she stays and defiles the earth with every bumbling step. Someone calls out, and she sees the mare. She remembers her, the warmth in the snow, how they had spoken of heart-eating and other such pleasantries. She inhales and catches a scent, fecund and ripe: flesh, organs, blood. It seems her pet has found a prize. My corpse masterpiece grins then, the grin widening across her plastic-perfect face as the heart – veined and odd, such a curious, potent thing – is left at her hooves. She lowers her head, inhales the scent, imagines she can smell the fear that surely flavored whatever beast’s blood this came from in the last few moments before it was ripped asunder. The coppery scent of blood is sweeter than any springtime scent. My corpse-girl feasts, takes her meal in a way no equid should, but the dead do not abide by such herbivorous rules. She swallows flesh, chambers of the fearful heart, the blood on her lips like obscene makeup. “Good,” she purrs, and if it’s to Nykeln or to the heart, I could not tell you, “yes, you’re so good.” how original a sin. |