11-04-2017, 12:27 PM
Ellyse
I have the tendency of getting very physical,
so watch your step 'cause if I do you'll need a miracle.
so watch your step 'cause if I do you'll need a miracle.
Time had healed many of her wounds, but for each one mended, another is untouched.
The lacerations along her shoulders and flank have faded into pale remnants of what once was, and only time would tell as to whether the raised, puckered flesh would become the scarring she knew it could be. Her winged appendages no longer hang loosely across her bruised and battered rib cage – instead, the feathers are yet again preened carefully into place, tucked with rigid precision long the length of her body. The single, broken bone hidden somewhere beneath the alabaster sheen of feathers has yet to heal – she cannot fly, not yet, and being grounded, being bound to the soil did little to soothe her restlessness.
Her empty eye socket, too, healed in time – she is not ashamed of it; it is a symbol of all that she had endured to find a way back to her children, to her heart (or what is left of it) – to Tephra. It is barren, sullen and sunken. It is difficult not to stare, even for her as she stares into the stillness of the water before her, studying the darkness beneath her hazel eye, the dimly light of her iris – the open void where another once lay, plucked out by a merciless, monstrous deity, hell-bent on destroying her with a single, unbound thread.
Ledger is never far from her mind.
Where he had gone, bleeding and broken, she did not know – but she could not save him from himself; she could not save him from the darkness that had begun to seep into his chest, devouring whatever light and love she had found hidden within long ago. She cannot save him. Magnus, Ledger, Warrick – a pattern, deeply embedded into her, draining her of her strength, enveloping her existence into the desire to be the savior where none could be.
She cannot save him, though she yearns to find him, to mend the wounds her selfishness had carved into his already broken and battered heart – to kiss away the anguish she had brought to him. It is impossible. He had been broken long before her, and he would be broken long after her – just as his father was and had been. Had he loved her at all? Had she loved him? Or were they merely two souls adrift, longing to cling onto something to keep them afloat?
Her reverie is jarred by the soft voice of another, and through her tangled, ivory forelock, her single eye searches the darkened plane of Dahmer’s face. She is startled, but warmed at the sight of him, though she does shy away for a moment – averting her gaze to the reflection of her own sullen features before her. The hollowness of her empty eye socket is not a feature of hers that she tries to hide, but with him – there is a vulnerability; a coyness she cannot stifle.
”Dahmer,” she murmurs softly when he presses against her neck, inhaling her scent and she does the same, resting her cheek against the broadness of his. She can hear his heartbeat thrumming beneath, and it soothes her for a moment, and she can forget the roiling ocean and the stifling heat and simply be for a moment.
She does not stop there. Her lips and teeth brush across the base of his spine, where his tangled, dark mane lay. Her teeth delicately pluck brush entangled in each knot, as her lips trail down to his shoulder, where each wing had been torn away from his body (and her own feathers flinch at the thought, sending a shiver down her spine). She presses a kiss where the fresh, healing skin is smooth, gleaming beneath the pale sunlight, and she sighs.
Dahmer does not need saving.
He simply needs her to be.
The lacerations along her shoulders and flank have faded into pale remnants of what once was, and only time would tell as to whether the raised, puckered flesh would become the scarring she knew it could be. Her winged appendages no longer hang loosely across her bruised and battered rib cage – instead, the feathers are yet again preened carefully into place, tucked with rigid precision long the length of her body. The single, broken bone hidden somewhere beneath the alabaster sheen of feathers has yet to heal – she cannot fly, not yet, and being grounded, being bound to the soil did little to soothe her restlessness.
Her empty eye socket, too, healed in time – she is not ashamed of it; it is a symbol of all that she had endured to find a way back to her children, to her heart (or what is left of it) – to Tephra. It is barren, sullen and sunken. It is difficult not to stare, even for her as she stares into the stillness of the water before her, studying the darkness beneath her hazel eye, the dimly light of her iris – the open void where another once lay, plucked out by a merciless, monstrous deity, hell-bent on destroying her with a single, unbound thread.
Ledger is never far from her mind.
Where he had gone, bleeding and broken, she did not know – but she could not save him from himself; she could not save him from the darkness that had begun to seep into his chest, devouring whatever light and love she had found hidden within long ago. She cannot save him. Magnus, Ledger, Warrick – a pattern, deeply embedded into her, draining her of her strength, enveloping her existence into the desire to be the savior where none could be.
She cannot save him, though she yearns to find him, to mend the wounds her selfishness had carved into his already broken and battered heart – to kiss away the anguish she had brought to him. It is impossible. He had been broken long before her, and he would be broken long after her – just as his father was and had been. Had he loved her at all? Had she loved him? Or were they merely two souls adrift, longing to cling onto something to keep them afloat?
Her reverie is jarred by the soft voice of another, and through her tangled, ivory forelock, her single eye searches the darkened plane of Dahmer’s face. She is startled, but warmed at the sight of him, though she does shy away for a moment – averting her gaze to the reflection of her own sullen features before her. The hollowness of her empty eye socket is not a feature of hers that she tries to hide, but with him – there is a vulnerability; a coyness she cannot stifle.
”Dahmer,” she murmurs softly when he presses against her neck, inhaling her scent and she does the same, resting her cheek against the broadness of his. She can hear his heartbeat thrumming beneath, and it soothes her for a moment, and she can forget the roiling ocean and the stifling heat and simply be for a moment.
She does not stop there. Her lips and teeth brush across the base of his spine, where his tangled, dark mane lay. Her teeth delicately pluck brush entangled in each knot, as her lips trail down to his shoulder, where each wing had been torn away from his body (and her own feathers flinch at the thought, sending a shiver down her spine). She presses a kiss where the fresh, healing skin is smooth, gleaming beneath the pale sunlight, and she sighs.
Dahmer does not need saving.
He simply needs her to be.
You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone;
you're not fit to fucking tread the ground that I am walking on.
you're not fit to fucking tread the ground that I am walking on.
@[Dahmer]