the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[Nykeln]

the haematoma in your chest, ♆ The ache never truly leaves, all it takes is a wisp of memory, so thin and fine, like razor wire, it strangles you until all the painful memories come flooding in torrents, a tsunami of sorts and it drives you further and further to that brink, teetering on the edge, a knife slice away from sanity, from dropping down into the never-ending spiral, the bottom was the only exit. This ache, cold, like frostbite, it throbbed and pulsed within me, claiming my heart and freezing it to the very depths. The cold heart, it beats, it throbs ever so slight with a song of life, a crescendo of purpose. It is good to be of purpose, to not mar the landscape like an inky blot, useless, meaningless. No, no. Far from that. I am righteous, depositing of the stains on earth, stealing hearts and drinking souls, until the very cusp of the glass is overflowing. The taint of blood is bittersweet, acidic down my throat, where it burns, burns like the torch I hold for this frostbitten mare. 'Fear. It is the fear that is the prize.' my inflection is tainted, broken by bloodied memories, scarred with flashbacks. Rock, slip sliding hooves and screams of furious terror, it pulses within me, through every vein running directly to my heart, where the organ pumps with a fury all of it's own. Fear, the eyes white, the lips trembling, it fed the heart adrenaline, pulsed life through fine veins. 'Eyes white and wide, pleas tainting her lips.' I weave the story, plucking tidbits of memory. Like an expert tapestry artist picks and pokes at fine threads and sews them into place. I press my sleek ebony nose into the ghoulish body of Chantale, breathing in her musk, her decaying, bitter smell. dirt and graves, she is everything you have nightmares about, but for me, for me she is home. 'The rocks, they were splattered with a brilliant shade of red.' my eyes pulse a deeper, dark shade of obsidian -- if that were ever true -- darker, brighter even, like the flicker of life, a burning flame, ignites somewhere inside of me and burns from my very eyes. I sway slightly, bulky frame against the cool skin of the ghoul, her body calming my feverish skin, soothing my pulsing veins. My deep burgundy stains ripple as my muscles twitch, memories wanting it to start all over again. The taste for blood, for death, it entices me, pulls me with strong threads. 'They plead for life, but what life? Quaint little herd, pleasing a man with children... that... that is no life.' a slither of hate, it's dark and cold, slicing into my brain, my heart, like a cold, brazen dagger. For that moment all that life drains from my eyes and I feel as dead as the girl beside me. 'Sons. Daughters.' I snort, my lips twisting into an ugly grimace. My son. my bundle of ebony flesh, cold, dead. Slick with life but icy with death's touch. I will never forgive and will never forget. My ears tightly lace against my crown, losing in the froth of ebony mane. for fleeting moments I am lost in the icy prison of memories and it takes Chantale's frostbitten kiss to draw me back. 'I will destroy. I will break such fragile hearts and drain the pure blood.' delusional, thoroughly and utterly delusional -- i've snapped, I can feel the throes of my mind loosening, pulling and pulling further away. I whisper then, death's musical hum, 'And it will be magnificent.' ♆ the dying scream upon lips; vagabond of the meadow

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