09-12-2018, 12:48 PM
KINGSLAY
He is, admittedly, sicker.
What began with a broken rabbit grew unchecked, and it festered like rot under his flesh. No, he has never been well, but the sickness consumed him, it rattled his ribs like prison bars and devoured the pieces that once upon a time a girl with an unremarkable face (and galaxies for eyes) had unearthed.
For eons (or seemingly) he has been lost, growing feral - hunting, maiming, slaying; reaping.
Now he is standing, satiated, over the wreckage of something that had been someone once; a pile, at last, of steaming blood, charred flesh, and glaringly white bone, thinly veiled by the melting snow that falls like ash around him. He doesn’t remember what made him hungry for death (that her face resembled one he knew before, that she turned her back to him without hesitation just like in a distant memory), but regardless he is satisfied with the display before him; the cruel juxtaposition of her blackened flesh and bloodied bones against the clean snow.
A rattled breath draws his eyes up across his massacre (his prize), and the sickness inside of him will recognize her before he ever does. It weaves itself through the spacing of his ribs and draws them in tight.
As often as he steals life, he isn’t accustomed to seeing ghosts.
(End her.)
(End her.)
(End her.)
It mewls into his mind, and when at last he moves forward (and here, note the crack of bone as he walks carelessly across the remnants of something that once was someone) he means to end her. He thinks about the blood boiling in her veins, and about her muddied brown flesh heating, sizzling, over her bones (wonders, briefly, if the cooked flesh will fall from her skeleton and expose her raw truth at last). He hears the crack of bone in his mind, a beautiful premonition, and the edges of his lips curl with his sickness.
The snow around him melts
It always makes way for the reaper.
And that’s when he remembers - because the snow stops melting, and the heat in his body simmers then settles, because the cacophonous ring in his mind quiets, and the pull on his ribs loosens. He doesn’t say her name, but his body screams it in all of its awkward inconsistencies. This close he can hear the drum of her pulse and it’s deafening, but he can’t decide if he’d prefer to silence it or drown in the music of it.
She has always made the sickness softer.
She was born to end wars, though she’s only ever started them in him.
What began with a broken rabbit grew unchecked, and it festered like rot under his flesh. No, he has never been well, but the sickness consumed him, it rattled his ribs like prison bars and devoured the pieces that once upon a time a girl with an unremarkable face (and galaxies for eyes) had unearthed.
For eons (or seemingly) he has been lost, growing feral - hunting, maiming, slaying; reaping.
Now he is standing, satiated, over the wreckage of something that had been someone once; a pile, at last, of steaming blood, charred flesh, and glaringly white bone, thinly veiled by the melting snow that falls like ash around him. He doesn’t remember what made him hungry for death (that her face resembled one he knew before, that she turned her back to him without hesitation just like in a distant memory), but regardless he is satisfied with the display before him; the cruel juxtaposition of her blackened flesh and bloodied bones against the clean snow.
A rattled breath draws his eyes up across his massacre (his prize), and the sickness inside of him will recognize her before he ever does. It weaves itself through the spacing of his ribs and draws them in tight.
As often as he steals life, he isn’t accustomed to seeing ghosts.
(End her.)
(End her.)
(End her.)
It mewls into his mind, and when at last he moves forward (and here, note the crack of bone as he walks carelessly across the remnants of something that once was someone) he means to end her. He thinks about the blood boiling in her veins, and about her muddied brown flesh heating, sizzling, over her bones (wonders, briefly, if the cooked flesh will fall from her skeleton and expose her raw truth at last). He hears the crack of bone in his mind, a beautiful premonition, and the edges of his lips curl with his sickness.
The snow around him melts
It always makes way for the reaper.
And that’s when he remembers - because the snow stops melting, and the heat in his body simmers then settles, because the cacophonous ring in his mind quiets, and the pull on his ribs loosens. He doesn’t say her name, but his body screams it in all of its awkward inconsistencies. This close he can hear the drum of her pulse and it’s deafening, but he can’t decide if he’d prefer to silence it or drown in the music of it.
She has always made the sickness softer.
She was born to end wars, though she’s only ever started them in him.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.