the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[Nykeln]

the poison on your lips; Bones splinter, hearts weep tears of blood and often in most cases, flesh decays and rots. The mind however is a strange thing, even when the last few moments of death clings to your body, the mind is the last to go. Scarlet life blood weeps from every orifice, limbs flailed, missing, and yet the mind goes on, ticking and turning, the cogs and wheels enduring far more than any flesh or bone could manage. I wanted so much to see what the mind was like, in those fleeting moments in death's embrace. It was those moments, that flashed before fading eyes, that were the moments of cherished histories. Somewhere in those black and white faded film reels, was the door. And i'm still waiting for that, for the door that I can find, open up and step inside. I long for it, like I long to see the brightness appear in Chantale's cold, dead eyes. The heart did something, the blood a fuel, the flesh a tonic. I will do anything, everything to see the ghostly queen brighten. If it only for fleeting seconds. It is those seconds that give me the frail thing called hope. Hope dies though, and in it's place stands a stronger resolution. 'I will. I say. My words an eerie, haunting spell. 'I will.' I say again, just as her teeth rake against my skin -- the touch sends a shiver down every nodule of my spine and back up again, setting my nerves on fire. I reach out my burgundy tinged muzzle and brush her grey tendrils, touch her ice smooth skin. Like the cold, angelic statues in the cemeteries, she stands vigil, her haunting eyes meeting only mine for that moment, and I can feel my own heart quicken. 'I'll give Chantale the moon, the blood of a thousand innocents if it were to make her content.' But what was contentment? Was it sitting idle, in the shadows? or was it slithering and waiting, eyes as bright as the moon, skin as white as snow. With the intentions that made the wildflowers quiver and die. I touch her again, still unbelieving that the pallid mare is there, her haunting lullaby soothing my wrought, spent mind. 'A child.' I repeat, and that one word sends torrents of memories flooding me. Black and white reels of film, heartache, pain. It all comes back to me and I feel the pain double, a stabbing inside of me, my deadened heart quakes, and then stops, just like that. 'Our child.' I swallow and the momentum brings me back to the now, the memory as faded as the blood stains on my coat. My thirst is incomplete, and Chantale must warrant more feeding, more flesh, more peachy organs to feast upon. My quest is not done yet. 'Our child.' I say, and it feels strange, foreign on my tongue, but the smirk that meets my lips is as crooked as the boughs above. 'Why a child?' because they are as innocent as the summer's day and are mouldable as sand grains. The become whatever their parents are, and in some cases, far worse. But the question falls from my lips, and my dark, dark eyes search hers. Dead, cold as ice and dead. but somewhere inside of her, the undead queen of my world, there is something. the haematoma in your heart;