11-14-2019, 03:28 PM
She remembers.
Remembers how enamored she had been by him.
How she had delighted in his peculiarity.
How she had shrieked with a dark mirth when he spat flames at her parents.
She had belonged to her parents first, and then to him, and now to no one.
He is still a dark and peculiar thing and there is still a delightful twisting in the center of her chest when he touches her. But she does not need him. She does not need anyone. There is venom where her blood should be, a clenched fist where her heart should be.
There is a shimmering glint of that old delight in her eye as he turns from her, heeds her instruction without hesitation. She touches his hip as the wings and the nostrils flare, watching in muted fascination as he sets the tree – and a few surrounding shrubs – ablaze. Heat rolls off the burning thing in waves and she shifts her focus to his face as he turns to her but does not lift her head. She wonders if she looks like a part of him, her nose pressed firmly against the sharp jut of his hip, wonders if their heat signatures are the same.
She does not lift her head until he turns to face her again and she does so grudgingly, gritting her teeth and flaring her own fine nostrils. He touches her, drags his mouth along the curves of her face, and she jerks back her head, gnashes her teeth. There is nothing in her expression that gives her away, nothing that betrays the saccharine taste of the fantasy. Her father’s throat caught between her clenched teeth, his blood pooling in her mouth.
It is only then that she grins. But it is a faint and far away thing as she turns her gaze back toward the burning tree. “Just think of all of the things that we will accomplish,” she muses, the tone cool, expression passive. The fire casts her, too, in a ghostly glow. “Great things,” she adds, tilts her head, wondering what it might be like to swallow the flame.
Remembers how enamored she had been by him.
How she had delighted in his peculiarity.
How she had shrieked with a dark mirth when he spat flames at her parents.
She had belonged to her parents first, and then to him, and now to no one.
He is still a dark and peculiar thing and there is still a delightful twisting in the center of her chest when he touches her. But she does not need him. She does not need anyone. There is venom where her blood should be, a clenched fist where her heart should be.
There is a shimmering glint of that old delight in her eye as he turns from her, heeds her instruction without hesitation. She touches his hip as the wings and the nostrils flare, watching in muted fascination as he sets the tree – and a few surrounding shrubs – ablaze. Heat rolls off the burning thing in waves and she shifts her focus to his face as he turns to her but does not lift her head. She wonders if she looks like a part of him, her nose pressed firmly against the sharp jut of his hip, wonders if their heat signatures are the same.
She does not lift her head until he turns to face her again and she does so grudgingly, gritting her teeth and flaring her own fine nostrils. He touches her, drags his mouth along the curves of her face, and she jerks back her head, gnashes her teeth. There is nothing in her expression that gives her away, nothing that betrays the saccharine taste of the fantasy. Her father’s throat caught between her clenched teeth, his blood pooling in her mouth.
It is only then that she grins. But it is a faint and far away thing as she turns her gaze back toward the burning tree. “Just think of all of the things that we will accomplish,” she muses, the tone cool, expression passive. The fire casts her, too, in a ghostly glow. “Great things,” she adds, tilts her head, wondering what it might be like to swallow the flame.
we're nursing on a poison that never stung
our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it
our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it
g o s p e l,
