12-29-2019, 05:46 PM
He touches her and he is no longer clumsy.
He touches her and, for some reason, she cannot help but remember the first time. The chaos of it. How it had delighted her to be studied by something so strange. How it had thrilled her to be touched by his mother’s blood. She had not felt nopetiful then – strangely enough, she never has, has never had any reason to – but powerful. And hungry. And so many other thousands of dark things. Because it had occurred to her then that she was strange, too and there was power in her strangeness. Because he had vowed to make them bleed – promised to sink those strange teeth into the whole world – and yet.
And yet, he had spared her.
And he spares her still. Grins and touches her with his mouth all full of scars. And she lets him. She does not gnash her teeth or throw back her head or roll her wild eyes in protest. She is lethal, Gospel, but she has learned to harness her anger, she has learned how to turn it into something productive. The muscles quiver beneath the scaled flesh, an instinct she has not yet learned how to stifle. Alas, she feels no shred of embarrassment.
He bled, he tells her, and she imagines him bleeding.
Imagines the stench of blood cleansing him of the stench of all the things she can smell on him now.
She wishes she could have tasted it, too. Coaxed it out of him. Let it coat her viper’s tongue, let it wash the rust out of her throat. She could try it now, she thinks. She could lift her head and sink her teeth into his throat. But she does not.
Does it mean anything at all that she was his first friend? Does it matter at all that he is, even still, her only friend? It makes her itch to think it. She resents the softness in it. Finally, she grits her teeth and draws back her head, out of his reach.
“What good are friends?” she asks. “What purpose have I served you?” She does not bother to try and hide the jealousy in her tone. She lets it pulse in her chest, there in the empty space beside her heart, does all that she can to draw power from it.
He touches her and, for some reason, she cannot help but remember the first time. The chaos of it. How it had delighted her to be studied by something so strange. How it had thrilled her to be touched by his mother’s blood. She had not felt nopetiful then – strangely enough, she never has, has never had any reason to – but powerful. And hungry. And so many other thousands of dark things. Because it had occurred to her then that she was strange, too and there was power in her strangeness. Because he had vowed to make them bleed – promised to sink those strange teeth into the whole world – and yet.
And yet, he had spared her.
And he spares her still. Grins and touches her with his mouth all full of scars. And she lets him. She does not gnash her teeth or throw back her head or roll her wild eyes in protest. She is lethal, Gospel, but she has learned to harness her anger, she has learned how to turn it into something productive. The muscles quiver beneath the scaled flesh, an instinct she has not yet learned how to stifle. Alas, she feels no shred of embarrassment.
He bled, he tells her, and she imagines him bleeding.
Imagines the stench of blood cleansing him of the stench of all the things she can smell on him now.
She wishes she could have tasted it, too. Coaxed it out of him. Let it coat her viper’s tongue, let it wash the rust out of her throat. She could try it now, she thinks. She could lift her head and sink her teeth into his throat. But she does not.
Does it mean anything at all that she was his first friend? Does it matter at all that he is, even still, her only friend? It makes her itch to think it. She resents the softness in it. Finally, she grits her teeth and draws back her head, out of his reach.
“What good are friends?” she asks. “What purpose have I served you?” She does not bother to try and hide the jealousy in her tone. She lets it pulse in her chest, there in the empty space beside her heart, does all that she can to draw power from it.
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
