12-29-2019, 06:02 PM
How dangerous the boredom.
Because it is more than boredom.
It is vicious restlessness.
It is irritation that tightens like a vise around her throat.
It quivers in the muscles and it gnashes her teeth and it rolls her wild eyes. So that she is lunging into the darkness, catching rabbits by the throat, watching them fight for their lives before she disposes of them. She licks their blood from her lips, holds it on her tongue in worship, and then she becomes bored of this, too.
Because she is a predator but there is so little by way of prey here in Pangea. And she has exhausted the forest and the river and the meadow, too. And she has no desire to find Ghaul, only to have the stench of nameless, faceless women inject all that anger into her again.
So, she loiters. She languishes in the sun, lets its heat warm the cold, cold heart. She grits her teeth and cuts her tongue on her teeth, lets the venom turn her numb. She does not think about all that has led her here. She does not think of the mother she left or the father she still fantasizes about sinking her teeth into. She does not think of the brother she’d caught wind of. She thinks only of the heat and the crippling boredom.
And when movement catches her eye, she lifts her head and glances in that direction. A shudder steals down the length of her spine, because a predator is always thrilled by prey.
But this is not prey at all. No, this is something else entirely.
Because it is more than boredom.
It is vicious restlessness.
It is irritation that tightens like a vise around her throat.
It quivers in the muscles and it gnashes her teeth and it rolls her wild eyes. So that she is lunging into the darkness, catching rabbits by the throat, watching them fight for their lives before she disposes of them. She licks their blood from her lips, holds it on her tongue in worship, and then she becomes bored of this, too.
Because she is a predator but there is so little by way of prey here in Pangea. And she has exhausted the forest and the river and the meadow, too. And she has no desire to find Ghaul, only to have the stench of nameless, faceless women inject all that anger into her again.
So, she loiters. She languishes in the sun, lets its heat warm the cold, cold heart. She grits her teeth and cuts her tongue on her teeth, lets the venom turn her numb. She does not think about all that has led her here. She does not think of the mother she left or the father she still fantasizes about sinking her teeth into. She does not think of the brother she’d caught wind of. She thinks only of the heat and the crippling boredom.
And when movement catches her eye, she lifts her head and glances in that direction. A shudder steals down the length of her spine, because a predator is always thrilled by prey.
But this is not prey at all. No, this is something else entirely.
these violent delights have violent ends
g o s p e l,
