like the moon, we borrow our light; chantale

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. The shadow makes a noise, something dark and throaty. My fetid queen likes the sound of it, the rumble like thunder somewhere inside of her. She continues to touch her, half-expecting her muzzle to sink into such stygian blackness, but she is delightfully solid, delightfully warm. It breaks out a name, syllables slapped from the lips. Anastasia, a princess, a name bespeaking beauty and hooded eyes, a certain demure nature. Laughable enough, for her dank flesh bears the thing’s toothmarks. She is beautiful, but my corpse does not know if others would find her so – the strangeness might be hard to stomach. Chantale herself is beautiful in a way that is not beautiful. She should be beautiful, by every right, her body has been airbrushed to perfection, every scar (and oh, there have been many, my lunatic has too often wanted for blood) melted away to create this plastic corpse masterpiece. But she is beauty that has stepped too far, beauty that has cycled around and back into something odd and terrible, ruined by the lack of flaws, lack of something to contrast against. She is too sculpted, a thing of wet dreams but not life, things like her don’t – shouldn’t – exist in reality, only in the wet-hot imagination. But exist – persist – she does, and in her time she finds things, collects them – kings and queens and acolytes, and now, a girl with sharp teeth and a shadowed tongue. “Chantale likes Anastasia,” she begins, “because Anastasia is pretty, and warm. Chantale likes things that are warm.” Ah, for we ache for what we cannot have, and things made dead and alive again have no warmth about them. chantale how original a sin.