12-30-2015, 12:08 AM
KINGSLAY
A fog rolls off her tongue when she whimpers.
It melts into the white sky and then the clouds before it’s lost. He wonders if when her body is his, when her soul falls from her eyes, if she will find her breath out in-between the clouds and the white. He wonders if she will exist apart from it, and then he decides he doesn’t care.
Someone somewhere loves her, and he doesn’t care.
Someone somewhere loves the way the breath rolls out of her in a way that’s more poetic than the ways that Kingslay loves it. Someone somewhere loves her plain brown hair that falls in waves across her neck and back. Someone somewhere loves the gentle curve of her smile and thinks it looks like the bend in the crescent moon. Someone somewhere thinks about all the pretty metaphors and similes that break like tides over her body, but it isn’t him.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
Of course he is.
Of course – because he is made for hurting things. He is made to make them scream. He is made for that last hiss of breath escaping their collapsing lungs, for that last kick of a dying muscle. And even though he’s trying to be good(for her, always for her), it doesn’t show here.
“Yes.” He answers, the only sound to fill the gaps between her labored breaths. She shuts her eyes like she knows what’s next. She only knows a version. The truth is so much harder.
“Please, don’t.” She says, shaking like the winter air has burrowed deep into her bones, but her body is betraying itself. She is afraid. He feeds on her fear, on the beads of sweat rolling off her cheeks, like flames feed on gasoline.
“Okay,” he answers, biting his tongue and drawing blood, thinking of all the ways she is almost like Etro. The slope of her narrow hips, the dark catacombs in her eyes. He could let one go. He could let one live. He will be good. For her. Always for her.
She whimpers when her eyes open, and when she turns to go on legs that are still shaking, he thinks of all the ways he could split her open. He thinks about her mewling. He thinks about her spilling blood instead of fog. She moves quickly, and he thinks that he could let one go, that he could let one live.
But he won’t.
And in a second he is at her throat, and she is mewling like he thought she would. She crumbles against him and the fire burns her skin until the white-cloud air is smoke and singed hair.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I lied,” he answers. He always would.
And then she falls into the earth thinking about someone somewhere that loves her that she will never see again. And he thinks about her marrow. He thinks about the light in her eyes until it goes. He thinks about how he almost let one go, how he almost let one live – but then didn’t.
It melts into the white sky and then the clouds before it’s lost. He wonders if when her body is his, when her soul falls from her eyes, if she will find her breath out in-between the clouds and the white. He wonders if she will exist apart from it, and then he decides he doesn’t care.
Someone somewhere loves her, and he doesn’t care.
Someone somewhere loves the way the breath rolls out of her in a way that’s more poetic than the ways that Kingslay loves it. Someone somewhere loves her plain brown hair that falls in waves across her neck and back. Someone somewhere loves the gentle curve of her smile and thinks it looks like the bend in the crescent moon. Someone somewhere thinks about all the pretty metaphors and similes that break like tides over her body, but it isn’t him.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
Of course he is.
Of course – because he is made for hurting things. He is made to make them scream. He is made for that last hiss of breath escaping their collapsing lungs, for that last kick of a dying muscle. And even though he’s trying to be good(for her, always for her), it doesn’t show here.
“Yes.” He answers, the only sound to fill the gaps between her labored breaths. She shuts her eyes like she knows what’s next. She only knows a version. The truth is so much harder.
“Please, don’t.” She says, shaking like the winter air has burrowed deep into her bones, but her body is betraying itself. She is afraid. He feeds on her fear, on the beads of sweat rolling off her cheeks, like flames feed on gasoline.
“Okay,” he answers, biting his tongue and drawing blood, thinking of all the ways she is almost like Etro. The slope of her narrow hips, the dark catacombs in her eyes. He could let one go. He could let one live. He will be good. For her. Always for her.
She whimpers when her eyes open, and when she turns to go on legs that are still shaking, he thinks of all the ways he could split her open. He thinks about her mewling. He thinks about her spilling blood instead of fog. She moves quickly, and he thinks that he could let one go, that he could let one live.
But he won’t.
And in a second he is at her throat, and she is mewling like he thought she would. She crumbles against him and the fire burns her skin until the white-cloud air is smoke and singed hair.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I lied,” he answers. He always would.
And then she falls into the earth thinking about someone somewhere that loves her that she will never see again. And he thinks about her marrow. He thinks about the light in her eyes until it goes. He thinks about how he almost let one go, how he almost let one live – but then didn’t.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.