there is a house in new orleans There's always talk of evil around these parts.
The discussions can be mild tempered, even keiled, talking about the theoretical passages of time and theoretical destruction of soul and mind. The path that leads to hell - is it paved with good intentions? Does evil wear a trench coat and stalk you from the shadows? Or does evil - true, daunting evil - smile through white, straight teeth while shaking your hand?
I always reckoned the first was the simple kind, the type that drags dirt and uses flash and bang to make their point. They're the gratuitous violence without furthering the plot. They're the "every female character should be barren or assaulted - to build character" type. They've no concept of evil.
See, evil is insidious.
Evil takes its sweet, savory time.
Really, though, I'm speaking in theoreticals. Theatrics.
Who can blame me? I'm the walking stereotype - handsome save for this eye, the color of the night, born of the strange and deranged. It was only a matter of time and patience before I really ascended to the thing I am today.
The thing I am today, which stands in the meadow alone.
The thing I am today, its swollen prolapsed eye forever staring outward, turning white and blue with time.
The thing I am today - waiting.
h o y t
lempo x izebe
astarte
She watches him where he stands. He is stone and he is cold. He wonders what he would be like to touch – cold? Rough? He has an eye as listless as her heart. As she stares she feels them die together a scarred heart and a scarred eye. Tissues that turn grey and withered as the time tick, tick, ticks its way into oblivion.
Had she thought of evil? Yes.
Had she taken the demigod son of the God of Darkness as a lover? Yes.
Was she the cliché girl with a lust for dangerous men? No.
Did she love her son of Darkness? No.
Rather, this girl - this beautiful creature of bone white skin and long dirt ridden limbs – is little more than a husk. Her insides yawn like the black maw of oblivion. Like a black star it eats her from the inside. Immortality is like a parasite to her. It leaves sewage in its wake. It poisoned her heart too long ago and now her lips are acid and her tongue is poison.
She settles her chocolate eyes, the windows to that hideous black within her, upon him and she feels a kinship. She feels as blank as his one eyed stare. She is the ghost in the crowd, a beautiful wraith twisted and jaded and unseen weathered away like rock over time.
She is in front of him, and it is unclear to anyone when she moved. Silent limbed, light limbed; unremarkable. Her skull tilts and the blackness breathes but at least she can watch through her blank eyes. Lashes flutter closed upon her cheek like a feather fluttering to the floor, but snap open like a valve.
See me. She murmurs. It is a request, a demand and curiosity all rolled into two silken words that tumble from her tongue like gravel upon the earth.
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