Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
-Oscar Wilde
Red mist across your eyes like a veil. Thunder in your ears.
She has brought you to this place with a slip of the tongue, and
a stench to be reviled.
In your own home! In this most sacred of places!
Struggle to remember the ardent whisperings, the soft caress, the whisper of flesh.
The smell! It hits you like a rock, blinding pain, stars in the eyes, the slow, awful twisting of it in your very gut.
Touch her! Feel the throat in your hands, so open, so trusting so...filled with lies, with betrayal, with the memory of her shuddering ecstacy at the hands of cold monsters!
Shake, scream for focus. Struggle against the urge to let rivers of blood slake your unholy thirst for vengeance. Fill up your fists with the soft ruin of her shaking, shrieking, bloody and beaten...bloody...and...
helpless...and...whimpering...and...crushed...by...your...hands.
Bloody. And soft. And crawling toward you, hand outstretched.
You remember the gentle breeze on the back of your neck now, the flashing pearl of her smile. The way your spine shifts when she walks. The way your head fills with flashes of blue lightning at the very smell of her...the very smell of her...surrendering to you...giving away that pumping red, richness...to you?
No. She has...she has...them...on her. In her. Around her.
And the soft sigh of her voice, the desperate needy cry of her stumbling, fumbling toward that soft, clamping brilliant feast of her own fulfillment...driving you towards your own in slow, twisting anticipation...so much...
Agony.
And she lies there before you, (sits there whispering), broken and bloody, (laughing in her way), covered with the mark of your mercurial affections, (leaning toward you for a desperate touch), and she reaches for you, (lips parted for that most tender of unspoken messages), and you...
Twist, creaking. In a lonely, midnight wind. Alone.
Bastard.
No comments:
Post a Comment