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09-05-2016, 01:03 PM
Receive the erased memories
And broken heart on the palm of my hand.
And broken heart on the palm of my hand.
I could tell her my story.
I could tell her that I despised the flesh clinging to my bones, how it trapped me within this life I no longer wished to continue. I could tell her about how, even when I die, eternal damnation will wrap itself around me in a horrific embrace, instead of the soft velvet of her neck. I could tell her about my parents, how they died in an imperial ambush that near cost my life as well, before it all started. I could tell her about how everyone I ever cared for died before my eyes, bleeding into the earth freely, whispering in their last moments to me. I could tell her about the way light disappeared from the eyes of the dead no matter how feverently you prayed to god it would stay. I could tell her about how I became the monster, snuffing out lights and moving about my former home like a villain.
I could.
But I won't.
Instead, I meet her devious gaze with one flat and measured. "If I were an ugly hag, I guess I wouldn't much like my reflection either," the line is a joke, though there is no outward sign of it. There is no childish glint in my eyes, no crack of a smile, nothing. I resign myself toward the inner walls surrounding me, guarding those from the outside world from what lurked beneath the man in unkempt threads.
I care not for the circle she creates, reminding me vaguely of the vultures which circled about in the sky all those years ago. The sign of death, a silent dance letting everyone know another life, or perhaps far more, had been lost. I have no intention of being some carcass, being torn asunder from limb to limb, muscle to muscle, until only a skeleton remains. I have no earned nor do I deserve death, though it may come for us all in time.
Her question pries into me, along with those green eyes that would be dancing in my nightmares for weeks to come. They were brilliant yet mocking. I have no intention of sharing my inner workings with a child who does not know when to hold their tongue, tuck their tail, and run away. "I have no where else to be," I say, my voice just as flat and even as my face, though my eyes hold an icy glare that is unmistakable.
Her game of cat and mouse, where I am presumed by this idiot to be a mouse, grows tiring. "What about you, baishunpu? Harassing strangers is how you get off?" The same even tone is used, but the blackened words reveal how annoyed I am under the surface of it all. Even resorting to my native tongue, something I rarely do unless delirious with infection, would show any who knew me well (i.e., no one) that I'm pissed off.
ooc -- baishunpu: streetwalker
I could tell her that I despised the flesh clinging to my bones, how it trapped me within this life I no longer wished to continue. I could tell her about how, even when I die, eternal damnation will wrap itself around me in a horrific embrace, instead of the soft velvet of her neck. I could tell her about my parents, how they died in an imperial ambush that near cost my life as well, before it all started. I could tell her about how everyone I ever cared for died before my eyes, bleeding into the earth freely, whispering in their last moments to me. I could tell her about the way light disappeared from the eyes of the dead no matter how feverently you prayed to god it would stay. I could tell her about how I became the monster, snuffing out lights and moving about my former home like a villain.
I could.
But I won't.
Instead, I meet her devious gaze with one flat and measured. "If I were an ugly hag, I guess I wouldn't much like my reflection either," the line is a joke, though there is no outward sign of it. There is no childish glint in my eyes, no crack of a smile, nothing. I resign myself toward the inner walls surrounding me, guarding those from the outside world from what lurked beneath the man in unkempt threads.
I care not for the circle she creates, reminding me vaguely of the vultures which circled about in the sky all those years ago. The sign of death, a silent dance letting everyone know another life, or perhaps far more, had been lost. I have no intention of being some carcass, being torn asunder from limb to limb, muscle to muscle, until only a skeleton remains. I have no earned nor do I deserve death, though it may come for us all in time.
Her question pries into me, along with those green eyes that would be dancing in my nightmares for weeks to come. They were brilliant yet mocking. I have no intention of sharing my inner workings with a child who does not know when to hold their tongue, tuck their tail, and run away. "I have no where else to be," I say, my voice just as flat and even as my face, though my eyes hold an icy glare that is unmistakable.
Her game of cat and mouse, where I am presumed by this idiot to be a mouse, grows tiring. "What about you, baishunpu? Harassing strangers is how you get off?" The same even tone is used, but the blackened words reveal how annoyed I am under the surface of it all. Even resorting to my native tongue, something I rarely do unless delirious with infection, would show any who knew me well (i.e., no one) that I'm pissed off.
ooc -- baishunpu: streetwalker
良克
RYOUTA
@Aelfwine
