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och jag växte upp snabbt, från min barndom var det allt—jag föddes redan slagen
då tänker du tyst och skriker högt, memorerar hela jävla monologen som skrevs för din inre röst,
Somebody tore the ground from out under him. Punched him the gut, the eye, solar plexus; he breathed out.
But he couldn't breathe in again.
He couldn't even think.
No. It went deeper than anything he had ever felt before—deeper than the agonizing misery that set his bones on fire, deeper than any other moment he had shared with her.
He wasn't sure this was "sharing", though. Sharing meant there was more than one party present. And he was there, all right, too shocked to even cry. But she wasn't there—not anymore. The flame-and-shadow he'd known and not known at all was no more.
He could barely wrap his head around the meaning of those words. He might've wallowed in his self-pity, shouted that the king is dead, but fuck that. He wasn't dead. He was very, very far from dead. And now, death stared at him, cruel and humorless, through the dulled eyes of his once-lover. It smiled knowingly through the cracks in her body, taunted him with the rich smell of it.
Without knowing it, he had drawn breath again—soft, tentative breaths, hesitant, intruding upon this space in which she no longer breathed.
Who had done this? How could it have happened? There was reptile skin, and angrily he brushed it away with his muzzle, eyes blurring up with unbidden tears.
"Psyche," he croaked, heart staggering. The King and Queen—one dead of heart, one dead of body. Soul. Everything. Complete and utter silence in the hallways of her thoughts.
He had never gotten to know her again. Never gotten to love her again—for he had, then and always, deeply, viscerally, not as whimsically and flightily as he loved Ophelia. It had been love of another kind.
But it had been love. And now, she was nothing. She would be earth. He ground his teeth together.
Something had to give.
Someone had to pay.
The Phoenix King would rise from its ashes and he'd see the fucking world burn.
[ NOTE: Mau remains by her body. He'll eat your face if you try to touch it. ]
But he couldn't breathe in again.
He couldn't even think.
No. It went deeper than anything he had ever felt before—deeper than the agonizing misery that set his bones on fire, deeper than any other moment he had shared with her.
He wasn't sure this was "sharing", though. Sharing meant there was more than one party present. And he was there, all right, too shocked to even cry. But she wasn't there—not anymore. The flame-and-shadow he'd known and not known at all was no more.
He could barely wrap his head around the meaning of those words. He might've wallowed in his self-pity, shouted that the king is dead, but fuck that. He wasn't dead. He was very, very far from dead. And now, death stared at him, cruel and humorless, through the dulled eyes of his once-lover. It smiled knowingly through the cracks in her body, taunted him with the rich smell of it.
Without knowing it, he had drawn breath again—soft, tentative breaths, hesitant, intruding upon this space in which she no longer breathed.
Who had done this? How could it have happened? There was reptile skin, and angrily he brushed it away with his muzzle, eyes blurring up with unbidden tears.
"Psyche," he croaked, heart staggering. The King and Queen—one dead of heart, one dead of body. Soul. Everything. Complete and utter silence in the hallways of her thoughts.
He had never gotten to know her again. Never gotten to love her again—for he had, then and always, deeply, viscerally, not as whimsically and flightily as he loved Ophelia. It had been love of another kind.
But it had been love. And now, she was nothing. She would be earth. He ground his teeth together.
Something had to give.
Someone had to pay.
The Phoenix King would rise from its ashes and he'd see the fucking world burn.
[ NOTE: Mau remains by her body. He'll eat your face if you try to touch it. ]
du lät exakt som ismael.
