c'est un (voleur) wrote in thedarkera, @ 2020-02-17 19:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | julie, vince |
don't scream.
my lips they are as cold as clay, my breath smells earthy strong
& if you kiss my cold clay lips, your days they won't be long
Something. A splintering light over the top of woolen hats dusted in a smatter of softly falling snow, over shoulders clad in balding riding coats, shivering. Laughing at their coldness, at the feel of being human.
Something, a lucent streak. Striking, like a match. Something staggering. A scent. A feeling. There was once a brunette girl he’d strangled to death while he took what he’d wanted from her. The sensation of her heart can still be felt underneath his palms in times of reverie. She peeks at him from death, as if through black gauze, a sore, blue shadow in the back of his mind. She was the cunt whose family created him. That gypsy whore, with her vipers’ eyes, alive, somehow, from the grave.
Something, a tickle on the back of his neck. Not a chill, he is all hoar, insusceptible, a traipsing, rimed monument in this wintry white. A dark blot, prowling. Blight in the wonder.
He sees her. He knew he felt something, and this was that something. He watches her, her head down, her generous smile when others glance at her. Her small shoulders. Her neatly tied back hair. He is instantly sick with rage.
He watches her, follows until, with a precise knowledge of these parts, she walks across the mouth of an alley. He is a terrestrial spider holing in its borough, snatching her like prey, yanks her in. His arms wound tightly around the slight waist, a hand over her mouth.
go fetch me water from the desert, & blood from out of stone
go fetch me milk from a fair maid's breast that a young man has never known
“Don’t scream.” He says.
And starts to drag her deeper in.