Peeled

Pulling her skin off over her head like a sweater.

His hide slips from over his hips and down his knees. He walks out of them when they reach his ankles, tossing them aside in a crumpled mass behind him. 

She helps him take his upper half off after pulling him in for a kiss - before he loses his lips. 

Her teeth on the last of his skin. 

Standing bared to his bones, she smiles at him and kicks her feet. He grabs her toes and she clacks her jaw as he tugs her bottom half cleanly in one swift pull. 

In their bones, they touch ribs. 

Phalanges stroke tibias. 

Skulls tucked into collarbones.

 

- This is how I think. Welcome to a small slice of my mind. 

(This is a rough draft. Haven't put much effort into it or decided to work on it yet. Maybe later. Maybe not.)

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Cruel For Loving You

JournalWord: Hunger for a fool.

::

There is a pause, and he holds his breath when he hears a rustle and the scraping of her will to stand up. His ears prick up at the slow footsteps of her trek up the slope towards him. She stumbles over loose pebbles and drags her left leg through the dirt, slowly, cautiously, behind her. He can smell her acrid fear from the top of the hill. He feels momentarily sick to his stomach at the spike of dark pleasure and interest; a misplaced sense of rightness at such a morbid situation.

She's getting closer and he barks at her to leave, but inside, in his twisted mind, he taunts her to come closer. The crunching of her soles on the gravel stir up a warmth in his gut when she continues up the hill without hesitation or regard to his growls. He can hear every sharp gasping inhale and deep pant as she struggles to huff in a lungful of air through the biting pain of broken ribs.

She trips on an exposed root and in his feverish mind's eye, he watches her reach out with her uninjured arm to stop her fall. A soft gasp peals from her split lips and his chest flutters at the sound of a prey caught. The gash on her thigh pools blood when she lands and his calves twitch at the silent ripple when she steps in her own puddle when she wavers to get on her scraped knees.

He wants to eat her. Oh, God. Why does she have to be so delectable and sweet? His tongue sweeps the inside of his cheek, searching for any trace of her between his teeth. His stomach reels at his hunger and disgust. All his senses are tipped towards her, even though he struggles to face away from her direction. He's killing himself inside to not launch down the upturned turf and take her between his teeth. She's standing there, having reached the peak, practically in ribbons, looking so delicious.

He can smell her fear from where he stands, and he hates how it's making him delirious. 'She's not food!' he wants to yell, but only a pleased growl hums from between his incisors. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Everything is so bright. So pure and blinding, yet red and hazy. He just wants to run away and hide from this disturbing hunger.

He forces the image of her standing between the pews into his mind to stave off the lust, remembering the smile that lit up her face under her bride's blush. The beast inside of him laughs at his attempt to smother it, forcing a replay of her surprised expression when he sank his canines into her arm and rattled her until her shoulder popped and her arm snapped. He shudders and beats the image away helplessly.

She motions a twisted foot to take a step closer to him. Her foot dangles at a crooked angle and his mind inquires whether that was a result of batting her against the tree trunk. She leans her weight gently on the toes of her injured foot, ready to take another step, but a howl freezes her on the spot. 

The blood he could have ignored, even a small drop spreads a lot. Wounds don't have to be deep to paint someone vibrant, but he remembers the feel and taste of her flesh in his mouth and the sound of her bones cracking between his teeth, like he might wake to remember someone's voice talking next to him as he sleeps.

He had done this to her. And he wants to do even worse.

There is blood and scratches all over his mate, but she stares with a set determination without regard to her state. She cradles her left arm to her chest as she struggles to stay on her bleeding feet. 

"Are you alright?" she asks in a strangled voice and he chuckles humorlessly at her misplaced concern.

He isn't. God. He really isn't.

::

I am in metaphorical love with this song right now: Fool by Shawn Hook.

"I'm a fool for loving a heart that's cruel, I'm a fool for loving you..."

My, I'm not really one for love (in actuality, I don't believe in it...Although I attempt to write it. Possibly as a method to understand it??) but after listening to this song on repeat countless times, and analyzing what the victim must be thinking.

But then I thought, who really is the fool? (You decide.)

Well, anyways, I hope this got as confusing as it seems >.<

And let me know what you think about Shawn Hook! He's got an amazing set of pipes. 

I'm hoping to write the start writing the second installment of Bless during this long weekend (and before I become swamped in midterms and final exam prep!). So maybe if I'm lucky it'll be up in the next couple of days :)

We shall see, but until then, 
Be awesome.
Mera.

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Poison Prince

JournalWord: He is poison.

::

His first memory is war and starvation.

His next memory is of darkness and crying bodies.

He can hear the sobbing of other children beside him, quivering and howling in the pitch dark. He feels the walls behind him, pressing his hands against the rough stones of the cave. 

The howls and cries are so loud and don't stop for nights and days; time he can't decipher anymore.

 His tears of fear have dried from listening to the other children, and he can't find the heart to care about them. After fending for himself all his life on the merciless streets, scraping for days on rotten fruit and dried crumbs, this is an opportunity he must pull through with. 

They are feeding us, he reasons, and that is enough for him to ignore the cries and darkness. Just knowing that there is food to eat, albeit cold because he is squished far back by the walls, he can continue to bear with this hellish hole.

Slowly, his patience and perseverance prove worth when retching sounds start to intermingle with the screams and sobbing. The ground has become soft underneath him and he pushes away the thought of why. The bodies huddled and squished around him are losing their heat, so he pushes them away from him, without a care that they don't make a noise of protest.

The noises are silencing, and the sobbing cries are dwindling to whimpers that snuff out in due time. His food steadily becomes warmer by the time it gets to him until, finally, it comes served piping hot, straight from the oven to his waiting hands. 

He hasn't moved from his place from the back of the cave, eating whatever is given to him without a sound escaping his lips, even when the stomach pains ached for him to scream. The pain has long since passed, along with the cries, without any indication of it being present in the first place.  

He still eats, and the other children die beside him, spoons and bowls clattering around them, but he still eats until his spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl.

When the first light peeks through the opening at the other end of the cave, a bellow hollers for any survivors to come get their meal. On shaky legs, he makes his first attempt to walk, ignoring the smell he has almost become accustomed to and the mounds of rustic clothes he has to walk over. 

He is met with surprised congratulations at the door and light, and when someone breaks through the crowd to rustle his long, dirty hair, their hand burns black. He passes by the scream and writhing body, walking through the silent path and heading for the table, towards the steaming pot. He sits on the bench, alone, and helps himself to the porridge, having not been fed in nearly two days. 

He has become the poison that he is fed.

::

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