Don't ask me what is it. I had the sudden urge to write and publish something quickly, so I thought "what the heck" and just did it. I wrote this in about fifteen minutes (while I should be studying for my English test, but whatever) and I am not sure if it's good or bad, so I would really aprecciate if you could give me some advice about how to improve this. It's basically a one-shot from Frollo's P.O.V. where he reflects on his desire for Esmeralda (cliché, I know, but I had to start somehow). Thank you for bothering to read! Please review (and correct my grammar mistakes, if it's not asking too much)!
I feel a strange, unfamiliar heat pulsing through my veins; it feels nice and warm at first, but I know that under that innocent disguise lies an invisible, fatal demon, like poison furtively thrown into wine. And this poison, your merciless venom, is the worst of all: it does not kill; it sweetly brings a man to the depths of his soul, to places he doesn't wish to visit – the places where he hides his shame and weakness, until he is too deep to come back, and is forced to face his flaws, in open combat with himself – until it drives him insane.
And now, here I am... I sank so slowly and peacefully, attracted by the twirl of a rainbow-coloured skirt – has ever such a demon hidden under such a lovely disguise? – , with no remorse at all, as though I had made that choice myself.
And you, angel of darkness, you are the most cruel of all torturers. You dance, you sing, you laugh, you smile innocently and wickedly at the same time; whenever you spin around yourself to leave your delighted public to go back to your gypsy comrades, you tempt me to follow you knowing I can't. The whole world knows that I can't, but only I and God know that I actually wish to do so. Oh, the torment! Whip my back with your necklaces; pierce my eyes with your earrings; strangle me with your own bare hands, but please, do not provoke me anymore. Your ways are cruel, gypsy; inflicting such suffering to a man's soul and then laughing at him.
My sin, my obsession, the desire that makes me forget everything else but you. Is it your spell, gypsy? Have you bewitched me during a satanic ritual, just for the pleasure of ruining me? Or is it simply my maddened mind creating unrealistic feelings whenever I see you? I do not know. This mad desire stops me from thinking clearly, and now I do not see things as I did before. Little merchant of illusion, see what you've done? Now I live painfully waiting to watch, in an unearthly trance, your skirt floating around your body when you dance and when you sing!
I, who believed myself invulnerable to the fire of the flesh; I, who believed I was the cold winter itself, and here I am, a fertile tree, a man with a young and fiery soul, still able to – dare I say? – love. Yes, this strange, unhealthily kind of love has contaminated my heart, and I cannot be cured by anything but your own love, as fiery and sinful as mine. What a shame! Look what you've done to me. I, a holy man who swore to dedicate his life to God, turning away from every sin – I burn with desire for the eyes of a foreigner; the eyes which conceal more mystery than the moon herself!
I knew that someday you would lead me to my ruin. I knew it from the day I first saw you, dancing like an angel but also like a demon; with pieces of cheap metal clinging to your hair, and the sound of your tambourine as the song of my defeat. I always knew it...
You will destroy me.