goodnight, goodnight
She walked through, hips swaying with underlying fidelity, making her home in the duplexes of the dead. She licked her fingers, tasting the rich delicacy that was her kill tonight. She bathed in the dead life of the rotting skin that held hollow tendons and ligaments together. Each one made the rouge hue of her eyes deeper, glowing with a newborn intensity. Each one made the curve of her lips higher and higher, showing voracious teeth that were never satisfied with what she gave them to tear through.
This bloodlust wasn't going to go away, and trying to drown it out like this might have been considered feeble and abortive. But there was nothing else to do with her blades, and there was nothing she could use to mold herself out of what she was already molded into.
Killing wasn't just a pasttime. It was a way of life. It was her. It was something she never wanted.
Her legs found the rooftop, gliding over crumbling bricks and rusty railings. The sky was dark, feeding and feeding her insatiable soul with more, more but just not quite enough.
The moon reflected off her brilliant ivory canines, and the stars were twinkling. All she wanted to do was cut them open, stop the happiness, make them bleed and come to terms with what was going on.
She pulled out the blades, bent her back, and found her aerodynamic posturing. She was blurring against the background of the city, blending in as fresh spray paint against the shadows of an alleyway. She was flashing, a whirlwind against anything that was foolish enough to get in her way.
She was running, running so far and trying to get away so fast. Faster and faster she got, trying to pull apart from the skin that was latched across the tendons and ligaments too tightly, too securely.
That warehouse - that slaughterhouse - it was taunting, haunting, made her fight against herself this way. This flighty attempt didn't have an ending, and she was never able to think it through. The Crimson was a leech, and it had already absorbed too much of her soul. Who was she, before all this? Before this town, before the Tsviets came to be?
She realized - she wasn't anyone.
What are you doing, trying to escape again?
The dull, resurfacing brown forming inside the irises of her eyes were quickly overtaken by the shocking red that she was now. It was her, so why was she fighting it if the brown wasn't anymore? She was always Rosso and always would be.
She condensed, slowing to a stop. She closed her eyes, breathed in deep and swift, and looked up. A menacing smile overtook her face, and laughter broke through her twisted lips. She had won against herself again, another great victory, another pointless loss.
But her ears were bleeding, and she wasn't noticing. Her sharp, sharp nails her breaking, but she was swaying her hips. Her tendons and ligaments were loosening, but she was busy devouring an illegal dosage of the glittering blackness of the night.
The placement of her footing would always have a slight shake in those deadly heels.
a/n: So I don't know the character of Rosso very well. Please reviewww.
But I NEED to mention: and her awesometastic story, Too Poetic: Even for Him; GO READ NAO. I probably never would have wrote this without going click-click on that story. :D