Satanic Saint
He was smiling, a soft, gently loving gesture. His lips were parted slightly and pursed, as if he expected a kiss to brush against them. The smooth skin of his face was paled by the dim blue glow, illuminated like the natural aura of a purified archangel, strangely holy and full of fragile beauty. A sapphire sheen in his indigo hair crowned him with a halo meant for virtuous saints, often depicted in books and the stained glass windows of a church drenched in the crimson blood that bubbled out of the wounds that were their punishment for their piety. It was not out of place perched in the dark silk stands, the glowing circlet a perfect accessory to compliment the scarlet stains, turned maroon under the cast of gray shadows. Only there was no deep gash from a stone thrown from a heathen protesting the glory God had to offer, no bleeding stumps that gushed bright red liquid, missing the limb that was usually attached at the end but cut off when the infidels found their blasphemy offensive.
He was no saint, no angel. A murderer was mocking my horror with placid coolness, sweetly looking at me with the expression that befitted a young child who had been caught sneaking sweets right before dinner and was hoping to avoid being scolded by displaying their charm. Those irises that were so warm, liquid brown flushed with an underlying ruby tint, had seen the world through the eyes of a curious teenager, excited to embark on a great adventure yet at the same time warily worrying about the predicament that had been thrust upon himself. Now they are vacuums, sucking in the light and trapping it deep within the darkness of your soul, something that should be splashed with the beauty of varied harmonious colors, but now an emptiness so thick that even the god of void, Chaos, refuses to touch upon in it. There was no guilt, no regret. Just you standing there, clutching the borrowed weapon in your hand slick with another's agony, blinking at me and waiting for me to scream, sob, or snap your neck with a scream of fury while giving me that amused little grin.
The splash discolored your festive villager's clothing, those big eyes said nothing, felt nothing. as the whimpers of our friend chokes the atmosphere with tension. Her brilliant cerulean eyes that burned with the intensity of fear that yours lacked beseeched you to look at her, and tell her why. She had little time, moaning and clutching her side before going limp with a scarlet smear blossoming underneath her and slipping into the clutches of near death. The steady drip of the liquid life of others tracing the edge of the blade with red paint before plummeting to the floor echoed in the empty room, interrupted by the weak roar of alarm that rose out of the throat of our nemesis. But there you were, my possible new enmity, giving off a happy, stifled giggle that sounded more insane than gleeful.
Why? Why are you there, with an innocent's blood dirtying your shirt and so content to keep your intentions silent? Your name is Serge, the one that we yelled when you about to get knocked down by our opponents. The name that we called joyfully when we laughed and teased each other as we journeyed across the land. It was the name that we knew would change our lives the first time we heard it, the one that we all subconsciously swore loyalty to. And now. why are you not longer Serge? When and where in between did you morph into a killer who feels nothing when the warm sensation of blood spills onto your hands? And why?
Four bodies in all, two left standing, two down for the count, one probably never to rise again, the other just as likely to have the light fade from his eyes. And two left in perfect health, competing in a staring contest that I'm sure to lose. You don't flinch; you don't make any attempt to plunge the knife down my throat so I can gag on the steel of your newly acquired blade and my own blood. Instead, you fold your hands as if in prayer, dagger still in your grasp. If only you were praying for your salvation, repenting for your ultimate sin. Your wicked heart was estranged from the bliss of forgiveness.
You frowned. My heart stopped.
"What's wrong?" He whispered so softly that it rivaled the sound that the wind makes when it rushes through the leaves of the treetops.
I turned and ran. His soft laughter echoed hollowly, bouncing off the high ceiling, mutely somber with its mural of the earth's history, colors dull and faded from the passage of time. Oh God, how I ran..
Who's the narrator? Who knows? This is just what might have gone the third member of the party's head when "it" happened. I'm guessing that it's a female because of the tone, but it's up to opinion, really. I'd like others to tell me who they think it is. I was feeling slightly dizzy when I wrote this, and don't care much about what others think about this one. I'm just practicing my favorite style of writing; restricting yourself to writing only one page about a topic, in size ten text. I know that the religion isn't Catholicism in the world of Chrono Chross/trigger, with all that dragon stuff going on. But I love learning about the saints and stuff even though I'm not Catholic, so I put it as the theme. You can send as many flames as you want.
He was smiling, a soft, gently loving gesture. His lips were parted slightly and pursed, as if he expected a kiss to brush against them. The smooth skin of his face was paled by the dim blue glow, illuminated like the natural aura of a purified archangel, strangely holy and full of fragile beauty. A sapphire sheen in his indigo hair crowned him with a halo meant for virtuous saints, often depicted in books and the stained glass windows of a church drenched in the crimson blood that bubbled out of the wounds that were their punishment for their piety. It was not out of place perched in the dark silk stands, the glowing circlet a perfect accessory to compliment the scarlet stains, turned maroon under the cast of gray shadows. Only there was no deep gash from a stone thrown from a heathen protesting the glory God had to offer, no bleeding stumps that gushed bright red liquid, missing the limb that was usually attached at the end but cut off when the infidels found their blasphemy offensive.
He was no saint, no angel. A murderer was mocking my horror with placid coolness, sweetly looking at me with the expression that befitted a young child who had been caught sneaking sweets right before dinner and was hoping to avoid being scolded by displaying their charm. Those irises that were so warm, liquid brown flushed with an underlying ruby tint, had seen the world through the eyes of a curious teenager, excited to embark on a great adventure yet at the same time warily worrying about the predicament that had been thrust upon himself. Now they are vacuums, sucking in the light and trapping it deep within the darkness of your soul, something that should be splashed with the beauty of varied harmonious colors, but now an emptiness so thick that even the god of void, Chaos, refuses to touch upon in it. There was no guilt, no regret. Just you standing there, clutching the borrowed weapon in your hand slick with another's agony, blinking at me and waiting for me to scream, sob, or snap your neck with a scream of fury while giving me that amused little grin.
The splash discolored your festive villager's clothing, those big eyes said nothing, felt nothing. as the whimpers of our friend chokes the atmosphere with tension. Her brilliant cerulean eyes that burned with the intensity of fear that yours lacked beseeched you to look at her, and tell her why. She had little time, moaning and clutching her side before going limp with a scarlet smear blossoming underneath her and slipping into the clutches of near death. The steady drip of the liquid life of others tracing the edge of the blade with red paint before plummeting to the floor echoed in the empty room, interrupted by the weak roar of alarm that rose out of the throat of our nemesis. But there you were, my possible new enmity, giving off a happy, stifled giggle that sounded more insane than gleeful.
Why? Why are you there, with an innocent's blood dirtying your shirt and so content to keep your intentions silent? Your name is Serge, the one that we yelled when you about to get knocked down by our opponents. The name that we called joyfully when we laughed and teased each other as we journeyed across the land. It was the name that we knew would change our lives the first time we heard it, the one that we all subconsciously swore loyalty to. And now. why are you not longer Serge? When and where in between did you morph into a killer who feels nothing when the warm sensation of blood spills onto your hands? And why?
Four bodies in all, two left standing, two down for the count, one probably never to rise again, the other just as likely to have the light fade from his eyes. And two left in perfect health, competing in a staring contest that I'm sure to lose. You don't flinch; you don't make any attempt to plunge the knife down my throat so I can gag on the steel of your newly acquired blade and my own blood. Instead, you fold your hands as if in prayer, dagger still in your grasp. If only you were praying for your salvation, repenting for your ultimate sin. Your wicked heart was estranged from the bliss of forgiveness.
You frowned. My heart stopped.
"What's wrong?" He whispered so softly that it rivaled the sound that the wind makes when it rushes through the leaves of the treetops.
I turned and ran. His soft laughter echoed hollowly, bouncing off the high ceiling, mutely somber with its mural of the earth's history, colors dull and faded from the passage of time. Oh God, how I ran..
Who's the narrator? Who knows? This is just what might have gone the third member of the party's head when "it" happened. I'm guessing that it's a female because of the tone, but it's up to opinion, really. I'd like others to tell me who they think it is. I was feeling slightly dizzy when I wrote this, and don't care much about what others think about this one. I'm just practicing my favorite style of writing; restricting yourself to writing only one page about a topic, in size ten text. I know that the religion isn't Catholicism in the world of Chrono Chross/trigger, with all that dragon stuff going on. But I love learning about the saints and stuff even though I'm not Catholic, so I put it as the theme. You can send as many flames as you want.