Red
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge Belongs to O Brilliant Baz.
Note: Another word challenge from Storm, using the following: smile, chill, crown, silk, control, disease. I have absolutely no idea how I thought up this one!
Dedication: to Janice, because she has played a huge role in my musings on Harold and Satine's relationship. And because she is one of the most incredible people I've been lucky enough to correspond with. Thank you for everything.
--
She sat on a throne in the Underworld, with hair that matched the fiery coals on which every creature danced. She was draped in majesty, and a crown that glistened in the sun's rays and the moonlight, lest anyone forget her place, or theirs.
Next to her rested Hades himself, and like a blossoming Persephone she had once made herself virginal and pure for him; satisfied the deepest desires that lay buried beneath his skin. When ecstasy flowed like water, he erected a pedestal and placed her upon it, turning her white to red. Seraph to sinner. The flowers that bloomed so beautifully in her hands became twisted and poisonous. Everything changed, yet stayed the same.
She lived in the searing layers of crimson sin, every chill vanishing as she ignited the flames of lust and wrath, sloth, greed and gluttony. Her favourite was envy, and she saw pallid faces turn emerald when her scarlet glow was cast upon them. She moved in a cloud of deceit, and behind her smile, there writhed a thousand lies.
He allowed her to choose lovers of her own, but she returned to his bed even after she'd spent hours entangled with another. He would brush her unkempt, hot curls away from her face, and kiss each part of her. The smooth ball of her shoulder, the curve of her left hip, the shadow at the base of her throat. When he dragged his teeth like a serrated blade across her skin, she cried out at the sight of her blood. He drew roses on her ivory body with the liquid pain, to control her screams. To numb her into sleep.
Dreamless sleeps.
She awoke with cold shivers that cascaded across her clotted wounds and naked flesh. Loneliness was a human condition, she'd heard once. A disease far worse than the one that made her throat raw and stained handkerchiefs with blood. It festered in every sore, the visible and the concealed. She had a myriad of lovers and a myriad of facets. Fabrications. A voice smooth as silk. Eyes like stars, veiled in a haunted shadow of darkness. Mouth upturned, though screams begged to cut through the illusion of joy. The truth escaping in evanescent whispers.
She returned to his bed, in hopes to somehow smother the flames that burned so brightly inside of her. To become virginal once again. To watch her crown shatter and her roses flourish.
And all she had was her dreamless nights. Devoid of colour.
For she would wake to the sin, her hands and face bathed in red.
--
© 2003 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge Belongs to O Brilliant Baz.
Note: Another word challenge from Storm, using the following: smile, chill, crown, silk, control, disease. I have absolutely no idea how I thought up this one!
Dedication: to Janice, because she has played a huge role in my musings on Harold and Satine's relationship. And because she is one of the most incredible people I've been lucky enough to correspond with. Thank you for everything.
--
She sat on a throne in the Underworld, with hair that matched the fiery coals on which every creature danced. She was draped in majesty, and a crown that glistened in the sun's rays and the moonlight, lest anyone forget her place, or theirs.
Next to her rested Hades himself, and like a blossoming Persephone she had once made herself virginal and pure for him; satisfied the deepest desires that lay buried beneath his skin. When ecstasy flowed like water, he erected a pedestal and placed her upon it, turning her white to red. Seraph to sinner. The flowers that bloomed so beautifully in her hands became twisted and poisonous. Everything changed, yet stayed the same.
She lived in the searing layers of crimson sin, every chill vanishing as she ignited the flames of lust and wrath, sloth, greed and gluttony. Her favourite was envy, and she saw pallid faces turn emerald when her scarlet glow was cast upon them. She moved in a cloud of deceit, and behind her smile, there writhed a thousand lies.
He allowed her to choose lovers of her own, but she returned to his bed even after she'd spent hours entangled with another. He would brush her unkempt, hot curls away from her face, and kiss each part of her. The smooth ball of her shoulder, the curve of her left hip, the shadow at the base of her throat. When he dragged his teeth like a serrated blade across her skin, she cried out at the sight of her blood. He drew roses on her ivory body with the liquid pain, to control her screams. To numb her into sleep.
Dreamless sleeps.
She awoke with cold shivers that cascaded across her clotted wounds and naked flesh. Loneliness was a human condition, she'd heard once. A disease far worse than the one that made her throat raw and stained handkerchiefs with blood. It festered in every sore, the visible and the concealed. She had a myriad of lovers and a myriad of facets. Fabrications. A voice smooth as silk. Eyes like stars, veiled in a haunted shadow of darkness. Mouth upturned, though screams begged to cut through the illusion of joy. The truth escaping in evanescent whispers.
She returned to his bed, in hopes to somehow smother the flames that burned so brightly inside of her. To become virginal once again. To watch her crown shatter and her roses flourish.
And all she had was her dreamless nights. Devoid of colour.
For she would wake to the sin, her hands and face bathed in red.
--