Posthumous Monologue
Ellian M.
His icy hands drifted slowly down his chest. Standing above him, his sweet scent filled his senses, drowning him in some sort of perfumed ecstasy. Nerves twitched and he shuddered, the tips of his fingers making contact with the bare flesh of his exposed chest. How convenient, the warm night air had made him expose so much of this delicious flesh, ripe for the touch, ripe for the taking.
He could hear his heartbeat, that empty, phantom pulse, ringing in his ears. No need for it, he supposed, but the adrenaline still found its way into his being, to his very soul and he smiled, knowing it wasn't really there. It was only an echo but oh, it was of something so twisted and wonderful it could never dissipate. Only fade for a little, just to come back with a new passion, a new desire, unheard of in any realm before.
Closer he came, closer to his neck. Pale and long, slender, thin. It was beautiful, as beautiful as him. He was canvas, a blank slate ready to be taken and caressed, prepared, made into something terrible, breathtaking by his silken hands, the hands of an artist, the hands of an icy death.
His treasured twitched and rolled aside. Reality hit once more and he backed away. No, it would be another night. A night such as this but tainted with the bittersweet shadows of blackened tears, of life's crimson glow spreading about him, on him, through him, coursing within him once more. But for now this corpse would wait, this phantom angel who would save only one soul, save him for his beauty. Only one soul perfect enough for his hedonistic hate. One soul and only one worthy enough feel his unbridled passion
The window was left open and the curtains flapped, stinging gunpowder still present but disappearing quickly. The boy was awake but knew nothing of the chill that surrounded him, the tingle that ran up his spine and across his neck. No not tonight, tonight there would be nothing. The time was not right. But the time would come.
Then the heavens would shriek of the pain, of the glory, flailing about in their graves as the son of the blackened angels of night took to his prey, took to his only life and lived once more whilst together they were dead and dieing. Then, and only then, would there be a final rest for him.
--*--
Karasu thinks in purple prose. : )
-Ellie