His myriad cruelties are child's play next to hers. He toys merely with the body, whereas she plays cutting games with the heart. She's all razor-sharp smiles and poison-tipped glances, a deadly cobra with dazzling raven's-wing hair for scales and hypnotic, dusky garnet eyes to entrance her prey before she goes in for the kill. And when she looks at him with those starving-tigress eyes, lashes drooping to rest like sooty teardrops on her porcelain cheeks, he can't help but succumb to her will.
She moves slowly, sensually, every motion a languorous, honey-dipped production. She's showy without seeming put-on, a master of the stage. Just theatrical enough, she knows exactly how to captivate her audience, whether they're willing viewers of her one-woman show or not. She exudes leisure and apathy, so much so that it's nearly impossible to believe that each and every step she takes is a carefully calculated ploy. She's a war general, a puppet master, a jungle cat. She's a temptress, a seductress, a wolf in designer sheep's clothing. She's a predator: shrewd, strategic, and completely detached.
It's with this last—this most important, she thinks—that he's finally wrong. Oh, she cares. Oh, she's invested. A tiny corner of her frozen heart flames, burning painful and white-hot, just for him. Her cool, contemptuous façade is just that, but only for him. For him, when her lids droop like amber over smoldering dark eyes, it's not to tempt but to hide, not to invite but to shield. Because as much as he is hers and she is his, they'll never admit to being each other's.
So I should probably be writing Alice's suicide right now.
But after ultra-long-term writer's block, I finally got hit by inspiration, and I had to go with it. I've realized that as my life improved steadily, I had less and less angst to draw from for my writing, leaving me with nothing but nonsense and fluff- both of which are all well and good, but not nearly dark enough for my taste. Luckily, all it took for me to get to this little gem (I hope) was a fight with my mother, the right lighting, and a perfect blend of gorgeous, depressing music brought on by an accident involving my CD player, iPod, and speakers. For those interested, I was listening to Bella's lullaby and With Light There Is Hope by Princess One Point Five simultaneously (through the same speakers, in fact) while I wrote this and the Alice/James drabble I should be posting momentarily.
Before this author's note becomes longer than the drabble, I love Caius. And Athenodora. Thus, this.
And no, I do not own Twilight or any affiliated paraphernalia.
