Hmm. S'probably strange to be updating so soon. But the plot bunnies for this story seem to be multiplying like…well…bunnies. So, here's chapter two, Incoherent. Dedicated to Suzu, who is my best friend and puts up with my ignoring her to write and then forcing her to read what I've written, and RAWR, who was not only my first reviewer, but also an amazing author. I really suggest you go read Without You Darling. Because I'm almost done reading it…(I would have been finished and reviewed had this annoying rabbit not popped out of my abandoned fedora…)…and it's awesome so far.
Faithless
By: Catty Rose
2. Incoherent – unable to think or express one's thoughts in a clear or orderly manner
A voice raised, foreign to sleep-hazed mind, distinctly masculine. A resounding smack, enough to rouse vague interest, only to die away as a seductive voice quietly offers a cold threat, and a door slams in the distance. Moments pass, and nothing but deafening silence endorsed by engulfing shadows greets blurry senses, eyes flutter closed. Rhythmic clacking of designer high heels against marble floors grows closer and closer, and blue eyes again open. Time marches on to a Monolo Blahnik staccato. Tick tock, click clack. And the golden god rises from the depths of silk sheets, staring unseeingly out his open door, uncomprehending.
Fire and ice in eyes as sharp and flawless as emerald meet and hold his own unguarded eyes of summer sky blue, and the world explodes. And rapidly comes back into focus. In an idle minute, he wonders if she ever feels anything other then indifference. Does he? They are two of a kind, after all.
Golden boy angel, the seductive devil of legend. China doll princess, saint sinner amongst sinners. She's wearing a mantle of apathetic rage, raw power humming around her commanding form. Absently, he thinks cold fury and power have never looked so good as they do on her. Merely a passing thought, perhaps voiced out loud in this moment that seems to be lasting an eternity.
And then it's over, and she goes to close the door in which she stands. As she turns to return to her own room, he can see her clutching her dirty little secret, a gift from her god. And as purple and silver bite into skin, he swears he sees rivulets of ruby welling up, and flowing freely. He wants to say something, but sleep is pulling him back into its comforting abyss. The door closes, swathing his room in shadows, and it's too late, because she's gone, gone, gone. The last sound he hears as he drifts off is the shattering of glass from the room across the hall.