The Hand That Feeds
'You make holes in me and little slits
You use as mouths for you to kiss.'
- Nicole Dollanganger, Flowers of Flesh and Blood
That, she reflected, was the problem with pets. You can't keep a pet once its tasted blood, not once it has remembered its pedigree, remembered that the world is so much bigger than the cage you have confined it to for years.
Bishum looked down at her glass, the dark surface of the liquid, her own face reflected back at her. So much like Heaven, a pleasure of the flesh, a state of inebriation. She had neither forgotten what it was to be human, nor had she become fearful of her nature like Darom, hoping for a quiet death, swearing off imbibing the gift of the Creation King. Still, she had seen it necessary to limit her intake if only for the fact that the perception of being older afforded her more authority; what sway would she have if she looked like a child? Who would take her seriously?
She moved her hand gently, the image distorted with the movement of the wine.
When she had met the girl, she had been but feral, a wild beast living off scraps in the squalor of the old town, a flower in Hell.
With avarice, she had taken the girl for her own, greedily shaping her into an object of desire before deflowering her, something to toy with, something to play with, a companion in the dark gulf that existed between her and others.
And why should she not? Each of the High Priests had their own proclivities—even Bilgenia had his young men, the boys who would visit him late at night, the boys he would take his insecurities out on.
She had provided the girl's education, taking her to the theatre, the opera, the ballet, feeding her just enough Heaven that she might age to a point where she would be the most desirable, somewhere in her mid-20s, she guessed, she'd stopped paying as much attention recently. In the end though, the girl had proved as base as her origins, incapable of appreciating art, settling for tawdry spectacle, staring with wild eyed fascination at the tricks and illusions of a simple magician's performance as a child, warming with desire at the sensation of her heel upon the neck of some pleading pervert.
Such men are not worth your time, she had told the girl with disapproval upon the discovery of her hobby. Such men desire suffering, they seek it out; the true challenge is in humbling those who at first resist you.
Although she had tended this particular flower for the decoration of her bedroom, she had no interest wherever else her petals might fall. As long as she remained clean, and as long as she was available when Bishum desired her, those were the only rules.
From Samezu Yokocho, where she had been crawling in filth, to the elevated status she enjoyed now, Bishum had shaped her, groomed her, pruning leaves from her that were susceptible to rot and disease, a flower of flesh and blood, a pet that had turned to bite the hand that had fed it.
She swirled the wine within the glass once more. It was late, and still there was no word of her, and even though Bishum had been prepared to kill her if she succeeded in her task, still she felt a sense of sadness that the lateness of the hour suggested that she had already met her fate elsewhere.
There was an emptiness in her heart and her bed, and now she was so much older, so weary, conscious of the long days it would take to cultivate a fresh anemone from her garden.
Calmly, she brought the glass to her lips. Perhaps, the challenge would be invigorating, she thought; perhaps this time, it would be worthwhile.