Post by •Sweet Requiem• on Dec 5, 2009 14:50:09 GMT -7
+ SWEET REQUIEM +
••• CALL ME SWEE •••
Though art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.
- Bible, Daniel v.27
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When morning came, there was only silence; her breath commingled with the frost of morning's dew, cast off from night's ungentle embrace. Metal in her blood, metal in her eyes, metal in her head -- it was all she thought about, this cold, this existence that lay beyond her reach. She could no more hold onto it, than she could open her eyes and view the sunrise for what it was: beauty.
There was no beauty in silence, no beauty the world that woke while she remained in stillness, as a stone, as the blade she had once been. Alive now, but not by much; her body no longer broken, no longer emaciated, she was full, thick with muscles, slender in her wrists, her ankles, in the dexterous turns of her quick-witted fingers. So eager to prove, so eager to please, but they lied in stillness, now. The morning had come, the silence heralding it's approach, the dew on her nose, dampening the brilliant locks of her hair, and all she could do was turn her face toward it; shadows flickered in the contours of her visage, playing some sort of demented game of tag as thoughts rustled behind the ubiquitous monstrosity of her existence, reached out to strangle her heart -- she was here again, alone again, and the night had not broken to spare her another day. She lived, as if in defiance, but of what, she could no place.
So instead she watched, her eyelids beaded with crystallized water, curved ever so delicately on the precipice of lash where it trembled to meet cheek. She ached, this humanoid body, as if the flesh remembered a different shape, a different material, and the soul had not yet conformed. Haunted by these impressions, with no ambition or motivation, she gazed at the streaking colors of dawn's first, gentle touch, the slowly brightening rays of light lacerating her eyes; slanted eyes, reminiscent of a cat's playful turn of mischief, flickered shut against the bright canvas, disgusted by the colors -- the blood of dawn was nothing to it's counterpart: dusk. It was when the night was coming, and the sky was painted a vivid splash of red, like blood, did her heart stir within her breast, did she breathe easier, comfortably to see it, to know it, to want it.
Now though, as the stiffness left her limbs, Sweet Requiem, Tsukumogami and Youkai alike, left the niche of her nighttime hell, left the embedded area of where her body had lain, impressing upon the earth her nightmares, her fears, her sorrows -- she left it behind in search of the desires, of the hunger in her blood that had not been met. More than the growling rumble of her stomach, tight and empty for two days. More than the windswept, waterlogged locks of hair that dampened her cheeks, made her paler than the ghost she usually was; no, she had left her gaunt past behind her, but this surreal, frightening cast to her appearance was not much better.
Feral.
If she were them, she would kill herself on sight -- but lacking any sort of mirror, and any sort of true motivation, she only knew her hands were meant for action, decisive, efficient. That she was a weapon was obvious in the wiry frame of her body; it came to life then, in the grove of her night time debauchery (pyretic dreams made manifest by swollen limbs, puffy eyes, the yearning, gods the sexual arousal!).
Sweet Requiem left it to the shadows long before the sky turned it's opulent, cerulean eyes toward her; she was moving then, caught on the wind her emotions, tumultuous and chaotic. She sang, her voice throaty and carrying, a haunting thrum of life coming from a creature of death, a creature of destruction -- and she reveled in the unspoken irony, in the witticism of her mere existence that she instinctively understood. What was this freedom of motion? This dance of life that worshiped one thing and one thing only: cut.
Cut hard, cut deep, but as long as the motions were wild, were feral, there was relief in her heart, an outpouring of frustration born of long weeks of dormant failures. How long could she search for this thing before giving up? -- she cast the thought from her, projecting it like a rock, letting the ripples it created in her soul erase the worries, the wonder, the perplexity. Instead she sang, her voice throaty, her eyes sharp with a strange sort of animalistic intelligence: cold, brutal. Waiting, waiting for the next move, for the game to set itself up before her. What path lay in front of her before? She danced as she ran, danced as she moved, as she lived, as she breathed -- her whole world became this dance of death, this stalking of nighttime phantoms, destroying them with her voice, with her intentions, and she danced all the way over the Nameless hill, past the Garden of the sun. The flowers watched in silence, like the sunrise, like the sundown -- always calling though it was silent, always buoyed by this perception of unity. She had been one of these things once -- her soul cried out in encouragement, but unable to grasp the language in which it was written, she dances on, on, on -- until there is nothing at her feet but mud, but old road, old dying grass ----------
------------------------- until the thick smell of blood perfumes the air, opens her senses to an alluring memory just out of reach. A flash of steel and she tastes blood in her mouth -- a memory there and then gone, as mist veils the past of her creation. Blood.
Blood.
She steps forward, her voice dying, her breath sharp in her chest, dying, dying. Blood. Without it, she too was dying.
word count;; 983
tags;; Anyone, OPEN! ^-^
OOC;; w00t, debut post FTW
