07-23-2010, 10:20 AM
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it's poetry carved in flesh, this beautiful hell of ours
Every movement brought about a sickeningly delightful sensation of agony, tearing through the half-healed wounds across his body. Scabs tore and bled, allowing darkness to seep down his arms and torso, reminding him that he still lived and breathed. It was a fucking tragedy. He didn’t deserve to live—not after what he’d done, and what he’d failed to do. He punished himself, reserving the final right for another soul—his beloved, should fate allow it. Until then, he would ensure that he was reminded each and every day of just what a worthless prince he was. He had been destined for greatness, but he’d fallen. The fallen angel had succumbed to decay. It was fucking ironic. He carried nothing save a knife, wreaking havoc on his mortal form. Mortification of the flesh, he’d flay himself alive had he the means. His sorrow was apparent—his self-deprecation demanding physical manifestation of the wrongs he’d committed.
He could not go on if he didn’t make things right, or die in the process. Silently, he moved along the coast, inhaling the briny scent of the ocean and the summer breeze slowly washing ashore. It would be dawn soon. He could see the distant eastern horizon beginning to glow, though from here it would not be as magnificent, for the ocean here faced the wrong way for such a spectacle. The sunset he could see though, as darkness consumed the world. He seated himself on a rock, turning crimson gaze toward a pair of seagulls as they squabbled airborne over something insignificant. He hadn’t eaten in ages. He was gaunt, skeletal, with ragged hair that veiled his features. He didn’t move, not for the longest time. He may as well have become a part of the very shoreline itself.
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WARNING This thread contains: A masochistic character displaying themes that some viewers may not enjoy, starting with the very 1st post. Oh, and there's a creepy Halo table here as well. Reader discretion is advised. |
Every movement brought about a sickeningly delightful sensation of agony, tearing through the half-healed wounds across his body. Scabs tore and bled, allowing darkness to seep down his arms and torso, reminding him that he still lived and breathed. It was a fucking tragedy. He didn’t deserve to live—not after what he’d done, and what he’d failed to do. He punished himself, reserving the final right for another soul—his beloved, should fate allow it. Until then, he would ensure that he was reminded each and every day of just what a worthless prince he was. He had been destined for greatness, but he’d fallen. The fallen angel had succumbed to decay. It was fucking ironic. He carried nothing save a knife, wreaking havoc on his mortal form. Mortification of the flesh, he’d flay himself alive had he the means. His sorrow was apparent—his self-deprecation demanding physical manifestation of the wrongs he’d committed.
He could not go on if he didn’t make things right, or die in the process. Silently, he moved along the coast, inhaling the briny scent of the ocean and the summer breeze slowly washing ashore. It would be dawn soon. He could see the distant eastern horizon beginning to glow, though from here it would not be as magnificent, for the ocean here faced the wrong way for such a spectacle. The sunset he could see though, as darkness consumed the world. He seated himself on a rock, turning crimson gaze toward a pair of seagulls as they squabbled airborne over something insignificant. He hadn’t eaten in ages. He was gaunt, skeletal, with ragged hair that veiled his features. He didn’t move, not for the longest time. He may as well have become a part of the very shoreline itself.