11-18-2007, 03:04 AM
[html]
Misery had been suffocating. The overwhelming fear of air pulled from her lungs, leaving her vulnerable had pulled her out of the dark comfort sleep held, and she'd awoken, a scream on her lips. But she'd bitten it back, choked it down, and would not scream. The devil would not have that prize. For all her weakness and her uselessness, she rarely screamed in fear. Rage made her voice strong, rarely did the petty feeling of terror. Her whole life was a terror. Her bright eyes had searched the cabin, before she had taken off into the darkness.
The air pulling in and out of her lungs was bitterly cold, and it made her shudder and twitch like a horse as she ran. Her body was moving and the muscles pulling and bringing her onto the brink of terrible pain as she went, lost in her desire. The moonlight made her body seem ghostly, as if God had already taken her into his cold and loveless arms and declared her unworthy, sending her crashing back onto the earth. Her wings would melt, she would one day fly too close to that sun. The cane had been left in the ramshackle home Ahren had arranged, and some vague part of her that held no desire for death or for sweet oblivion, some vaguely rational part of her mind cried out for her to stop. But that part was not needed now. She was lost in the ecstasy one could only find in agony.
Pleasure rarely lasted long. From the land of fog and sorrow she had ran, into the bare bones of desolation. Ghosts were calling from the darkness all around, and in a flash she could have sworn she saw eyes that haunted her, eyes that would have been a beautiful blue if not for the milky cataracts that coated them. Her mind had struggled to process the impossibility of Meth's eyes shining out of the darkness, so real that she was terribly certain it was no delusion. A choking sound escaped her as she looked back in the moonlight, certain she would see the eyes again, certain the dark God of the Depths had come to take her. The broken branch of a tree, one she had long ago been fond of curling under, not that the tree was familiar to her caught between her legs as she ran, and she went down hard, the bad leg buckling, the leg she knew she shouldn't run on, the one that screamed with the pain of it all betrayed her, and she landed hard on that shoulder, her momentum sending her skidding, pulling back flesh and fur.
A sharp and wicked noise in the night as she crawled unto hand and knee, shoving herself back into a sitting position, hands grasping and feeling at the wound, spitting blood from the traitorous tongue she had bitten so sharply down upon. A sense of foolishness was looming over her, she should not have run, she knew it, but God had sent his demons after her heel. Misery could not have been still for anything in the world. The flesh had been rubbed away violently off of her shoulder, leaving a nasty looking would from which she pulled out a large chunk of wood that had been firmly pushed in. Chimera was in her veins, now, and the very thought made her laugh in a slightly unhinged, bitter way. Looking around as she sat there, waiting for the biting pain to fade some, waiting for it to subside as she spit bloody foam.
"I can see you." Her voice snapped out in the darkness. Misery's voice was as young as ever, slightly deep, and very beautiful. Like her eyes. Her body was a waste, always too thin and rangy, now coated in a bright whiteness that made her tremble with the horror of it, but thankfully stained with black, like blood on sheets that once housed a virgin. A quiet sin wrapped in a package that seemed so frail. The triskele on her shoulder, the scars on her palms, the shaggy black and white mane of hair. Eyes so bright they seemed impossible. Ribs and a spine that seemed destined to always peek out. A soft sound escaped her, a quiet and utterly hopeless kind of moan. This much she knew was not a reality, but it was terrifying all the same. Meth, Rift, Jude, all waking on the peripheral of her vision, so close and lucid she could have touched them if she let herself fall into her delusions. But she willed it away, grasping at her mane of hair, pulling so tightly beads of blood formed where she was pulling it out without realizing, eyes staring at Chimera's soil, tongue forming a dark prayer to her God, in the guttural and harsh tongue of her ancestors. Perhaps God would hear her prayers, but it seemed so much more likely the Devil would have her. Such was life.
[/html]
Misery had been suffocating. The overwhelming fear of air pulled from her lungs, leaving her vulnerable had pulled her out of the dark comfort sleep held, and she'd awoken, a scream on her lips. But she'd bitten it back, choked it down, and would not scream. The devil would not have that prize. For all her weakness and her uselessness, she rarely screamed in fear. Rage made her voice strong, rarely did the petty feeling of terror. Her whole life was a terror. Her bright eyes had searched the cabin, before she had taken off into the darkness.
The air pulling in and out of her lungs was bitterly cold, and it made her shudder and twitch like a horse as she ran. Her body was moving and the muscles pulling and bringing her onto the brink of terrible pain as she went, lost in her desire. The moonlight made her body seem ghostly, as if God had already taken her into his cold and loveless arms and declared her unworthy, sending her crashing back onto the earth. Her wings would melt, she would one day fly too close to that sun. The cane had been left in the ramshackle home Ahren had arranged, and some vague part of her that held no desire for death or for sweet oblivion, some vaguely rational part of her mind cried out for her to stop. But that part was not needed now. She was lost in the ecstasy one could only find in agony.
Pleasure rarely lasted long. From the land of fog and sorrow she had ran, into the bare bones of desolation. Ghosts were calling from the darkness all around, and in a flash she could have sworn she saw eyes that haunted her, eyes that would have been a beautiful blue if not for the milky cataracts that coated them. Her mind had struggled to process the impossibility of Meth's eyes shining out of the darkness, so real that she was terribly certain it was no delusion. A choking sound escaped her as she looked back in the moonlight, certain she would see the eyes again, certain the dark God of the Depths had come to take her. The broken branch of a tree, one she had long ago been fond of curling under, not that the tree was familiar to her caught between her legs as she ran, and she went down hard, the bad leg buckling, the leg she knew she shouldn't run on, the one that screamed with the pain of it all betrayed her, and she landed hard on that shoulder, her momentum sending her skidding, pulling back flesh and fur.
A sharp and wicked noise in the night as she crawled unto hand and knee, shoving herself back into a sitting position, hands grasping and feeling at the wound, spitting blood from the traitorous tongue she had bitten so sharply down upon. A sense of foolishness was looming over her, she should not have run, she knew it, but God had sent his demons after her heel. Misery could not have been still for anything in the world. The flesh had been rubbed away violently off of her shoulder, leaving a nasty looking would from which she pulled out a large chunk of wood that had been firmly pushed in. Chimera was in her veins, now, and the very thought made her laugh in a slightly unhinged, bitter way. Looking around as she sat there, waiting for the biting pain to fade some, waiting for it to subside as she spit bloody foam.
"I can see you." Her voice snapped out in the darkness. Misery's voice was as young as ever, slightly deep, and very beautiful. Like her eyes. Her body was a waste, always too thin and rangy, now coated in a bright whiteness that made her tremble with the horror of it, but thankfully stained with black, like blood on sheets that once housed a virgin. A quiet sin wrapped in a package that seemed so frail. The triskele on her shoulder, the scars on her palms, the shaggy black and white mane of hair. Eyes so bright they seemed impossible. Ribs and a spine that seemed destined to always peek out. A soft sound escaped her, a quiet and utterly hopeless kind of moan. This much she knew was not a reality, but it was terrifying all the same. Meth, Rift, Jude, all waking on the peripheral of her vision, so close and lucid she could have touched them if she let herself fall into her delusions. But she willed it away, grasping at her mane of hair, pulling so tightly beads of blood formed where she was pulling it out without realizing, eyes staring at Chimera's soil, tongue forming a dark prayer to her God, in the guttural and harsh tongue of her ancestors. Perhaps God would hear her prayers, but it seemed so much more likely the Devil would have her. Such was life.