There is a very thin line between obsession and lunacy. An obsession often grows from a stem of infatuation. A budding bloom of want, or need. You want to be them, want to be near them, you learn that you then need this so, so very much. Cast a stone into a pool of water and you get ripples, each ripple is your heart slowly dying within you, when the object of your fixation ebbs away. Slowly that infatuation turns to obsession. Then without even knowing you are hounded by thoughts, consumed by it all. I will healthily admit I have a terrible way of obsessing. My mind locks on to things (remember, my mother named me a key, so I have this penchant for locking things…) and will refuse to let go. Death being the only way.
I had obsessed over escaping my past for too long, soon enough it came to fruition and I am now here. Still with a mind full of obsessive riddles and deathly rhyme. I listen, my inky tendrils like cobwebs before my dark eyes. I’m lost within her, Chantale. A wayward raft down a cascading waterfall, all I see is rocks and splints beneath me, and yet I willingly fall, I jump with eyes wide open and arms outstretched. I have a fierce loyalty in my blood (my mother had been so loyal to my bastard father, even when on her deathbed, she refused to leave.) it is like a taint, a stain, but a rather affirmative stain I don’t mind tarnishing me. There are many more defects to have, I’m certain.
Chantale’s breath is a siren’s song. appeasing to my ears and bridling my soul with invisible strings. I feel it, I feel every little fibre of my being knitted with her. Invisible threads binding us. I will do anything, everything in my power, my life, to please her, to find out everything I can find out. There is no greater weapon in life than knowledge, and if I can find out the knowledge of life, and the knowledge of death, then I can die with a smile on my lips.
The first thing I learnt, was that death is never a flaw. Life began and death ended. The in-between was the greyscale of life, you made it what you could. Well I am damn sure I can make it greater, selfish and proud in my vain attempts, I claw at everything in my path. Chantale is an option, the deathly goddess, a choice. And it’s her words, a lullaby, soothing me, haunting me.
There is a thin line between obsession and lunacy. And I am in the threshold of both, my ink frame bordering the shadows, my dark eyes ever observant. there are trees here, blackest black tendrils wrapping themselves around me, pulling me closer and closer to the edge, knife sharp shards pressing into my throat, my skin, pushing me ever closer to the frostbitten mare, deeper into the realm of torturing darkness. I am night, I am dark. I am everything she wants me to be, I am everything I can be. I will spill blood, i’ve done it before, it is simple, painless for me, not much for the other. I will taste the life-force upon cracked lips and whisper sweet nothings into the night.
’Yes.’ As her body presses against mine, a perfect fit, not a crevasse in sight. Black and ivory, yin and yang. A proverbial light to a despairing dark. My voice is hoarse, like there’s nothing left within me. Like the threads that are slowly binding us, tight, tight, are suffocating me. My lips black velvet, her words black magic. I touch her neck, her shoulder; skin as cold as ice, as pale as the moon, her eyes as dead and dark as the deepest wells in forbidden woods. ’Yes, I am yours’ I say it once more, hauntingly, a smooth song in the night.
’I’ll do anything, everything.’
So long as in the end I get exactly what comes to me. Knowledge. Power. Even if death takes my soul and binds me to the haunting mare beside me, I will grateful walk the valley of darkness to find her again. I would owe her that, I would owe her blood and soul, life and death.
I’d owe her, everything.
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