09-08-2018, 05:15 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. He yields little, with his story – nomad and nothing more. She doesn’t mind. She smiles at the words – they mostly sound like static, to her – as if it’s a fascinating tale. She keeps close, listening for that flutter of pulse, the thud of his heart. The sounds and symphony of life, the things that have mostly gone silent within my corpse masterpiece. (She wonders this sometimes, when she is in her more lucid state. Where the threshold is between dead and alive. Where she exists within it. Her heart beats so slowly it’s barely there. Her blood oozes rather than flows. Yet she exists. She’s borne children. Curiouser and curiouser.) “You’ll get a story, in time,” she reassures, “perhaps a story of a witch you met in the forest.” He hadn’t asked, but she offers. “I came here long ago, from a land far, far away…” she can’t recall the name of it (she thinks of that place in proper nouns, in Herd and Prince and Her) (!! HER !!) “and I was a queen, once.” She wasn’t – she was lover to a queen (briefly, in an affair that ended – how else? – in blood. She was lover to that queen’s king, a revenge affair, but lover was not the word for what had transpired between them, filthy and useless. “Now, though…I mostly wander, too. Looking for things to amuse my fancies.” how original a sin. |