The way the snow looks against the black sky reminds him of the galaxies he’s left; little planets, little stars, specks of nothing consequential lost in a sea of never ending nothingness. He would return to them, eventually, but Elektrum does not hurry for anything (or anyone, for that matter). Instead, he watches the snowflakes melt by the heat of his body; worlds devoured at his whim. He takes a moment (a moment only, nothing more) to wonder after the girls he’d shown the stars then stripped them bare of, and the end of his lips curl in a way that can’t resemble mental stability.
He wonders if they’ve met their ends, yet.
Sometimes he showed them if he was feeling particularly spiteful; watch their bones as they’d blanche, and the earth, eventually, that swallowed what remained. They would call him a sociopath, but he knew that he was always a little too cruel for the insult to carry and weight. The last girl, a masochist of sorts, had loved him, craved him in a way he could never reciprocate. She wore her desperation like perfume; heavy.
He isn’t kind, and time has done him no favours. Each day has brought him further and further away from reality, inflated his mind with a lethal combination of knowledge and half-truths. Today, he flickers into existence along the edges of the meadow where the snow falls heavy and sticks to his dark eyelashes and coats the bend of his back in a matter of seconds. In general, he avoided this world, where its patrons insisted on monopolizing his time and stealing pieces of him like vultures stripped away the flesh from bone - but he’s grown bored again, of shifting space and time, moulding it like putty into the shapes of his choosing.
Today, he seeks adventure.
Today, he seeks a game.
ELEKTRUM
how time twines around your neck,