the c r o o k e d youth {any!}

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. You always loved the cold. We could be cliché and say it’s cause it’s like your heart, you ice queen, you cold bitch. But that’s overdone, besides, calling you heartless isn’t quite right, is it? I really believe you loved those girls you left ruined, in your own awful way. Of course, the swan necked girl would have disagreed as she lay dying and you smiled hopelessly with you bloodied lips. Of course, your desert rose queen would have disagreed when you violated her and later rutted with her king just for a slap in the face, setting back their fairytale romance decades. But I think you loved them. In that horrible, awful way of yours, you loved them. So you don’t love the cold because it’s like your heart. You love the cold because it’s like you – cold, beautiful, dead. My corpse masterpiece does not quite match the snow. She is gray, but not the pristine white. She is much more of a dishwater gray. But ah, she is beautiful, a plastic queen molded too-perfect, a Barbie doll of a creature. She is man’s image of beauty, which somewhere along the way leaves her strange and warped and not-right. The eye needs a flaw, a contrast to the perfection. And oh, she has plenty of flaws, but they reside inside of her, in her peculiar and rotted mind. She is a maelstrom of madness, a woman scorned with a memory like wet paper. She comes and goes here, unchanging (the dead do not change overmuch, certainly do not age). She heard that the old night king was dead, burned right up by his daughter, and the thought of it makes her laugh until her sides ache. She’s in the meadow, watching, the animal cunning alight in her eyes as they fall on a mare, coal-black and stunning against the snow. The mare is ragged, twig-adorned as she breaks through the ice. My corpse-girl writhes forward, her gait ungainly as she lays waste to the snow, coming closer. She is too close, now, feeling the heat radiate from the mare and ah, the warmth is lovely (and something she possesses precious little of). “You must be cold,” she says, voice a purr, eyes bright and glassy, “out here all alone.” chantale how original a sin.