violence
She is often alone but never lonely, she keeps her bone-thing by her side, and it is company aplenty. She is not a particularly convivial woman, and few approach her. She approaches some, of course – there has been a delicious courtship with a broken man. Not the romantic kind (she has no desire for that, nor does she understand it, her own heart has stayed granite in her chest), but it had been a sweet intimacy as he gave her control of his body, as she piloted him into any number of sins. The boy had left, eventually, gone from her clutches, and though she’d been bored of him, by then, she still misses him sometimes. He’d been easy, and a companion in his own way, if an unwitting one.
But such thoughts fall away as she continues to regard the thing before her. It is strange and exquisite thing, this slavering monster, and she isn’t sure if she wants it or wants to be it.
Violence and her bones, the thing says, and she laughs. He’s coy in his response, but gives a fitting name - Sinner - and a shiver runs through her.
“Sinner,” she repeats, “a fitting name, no doubt.”
She wonders what sins he’s committed. What’s he’s seen, or done.
(She realizes she’d stopped thinking of the monster as it and started thinking of it as he. Curious.)
“And who is this he, who named you?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
