01-21-2020, 02:40 AM
I hope he takes your filthy heart
and then he throws you away someday
and then he throws you away someday
Her face is almost impassive, and he cannot help but to wonder what might be churning beneath it. She must be hiding something beneath that cool exterior, he thinks, because he knows he certainly is. A face carved of granite hides a tumultuous sea of anger; anger that he no longer remembers the root of. He had not been born as this ruthless, almost heartless creature, but he had let it become him. He had let the poison sink into his veins until he knew nothing else, until it twisted into an irreversible knot at the base of his chest.
It had not faded in death, it seemed; still a white-hot burning that settled in between his ribs, begging for a reason to ignite.
“It’s not,” he says curtly, “not for everyone.” The pause that he lets settle between them is so heavy it feels as though it intends to be a stretch of silence, before he elaborates, “But mine was, so, I guess in a sense you’re right.” His dark gaze shifts from her face, staring out to where twilight stretches across the meadowlands. Most would find it beautiful, and he is sure if he wasn’t so busy being irritated at the world, he would too.
“Being alive and being dead really aren’t all that different,” he mutters mostly to himself – although it’s far from true. His life had been far from perfect, and it had been easy to forget how warm it was to have blood in his veins, and breath in his lungs. But the quiet fury was a welcome change from the dull apathy, but of course he didn’t want to admit it. His eyes then turn back to hers to ask in the low grit of his voice, “What reason do you have to be alive, Aurorae?”
It had not faded in death, it seemed; still a white-hot burning that settled in between his ribs, begging for a reason to ignite.
“It’s not,” he says curtly, “not for everyone.” The pause that he lets settle between them is so heavy it feels as though it intends to be a stretch of silence, before he elaborates, “But mine was, so, I guess in a sense you’re right.” His dark gaze shifts from her face, staring out to where twilight stretches across the meadowlands. Most would find it beautiful, and he is sure if he wasn’t so busy being irritated at the world, he would too.
“Being alive and being dead really aren’t all that different,” he mutters mostly to himself – although it’s far from true. His life had been far from perfect, and it had been easy to forget how warm it was to have blood in his veins, and breath in his lungs. But the quiet fury was a welcome change from the dull apathy, but of course he didn’t want to admit it. His eyes then turn back to hers to ask in the low grit of his voice, “What reason do you have to be alive, Aurorae?”
Dacian