02-10-2016, 11:58 AM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. Most of them, my corpse masterpiece lets be. Oh, there was the boy – the only son, the princeling who mewled and sniveled whom she taught lessons to, taught him lessons of love in a symphony of bruises and broken skin. But most of them – most of the things that crawl from her sacrilege of a womb, or from whatever magic overtakes her and lets her father children when no father is found – most of them she lets be. Oh, there had been moments with this girl, ones she hardly recalls. Perhaps she bit her once. Perhaps there was something else. Perhaps the girl once watched her eat a heart. Who remembers? Yet the girl she should let be lives in her mind now like an echo. So, she tracks her. My corpse queen has a certain animal cunning when it’s called for, and a certain devil’s luck, so it’s not hard to find the girl who should not exist, who was bred in magic in a strange sick coupling, their lips slick with blood and heat. A girl raised like prey knows how to act it, so it should be no surprise when her prey-daughter’s back stiffens and her eyes twitch back and fro. Mother she says. And though my corpse masterpiece is undeserving of the word in every sense – for even biologically, she did not birth the girl – her dishwater gray body lurches from its shadowed spot and she comes forth, her graceless steps falling heavy on the earth. “Vaermina,” she says, overly sweet, like fruit gone rotten, “mother’s missed you so.” how original a sin. |