03-01-2016, 04:21 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. The way she says their names is a game, or maybe it’s an instinct, something engraved in her from years of madness. She knows how to make them want her, at least for a moment, hooded eyes staring from shadows and body gleaming in plastic perfection. It’s all strange and wrong but she is all strange and wrong, my corpse masterpiece, every inch of her cooling corpse body and every rotting neuron of her mind. So in all her wrong she says their names, coos and sighs and screams them, and sometimes, they stay. Never for long, of course, because the wrongness of her seeps in their skin like a parasite and they run, they find others who are warm and sane and sweet and my corpse girl, she goes on, she finds another name to say. In this closeness, this silent moment when she can feel the warmth radiating from her daughter’s skin, she sighs as if she is content, as if this is something they’ve both missed, the easy love of mothers and daughters. Vaermina says nothing – she’d always been far too quiet and meek of a girl to be of much interest – but Chantale drinks in the fear that radiates off of her, that particular stink that emanates from her pores. “Why my love,” she says – it’s a word that doesn’t deserve to be in her foul mouth, “you’re practically glowing.” how original a sin. |
if you didn't want her to know just ignore that bit
