violence
“Because they’re beautiful,” she says, and her voice is a coo, as if the creature could hear her, as if it could care.
Truth is, this is all she’s ever loved – these creations of hers, her masterpiece menageries of bone.
She loves them for their horror, for the way they are so uniquely hers: hers to wield, and control. Hers to make dance or pray or open mouths in a laugh, or a scream. This is what she thinks of love – that there is a master and a puppet; and that she will always, always be the master.
The girl asks the question - what do you mean, let you in - and it’s so delightfully innocent, Violence can practically sense her defenselessness, her vulnerability. Like a babe stranded out in the middle of nowhere; and she, the wolf at the door.
“I’ll show you,” she purrs, with the same low coo she’d used for the bones. She is beginning to see the girl like that, a puppet to be had.
She slips her mind out, reaches for the girl. It’s as easy as turning a knob, and she opens easily, and then Violence is in her mind, a strange and febrile place, and for a moment fear wraps around her like tendrils but she shakes it off, she doesn’t let herself get drenched in the girl’s piteous feelings.
Instead, she focuses on the bone creature, which stays, swaying. It looks horrific, from the girl’s eyes, strange and alien. Violence makes her blink, refocus.
It’s beautiful, she thinks, and the bones become more what Violence is used to – a masterpiece of the macabre, a subtle artistry in the way different bones are made to slot together, all from different species that had lived in no such harmony.
Beautiful.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
let me know if you want any of this changed <3