the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[Nykeln]

@[chantale]

the poison on your lips; The meadow was becoming my haunt, the shadows of the copse of trees that spotted the vast clearing made perfect darkness for me to blend into. My inky frame slithers through the trees, snapping bark beneath my feet as I travel, a quick jog, limbs pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling. I'd been concealed by the night, bidding farewell to my ghostly queen, ready to be her pawn in this game of chess. But my haunting lady, Chantale, her cold skin, her dead eyes, they were after something more than checkmate. I listen to the sounds of the day, the chirping of birds, the torrents of the river. All is a background noise to what I really hear. Thud. Thud. Thud. I crane my head, hearing it, faintly. It's close, the pulse of flesh and blood, the ripe heart ready to pluck from a warm, beating chest. I lick my dry lips, in visioning what it's like. Chantale had said things, in her cold melody. I was in rapture then, my own ideals pressed against her like a gun to my own head. I twist beneath it and all is lost, but do what we both want, the world, it would be ours. I can be such an idealist at times. I smirk then, a crooked feature tainting my ebony lips. I step out of the shadows and climb rocks, expertly a shadow merely staining the cliff face. The closer I get, the louder it feels against me, within me. Thud. Thud. Thud. Tender and red, ripe and fleshy. I lick my lips again and finally emerge from the rocks to the top of the Cliff, where I spot the life source. I confuse our heartbeats then as mine quickens in delight, in wonder. I have knowledge to obtain and that comes from eating hearts. Where else could one possibly begin to learn of the world? The heart seemed to rule many, it would just seem apt to take that part away. I step closer, my lofty frame quite a tower compared to the petite mare, my long, curled tresses damp against my neck as the sun beats down upon me with hot, sticky fingers. I come close, closer, reach out my velvet muzzle and speak, a serenade, a haunting lullaby, sickly sweet and as innocent as daisies popping up from graves. 'Precious little thing like you, all alone. Care for some company?' my voice hums in the air, an electric current blanketing the mare with a smooth, warm fuzz. I step closer, a dance of sorts; a dance with death. Long gowns and masquerades, dagger behind backs. It is a beautifully macabre thing, dancing with death, breathing down your neck. It's sensual, erotic almost. I feel the buzz in my own head, a burr, a worm wriggling it's way, deep into my memory bank. finding things and eating them alive. The mare trembles. Am I that frightening? a black shadow looming across the ridge, dark, dark, dark. Black magic in my voice, enticing, as I stalk closer, pressing my nose against the warm nook of the trembling mare's neck. She is all doe eyed and frozen in place. It's a shame, I wanted a little more of a challenge, but this, this thud, thud, thud, it was growing louder, louder. A crescendo in my skull that beat harder, faster. It was driving me into the throes of insanity, the realm of pure pleasure.  The petite mare, muddy brown, no real design, no real elaborate features, but her eyes, crystal blue, they are wide, wide like the expanse below us. My teeth grin in a cheshire smile, as she squeals, such sounds, they increase the blood flow, the red pulse within her, I can almost taste the bittersweet tang on my tongue. I suppress it for now, my salmon tongue coating my lips, as I drink her in. Woody scent, mud, earth. I step closer, my black body engulfing her. As I step closer, she moves back, her hooves skittering on the rocks, edging closer and closer to the decline. My eyes, dark pits of oblivion, they widen with an amusement. Lime a child watching a theatre show, the first time. Everything is pure magic, everything is real.  Thud, Thud, Thud. The blood is draining, the scarlet leaving her cheeks, her eyes, her throat is parched, her lips dry and cracking. I watch this, I observe every little change. the way a vein in her throat pops out, running with fear. The sheen of sweat that coats her mud bay pelt. I arch my neck then, crane my head to tower her even more, eyes drinking her in. Small little thing, like a little lamb.  'Ripe little thing. Thud, Thud, Thud.' a haunting lullaby, a death rattle. my voice is crisp, like shards of ice. I take a few more imposing steps forward and the mare stumbles, her backend falling, slipping and sliding, then her body goes. She's a blur, all hooves and flailing limbs. Half of her is hanging on with the dearest strings of life. Her eyes, straining with tears, her throat choked with wretched sobs. It's a sonata. A beautiful song. If only my haunting lady were here to see it. I step forward, grabbing the mare with ivory teeth, sharply they clutch at her neck, pulling strands of her gossamer threads. I pull her closer to me, and the fear, it slowly drains, there is hope there, beautiful hope, like blossoming roses, budding in spring. She calls, her cry is young, matches her petite frame. 'I'll save you.' my words bite into her neck, knotting in with her mane. She believes it, her pure little soul unmarred by any taints. The purest souls, they tasted the most delicious. Like ripe peaches, soft, fleshy and full of sweet nectar.  My lies wrap themselves around the mare, like a cotton blanket, warm, gentle. I can act, I can wear masks like any, but behind them, I am dark, I am cold and I am living on the memory of red on red. My scars pulse with vivid memories and I feel every little slither of pain the mare feels as I tear into her neck, ripping her soft brown skin, teeth meeting wet, tangy blood, then tasting wiry sinew. Every little action brings a memory. A harsh, painful one that just drives me forward. The snow does not stop falling. My legs are starting to ice up, frost marring my ebony coat with a pepper of ice. He's holding me in place, his dark eyes, his furious grin. He's a clown, a devilish clown with knives in his fingers and hell's fury in his eyes. He takes me there. Takes me like I am fully a mare, but I was just a yearling. Too young to understand, too naive to break away. It's pain. The icy rain was cooling against my feverish skin, even the shards of hale that beat into me, did not cause as much pain as He. The hellion, the brute. He did not last long after that. It was then the dark recesses of my mind, the labynrtih started, and I was finding corners unexplored, corners were secrets lurked. I had to find them all, had to unlock every door. I was the key. I just had to find those certain doors. Chantale was a key. My ghostly lady, she is a door to open, knowledge to attain. A beautiful, enchanting goddess. This is for her. This is for me. Obsession. It drives me, throws me in place and my sloping shoulders throw themselves forward, wrenching at the mare I pull her feet from the ridge and throw her. Her eyes, they are white, white like the falling snow of my memory. Her scream... her scream is a mimic of my own that day I saw the lifeless child born of hate, born of sin. I crept forward now, slow, steady, my heartbeat a steady pulse, unchanging. The veins in my neck are rigid, warm against my skin in the autumnal breeze. There is a crash, a scuffle below and my eyes drink in the presence.  Red painted everything. Red was the colour of flawless beauty; only masterpieces started with the colour scarlet. I slide down, the way I came. Tumbling rocks slip and slide beneath my feet, I bombard, I bulldoze. Jumping obstacles of rock and pieces of log until finally I am down. Metallic, sour, it tinges the air. The scene is beautiful. Like a macabre painting of a beautiful girl, strewn across rocks, her last dying breath a secret on blood stained lips. I canter closer, bury myself into her broken body. My muzzle stains crimson, I taste the bittersweet nectar. She is not as sweet as I had imagined. there's a tang, a tang of sin. I have cleansed her soul. Her beautiful, angelic soul. It is now free. I bury myself deeper, int her warm flesh, the blood runs hot, sticky against me, my black pelt darker, stained. I am as much as a masterpiece now as my pale, dead lady. I paint myself like warpaint. Scarlet across my chest, my forelimbs. My black velveteen, dripping crimson. That's when I find it, buried deep within her chest cavity, it beats shallow, the last few flutters of life and like a butterfly caught within a jar, it dies, a slow, painful death. I tear at the muscle, gnaw and chew with ivory teeth. It's tough, it's sticky and meaty and I rip her apart. The heart is still warm as I hold it within my mouth, the blood tepid, coating the roof of my mouth, my tongue in her bittersweet juice. I leave her then. broken, beaten. Dead. And I find the dark confines of the meadow's borders.  My ghostly lady was somewhere. Her ice-cold skin, her deadened eyes. I call out, my whinny masked by the slipping of blood down my throat. 'I have a gift for my goddess.' I run, as blind as though sightless, through the autumnal boughs, their naked limbs like gnarled fingers poking and prodding my skin with accusations. By the time I reach the small clearing, a devil's hollow, I am marred with burrs and thorns, twigs knotted into my black tresses. The blood drying against my sweaty pelt. I call out again, the bay mare's heart still warm, still retaining the last occasional beats. 'Fresh. Fresh flesh. Still warm.' I then throw it, the body organ, tot he ground. it flops with a gentle thud. As if it had never had life at all, the blue and green veins knotting, the red still stark, burgundy in clots. I grin then, maniacal. Crimson stained teeth all toothy and barred, velveteen lips still dripping with scarlet nectar. Not as peachy as I had imagined.  the haematoma in your heart;

(OOC: Not sure of this exactly. but it was fun to write. As always. Morbid little princess she is. > )