11-19-2017, 08:47 PM
Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos; your reality.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge.
Her faith in him does not waver.
While accusations fly, filling the already uncomfortable, densely humid air with a tension that cannot be shaken, she is quiet. Her gold-laced eye glances between brother and sister, one torn apart by the flesh while the other is torn apart by the heart, each becoming broken, fragmented pieces of what once was with every moment that passes. An implication is made, and forged meticulously into a charge that she can hardly wrap her mind around. The imagery of Dahmer, pressing to the skin of his sister, marring her and carving into her while taking her for his own – it cannot quite formulate within her mind; she cannot imagine it. Her gaze is averted, if only for a moment. Pushing the thought far from her mind.
Too well, she can remember the way he had caressed her beneath the starlit sky – tender affection laced with each kiss. How could such intimacy ever be given from one capable of such impiety? She cannot believe it. She will not believe it. Her mind is rampant, moving tirelessly, grasping for some sort of explanation, for some sort of truth beneath the darkness pushing Dahmer to his knees, turquoise eyes pleading while unshed tears teeter along the precipice of his eyelids. Beneath the darkness stirring terror and trembling trepidation in the defensive posture of his sister, voice shaking and festering with a heartbroken rage she, herself, had known herself a time or two.
Her ears flatten across the tousled ringlets of her ivory tresses at the insinuation of dissatisfaction. Assault was never about pleasure, but about power, and though there is a gentle ache in her heart for the blood spilled and for the purity taken from Scyla, she cannot suppress the frustration rising within her chest at the sharp, scathing inquiries. To insinuate that somehow, beneath the blood, the perplexity, the heartache, she - Ellyse! – was to blame, for somehow not sating his need.
Her nostrils flare and a snort emerges, but that is all.
Barely, she is able to bite her tongue.
But then –
Bacchanalia, she realizes, her heart heavy and dropping into the pit of her stomach. The autumnal celebration in Sylva. The very night that she and Dahmer had joined under the pale light of the moon, lost to the hours spent in the afterglow of intimacy and the raw ferocity of softly whispered confessions. She hadn’t gone to the celebration ( she was hardly the type to; she preferred action to word and socializing had never been her forte), and neither had Dahmer. The memory of his lips along her withers and his weight pressed upon her is still vivid in her mind; he was with no one else but her.
”Scyla, that isn’t possible,” she says at last, a deep frown settled across her pale lips. ”Dahmer did not go to the celebration. He was .. with me,” she utters more quietly, discomfort evident within her fleeting gaze. She is not embarrassed of what transpired; she does not and would not shy from how her heart felt for the black beast – but she is fiercely private, and to have to confess it meant vulnerability. She loathed the feeling. ”all of the night. Neither of us went to Sylva.”
And then, a confession of conception! And the ache inside of her chest is suddenly larger.
Scyla was pregnant. But it couldn’t be Dahmer’s.
”Offspring said that when he found Tantalize, she had been under the impression that he had already been there – that when he found her, she thought that he had already left her.” Her mouth is dry, as her roving hazel eye is met with turquoise, and then a deep, soulful brown. ”Her brother, Gryffen, veiled himself as Offspring to hurt her. To break her.”
There is a festering rage beginning to grow and fill the hearth of her chest, making her feel full and heavy with loathing and anger. The timing, the placement, the circumstance. It all made sense. ”It had to be him.”
While accusations fly, filling the already uncomfortable, densely humid air with a tension that cannot be shaken, she is quiet. Her gold-laced eye glances between brother and sister, one torn apart by the flesh while the other is torn apart by the heart, each becoming broken, fragmented pieces of what once was with every moment that passes. An implication is made, and forged meticulously into a charge that she can hardly wrap her mind around. The imagery of Dahmer, pressing to the skin of his sister, marring her and carving into her while taking her for his own – it cannot quite formulate within her mind; she cannot imagine it. Her gaze is averted, if only for a moment. Pushing the thought far from her mind.
Too well, she can remember the way he had caressed her beneath the starlit sky – tender affection laced with each kiss. How could such intimacy ever be given from one capable of such impiety? She cannot believe it. She will not believe it. Her mind is rampant, moving tirelessly, grasping for some sort of explanation, for some sort of truth beneath the darkness pushing Dahmer to his knees, turquoise eyes pleading while unshed tears teeter along the precipice of his eyelids. Beneath the darkness stirring terror and trembling trepidation in the defensive posture of his sister, voice shaking and festering with a heartbroken rage she, herself, had known herself a time or two.
Her ears flatten across the tousled ringlets of her ivory tresses at the insinuation of dissatisfaction. Assault was never about pleasure, but about power, and though there is a gentle ache in her heart for the blood spilled and for the purity taken from Scyla, she cannot suppress the frustration rising within her chest at the sharp, scathing inquiries. To insinuate that somehow, beneath the blood, the perplexity, the heartache, she - Ellyse! – was to blame, for somehow not sating his need.
Her nostrils flare and a snort emerges, but that is all.
Barely, she is able to bite her tongue.
But then –
Bacchanalia, she realizes, her heart heavy and dropping into the pit of her stomach. The autumnal celebration in Sylva. The very night that she and Dahmer had joined under the pale light of the moon, lost to the hours spent in the afterglow of intimacy and the raw ferocity of softly whispered confessions. She hadn’t gone to the celebration ( she was hardly the type to; she preferred action to word and socializing had never been her forte), and neither had Dahmer. The memory of his lips along her withers and his weight pressed upon her is still vivid in her mind; he was with no one else but her.
”Scyla, that isn’t possible,” she says at last, a deep frown settled across her pale lips. ”Dahmer did not go to the celebration. He was .. with me,” she utters more quietly, discomfort evident within her fleeting gaze. She is not embarrassed of what transpired; she does not and would not shy from how her heart felt for the black beast – but she is fiercely private, and to have to confess it meant vulnerability. She loathed the feeling. ”all of the night. Neither of us went to Sylva.”
And then, a confession of conception! And the ache inside of her chest is suddenly larger.
Scyla was pregnant. But it couldn’t be Dahmer’s.
”Offspring said that when he found Tantalize, she had been under the impression that he had already been there – that when he found her, she thought that he had already left her.” Her mouth is dry, as her roving hazel eye is met with turquoise, and then a deep, soulful brown. ”Her brother, Gryffen, veiled himself as Offspring to hurt her. To break her.”
There is a festering rage beginning to grow and fill the hearth of her chest, making her feel full and heavy with loathing and anger. The timing, the placement, the circumstance. It all made sense. ”It had to be him.”
Ellyse
(The nightmare) I built my own world to escape
@[Scyla] @[Dahmer]