I felt foolish immediately for even wondering if you were his work, for he was never this sloppy. I could him now, whispering sweet nothings while I looked on to your destruction:
”damaged goods,” he’d say, in that dangerously soft tone,
”it would only be merciful.” So you see, you bring me to a great dilemma, wide eyed and frozen in indecision, for he is not here (he never was) and I do not want to do this alone. I don’t even know that I want to do this at all. I knew how, you know- it’d be easy, just follow the pattern.
“Tendons first,” he’d croon softly,
“so they don’t leave you.” (like you did.) Soft brown eyes, bitter tears. (Mine tasted just like hers.)
“Then, nice and easy,” and he’d move his muzzle up to her trembling ear, whisper lies of comfort and kindness, forgiveness, freedom from pain, whatever it took to ease the terror in her troubled eyes. He’d lay sweet kisses along her jawbone before resting a moment at her soft throat.
“Love, do me a favor, look in the sun and tell me what you see.” It was so calculated, that perfect stretch, allowing him to rip through the veins with such ease. They were like sunflowers at this point anyway, thrilled to death (literally now) to turn their hollow eyes to the god above.
My brain feels sluggish, numb. A defiant part of my mind refuses the instructions, wonders if he was wrong about you all along and there was something of value left in your damaged frame. Another yearns to make him proud, and a further still hates myself for wanting to do anything in his name (and maybe you’ll come back to me if I do, maybe you’ll come back to punish me if I don’t…) I struggle to piece together the stream of words that left your mouth, make logic from the bizarre, but I confess that alchemy isn’t my strongest suit. Your eyes are so empty, unfocused, unnerving. I wonder for a fleeting moment if it wasn’t the discomfort of a hollow stare that led him to such philosophies in the first place. At the very least, you speak of a terrible time, and I wonder if it isn’t your fault- you were only the weaker among us, and there was a time when you were a beautiful girl and not the trembling wreck before me today.
I was searching for the answer to such lunacy when the stench of death shatters my focus, and his voice and appearance further still. I could feel chills race down my spine when he came closer, and am struck by the sheer irony when the cold man is of such a similar attitude to my god of warmth. He is an impossibility, an unavoidable reality, and it makes me question for a moment whether the broken girl’s affliction may have been contagious or whether I was truly seeing a creature made of the forest floor. It was only his eyes, disturbing as they were, that made me accept that this was a living beast before me and not some twisted illusion. Over and over disbelieving eyes trace his form, taking in every fallen leaf and the stench of rich decay that accompanied. I jump again when he throws the rabbit, splattering my face with flecks of blood and rotting offal.
Rude.
Curiosity gets the better of me as he moves toward the rabbit, and I follow in suspicious silence, a significant part of me now wishing I had ignored this mess and gone about my way (likely the part now lightly glazed in rabbit guts). When he reaches to poke the thing with a stick, plucked abhorrently where a tail hair should have been, I am reminding of the impudence of a little colt bringing a rotting thing home to hear his mama scream about it. It was only when you spoke again that I realized how deeply that immaturity spread, and physically rolled my eyes in annoyance. I must thank you though, creature, for you create the answer for a question that was not yet fully formed. I dislike you, because you seek to dredge the feelings of the broken girl, and I seek to tuck her under my wing, however tattered and pointless that wing may be.
“Enough. Leave her alone.” I turn to look at the girl with concern, hoping that this particular interruption wasn’t enough to fracture her further.
After all, hypocrisy is a hell of a drug.
naoi
