01-17-2020, 12:57 AM
black ocean, cold and dark, i am the hungry shark
Feast on the weakness.
It is not hard to find.
Gospel is fueled by memory and, as she walks, she wonders if it was always meant to be this way. But the hunger twists wicked in the pit of her gut, kicks her vicious in the valley of her ribs. It is not a hunger for flesh now, however. It is merely a hunger for violence. It pulses at the base of her throat, throbs in all that empty space around her cold, cold heart. It buoys her. It leaves little time for dwelling on the concept of Fate.
She moves easy through the impenetrable darkness, the shadows and her breath her only companions as she travels. It is not a scent she follows but something else entirely. Intuition, perhaps. Something inherent, woven into the soft tissue of her reptilian brain. She knows where to go without ever having to ask direction.
She thinks of her mother. Her nopetiful mother. She plunges a tooth into the meat of her tongue to ferry her away from this train of thought. It will do her no good now. She can think only of the hunger, hissing and spitting at the very center of her. Her bitter want for vengeance. Oh, what a crippling thing it is! A fist wrapped tight around her windpipe. But this is a force she will not allow to crush her. She will not give the universe the satisfaction of knowing this was how it broke her.
The breaths are measured, stilted. She makes hardly any sound at all as she crosses the border. She knows that she will find what she is looking for her. What a spectacular thrill that courses heady through her veins, pollutes her bloodstream, softens the edges of her vision.
Feast on the weakness, Ghaul had said, snap the fragile spines. She can think of no one more fragile as she moves through the forest. And there, finally, the scent. Hadn’t she known she would find what she was looking for here? And oh, the viper’s grin that slinks slow across her lethal mouth as she smells it.
She corners it there in a clearing. And the figure turns to face her, blinks at her in the darkness. There is some flicker of recognition, she is certain of it. And why shouldn’t there be?
“You should have made yourself more difficult to find,” Gospel purrs and grins, still. She can taste the blood pooling on her tongue. She can feel it drip hot down her throat as she moves closer. And the figure does not move. It just goes on blinking at her, as if it had been expecting her. And shouldn’t it have? Shouldn’t it have known just as well as she had that this moment would come eventually?
And oh, how she has waited! Gospel, cutting her teeth on the thought of it. “Will you fight?” she asks but the figure does not respond. What a dumb thing it is, its mouth all sewn up tight, blinking.
Feast on the weakness.
“I always knew you were a fool,” she murmurs, measured as she ventures closer. And the figure does not move. It seems to tip back its head and invite her venom into its bloodstream. She plunges her fangs into the vein and the thing does not fight. There is one subtle jerk as the life leaves it and Gospel shakes her own fine head, shreds up everything she can reach before the figure collapses at her feet.
“There was never room for the both of us,” she says to the dead thing, licking the blood from her lips as she takes one short step away from it, “was there, sister?”
It is not hard to find.
Gospel is fueled by memory and, as she walks, she wonders if it was always meant to be this way. But the hunger twists wicked in the pit of her gut, kicks her vicious in the valley of her ribs. It is not a hunger for flesh now, however. It is merely a hunger for violence. It pulses at the base of her throat, throbs in all that empty space around her cold, cold heart. It buoys her. It leaves little time for dwelling on the concept of Fate.
She moves easy through the impenetrable darkness, the shadows and her breath her only companions as she travels. It is not a scent she follows but something else entirely. Intuition, perhaps. Something inherent, woven into the soft tissue of her reptilian brain. She knows where to go without ever having to ask direction.
She thinks of her mother. Her nopetiful mother. She plunges a tooth into the meat of her tongue to ferry her away from this train of thought. It will do her no good now. She can think only of the hunger, hissing and spitting at the very center of her. Her bitter want for vengeance. Oh, what a crippling thing it is! A fist wrapped tight around her windpipe. But this is a force she will not allow to crush her. She will not give the universe the satisfaction of knowing this was how it broke her.
The breaths are measured, stilted. She makes hardly any sound at all as she crosses the border. She knows that she will find what she is looking for her. What a spectacular thrill that courses heady through her veins, pollutes her bloodstream, softens the edges of her vision.
Feast on the weakness, Ghaul had said, snap the fragile spines. She can think of no one more fragile as she moves through the forest. And there, finally, the scent. Hadn’t she known she would find what she was looking for here? And oh, the viper’s grin that slinks slow across her lethal mouth as she smells it.
She corners it there in a clearing. And the figure turns to face her, blinks at her in the darkness. There is some flicker of recognition, she is certain of it. And why shouldn’t there be?
“You should have made yourself more difficult to find,” Gospel purrs and grins, still. She can taste the blood pooling on her tongue. She can feel it drip hot down her throat as she moves closer. And the figure does not move. It just goes on blinking at her, as if it had been expecting her. And shouldn’t it have? Shouldn’t it have known just as well as she had that this moment would come eventually?
And oh, how she has waited! Gospel, cutting her teeth on the thought of it. “Will you fight?” she asks but the figure does not respond. What a dumb thing it is, its mouth all sewn up tight, blinking.
Feast on the weakness.
“I always knew you were a fool,” she murmurs, measured as she ventures closer. And the figure does not move. It seems to tip back its head and invite her venom into its bloodstream. She plunges her fangs into the vein and the thing does not fight. There is one subtle jerk as the life leaves it and Gospel shakes her own fine head, shreds up everything she can reach before the figure collapses at her feet.
“There was never room for the both of us,” she says to the dead thing, licking the blood from her lips as she takes one short step away from it, “was there, sister?”
g o s p e l
