Post by drknss on Dec 22, 2007 16:32:00 GMT -5
The night chill is setting in, and with it, the normal vanilla bits of humanity disappear from this world. They dive into their comfortable homes, their warm beds, with pink fuzzy bunny slippers and what nots. This is the witching hour. And in this hour, a young woman, dressed in a flowing black robe, her alabaster skin reflecting the moon light. Her graceful steps barely make a sound as she steps along the darkened path, leading her deeper into the park.
I have been alone for so long, alone in this world. Physically no, there is always some prick telling me to get some sun, crawl out of my basement. The bungholes never disappear. But spiritually, I am alone. It’s funny, but solitude has become my solace, my sanctuary. I live in a plane that you would not understand.
She picks a flower from a nearby bush. It is a rose, slowly withering and dying from the harsh cold moving in. Though dark, its crimson pedals jump out from the night.
In your world, it is pretty flowers, and hearts. Tales of love, lost and gained, sugary sweetness, and all that jazz. (She wiggles her fingers for jazz effect). It is a world of emotion, ups and downs, joy and sadness. And that is all well and good, Kagura, I hope you love your little world. Your world, inhabited by every teenage girl who never grew up. I hope you can continue your training.
She laughs, and rubs her fingers along the flowers pedals, one falls off, and slowly floats to the floor.
My world is much different. Beneath the surface of pomp and circumstance which you drones call home, I see the truth, the darkness. I can see the black hearts, pumping their putrid fluids that run cold as ice. Pumping, and flowing, through each and every one of you. Those who say, “JUDGE not… but they judge ME!” Women and children, who preach “If you haven’t anything nice to say…” and they stab me with their daggers of words.
But my world is changing, every day. Kagura. Each day, I pull back farther, and farther. Each day, this numbness spreads throughout my body. I can feel it now, entering my spleen. Every day, I care, less and less. But I care right now. I care because you are standing in front of me. Little warrior. I care, because you will be my first.
Her lips curl into a smirk, as her hand wraps over the pedals. Crushing them in her hand.
Every one remembers their first. The first is a thing of beauty. One of the few bits of beauty my eyes can still comprehend. Be it my first cut, my first
, my first ice cream cone even, I can remember them all, vividly. They cry out from the blackness of my soul, and bring warmth to me.
Kagura, you are the first. You are the one who has been laid at the altar of the Dark Angel. You are the one who has been given up as a sacrificial lamb. I will enjoy you, Kagura. Every gasp, every moan, every sweet shriek of agony. You will be the first to worship at my feet. I watched your match this week, did you think that would impress me. Your pathetic excuse for wrestling, your sad attempts at martial arts, and your horrid ring attire. You looked like some novelty skank stripper, not a competitor in the greatest sport this world has ever seen. And you are about to face an enigma, a mystery. Looking at me, you would probably think that I have risen from the depths of hell.
Her sharp shriekish laugh slices through the night air.
I am not from hell Kagura, but I can take you there. It is so very lovely this time of year. And all it will cost you ( she holds up her hand, releasing the crushed and mangled flower) is your blood.
She shrieks as though in utter ecstasy. Her hand, riddled in thorns of the flower, are as crimson as the flower she had held. She sways her head from side to side, making her raven hair flow like a storm. She composes herself, and walks away.
I have been alone for so long, alone in this world. Physically no, there is always some prick telling me to get some sun, crawl out of my basement. The bungholes never disappear. But spiritually, I am alone. It’s funny, but solitude has become my solace, my sanctuary. I live in a plane that you would not understand.
She picks a flower from a nearby bush. It is a rose, slowly withering and dying from the harsh cold moving in. Though dark, its crimson pedals jump out from the night.
In your world, it is pretty flowers, and hearts. Tales of love, lost and gained, sugary sweetness, and all that jazz. (She wiggles her fingers for jazz effect). It is a world of emotion, ups and downs, joy and sadness. And that is all well and good, Kagura, I hope you love your little world. Your world, inhabited by every teenage girl who never grew up. I hope you can continue your training.
She laughs, and rubs her fingers along the flowers pedals, one falls off, and slowly floats to the floor.
My world is much different. Beneath the surface of pomp and circumstance which you drones call home, I see the truth, the darkness. I can see the black hearts, pumping their putrid fluids that run cold as ice. Pumping, and flowing, through each and every one of you. Those who say, “JUDGE not… but they judge ME!” Women and children, who preach “If you haven’t anything nice to say…” and they stab me with their daggers of words.
But my world is changing, every day. Kagura. Each day, I pull back farther, and farther. Each day, this numbness spreads throughout my body. I can feel it now, entering my spleen. Every day, I care, less and less. But I care right now. I care because you are standing in front of me. Little warrior. I care, because you will be my first.
Her lips curl into a smirk, as her hand wraps over the pedals. Crushing them in her hand.
Every one remembers their first. The first is a thing of beauty. One of the few bits of beauty my eyes can still comprehend. Be it my first cut, my first
, my first ice cream cone even, I can remember them all, vividly. They cry out from the blackness of my soul, and bring warmth to me.Kagura, you are the first. You are the one who has been laid at the altar of the Dark Angel. You are the one who has been given up as a sacrificial lamb. I will enjoy you, Kagura. Every gasp, every moan, every sweet shriek of agony. You will be the first to worship at my feet. I watched your match this week, did you think that would impress me. Your pathetic excuse for wrestling, your sad attempts at martial arts, and your horrid ring attire. You looked like some novelty skank stripper, not a competitor in the greatest sport this world has ever seen. And you are about to face an enigma, a mystery. Looking at me, you would probably think that I have risen from the depths of hell.
Her sharp shriekish laugh slices through the night air.
I am not from hell Kagura, but I can take you there. It is so very lovely this time of year. And all it will cost you ( she holds up her hand, releasing the crushed and mangled flower) is your blood.
She shrieks as though in utter ecstasy. Her hand, riddled in thorns of the flower, are as crimson as the flower she had held. She sways her head from side to side, making her raven hair flow like a storm. She composes herself, and walks away.
