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komm, süßer tod

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komm, süßer tod written Apr 27, 2024 20:13:46 GMT
aliasvelk, cyan
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safi'jiivaearned bits
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safi'jiiva
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sometimes, things that are edgy are cool
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SPOILER: Click to show
01. Conqueror
02. Clean Slate
03. Beloved
04. Storm Warning
05. So They Say
06. How Have You Been?
07. Dollhouse
08. Call & Response
09. To the Moon
10. Risk
11. Magnetic
12. Forbidden
13. Palace
14. 1924
15. From Afar
16. Smoke & Mirrors
17. White Sand
18. Burn it Down
19. Symmetry
20. Going Nowhere
21. Emptiness
22. Gold
23. Once More, With Feeling
24. Heartbeat
25. Creation
26. Judgement Day
27. Free Fall
28. Hero
29. Coming Home
30. At World's End
last edit on Jun 25, 2024 18:44:16 GMT by safi'jiiva
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komm, süßer tod written Apr 29, 2024 22:08:50 GMT
aliasvelk, cyan
pronounsshe/her
67written posts
safi'jiivaearned bits
offlinecurrently
safi'jiiva
Junior Member
safi'jiiva Avatar
sometimes, things that are edgy are cool
02: CLEAN SLATE
Written to everything you've ever dreamed


Her fingers grip the porcelain as if she wants to crack it. Smashed shards distort the face that looks back at her but there is no mistaking it is her - drained, perhaps, heavy set dark circles and a certain sickly paleness in the fluorescent light of the bathroom - but it’s still her. Her hair hangs over her features, the bright orange beginning to fade, no longer the colour of sunset, of liquid flame poured forth from a brazier. Despite every new line on her face, it is still her.

Should that realization be a comfort?

The hydrogen peroxide stings against the open cuts, one bisecting her bottom lip, another few across her cheeks. When she carefully tries to pry the shards of glass out with shaky hands, she accidentally cuts her hands. The sink fills with her blood, washed down by lukewarm water that spins idly towards the drain from the steady trickle of the tap.

A fresh start, they promised, as they placed a handgun between her palms. After today, she would not have to be herself anymore - a new name, a new place, a whole new life was waiting for her as long as she did one last job. Words like spun sugar dripped into her ear by a snake that had already crushed her long before she fell through the glass.

Sometimes, the radio mocks her. It knows about the incident, but it doesn’t know enough to do anything but frustrate her with the interruption of the smooth lilting vocals. She knows what happened. She doesn’t need reminding of the fact that she does not in fact get her new life as cleanly as was promised.

Her lashes rest against her cheeks as she exhales, taking a moment to steady herself on the sink again. The knife is there within her reach.

Instead, Annie takes a deep breath. She washes her hands in the cheap motel soap that refuses to lather, and when she is content that there is no more blood underneath her nails, she opens her eye up with her fingers. A bloodshot pupil stares back at her, but it is human in its entirety, rolled upwards, downwards, to the left and right, searching for abnormalities. Teal looks back.

She removes the eyepatch from her right eye. The eye that looks back is not bloodshot - it is simply red. There is nothing there but red, not an empty socket, but the red liquid that shifts beneath the membrane. It is normal.

No, it’s her normal.

She checks her teeth, fingers thumbing over molars for any traces of sharpness. Her right incisor is too sharp, nicking the pad of her index finger forcing her to taste iron. It has always smelled so sweet, even when it’s hers. It would be even more satisfying if it was someone else’s. The image of sinking her teeth into the flesh of a willing victim, or even better, one that has been chased down like a rabbit running from the wolf’s jaws.

A fresh start - she was promised. The idea is shoved down as she takes the knife in her right hand, shaking slightly with the knowledge of what she has to do. She mumbles that she is human like a prayer, pleading with some unforeseen force.

She presses the point of the knife against the thin membrane of her right eye. She is met with her own grim expression, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of prey rather than predator. It is the moment of anticipation that is the worst, and she tells herself this directly as she plunges the knife through the membrane and screams.

Her head smashes against the porcelain, slumping the floor. Her body shakes and shivers, trying to force the air into her lungs.

It is her normal to continue the same loop until she can get her clean start. To make the feelings go away, to make the cravings stop. She can see it looming over as she lays there completely helpless, blood rushing from the gouged eye, taking her chin between its claws as it purrs. When it leans down to lay a kiss upon her forehead, it is so soft with her that she can almost forget what it is.

“Sleep, my little wolf, there is always another day for us.”

last edit on Apr 29, 2024 22:09:27 GMT by safi'jiiva
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komm, süßer tod written Jun 25, 2024 18:43:14 GMT
aliasvelk, cyan
pronounsshe/her
67written posts
safi'jiivaearned bits
offlinecurrently
safi'jiiva
Junior Member
safi'jiiva Avatar
sometimes, things that are edgy are cool
03 - Beloved
Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal.

The flowers are not enough.

Once upon a time, these flowers grew at the foot of her parent’s garden. Every summer, too many would grow and her mother would complain, dutifully hacking back the stems and taking a few for a vase on her table. She’d get rid of them next year, she’d say, and when the winter came, she would tut and shake her head. They deserved another season, another chance to grow.

The flowers are growing again, and her mother is gone.

The flowers cover the entire garden, the path up to the house. They grow through the floorboards and from the rafters of her childhood room. Her world is swallowed in white flowers, half-expecting them to take root in her lungs and spill the same white petals stained with blood from her throat. Every year, she tries to come back to here, but it grows harder and harder with the passage of time to willingly rip apart the sutures and revel in the pain as raw as it once was.

It would be better to move on, she thinks; it would be a pity to forget that she loved her home once, that she had people who loved her.

The house that she grew up in on a small street - her hometown was not large by any means, but she was on a small street even by their standards - near to the town hall. Her father was always busy with the affairs of the town, a man that everyone looked up to and knew. Sometimes he would take her alongside him, his beloved heir, his beloved daughter that was a shadow of himself so much that he truly believed that the gods had made a copy to replace him. After he was gone, he would leave the wellbeing of their people in her hands.

There are not enough graves in this place. She tried to erect enough graves, one a year when she was younger. But time gradually held less meaning; faces faded, names were forgotten. Her town did not keep records because history was a living thing to be told, and so she forgot it. The tunes were all that she had left, humming the various histories that she had forgotten because there was no one else left to remember them.

Sometimes she wondered if they resented her for forgetting them, and then other times she wondered whether they would appreciate that she tried. Other times, she wondered whether the dead would even look her way.

Still, there are flowers left upon their graves that had long been reclaimed by the wilderness. The stone is faded because she was never proficient with masonry and did what she could, but it has become a mass grave, a remembrance. It was all that she could do. Death must not spare those that Death holds dear, and so there she stood, eyes wet with tears and hands shaking with a bunch of flowers that have long since taken over everything in this town, the world stopping to turn for just a moment whilst-

( the goddess of death doesn’t mourn, but the stars shine brighter over the ruined town. she is the incarnation of night and chaos, and it is her very gift to let the stars shine for the dearest departed. she has long since given them the greatest gift of all, a merciful arrow through the skull that drags them down to the sea of chaos, primordial resting grounds of all things great and small. )

( the god of rebirth knows that there is nothing left to give life too, so he gives the ruins to the beasts and flowers that now take everything. he wept once for those that were cut too short, but who will weep for him? he bathed the town in a golden glow, and yet who would bathe him in the soft gold of restoration? a tragedy like this must not come to pass again, and the night must die if he is to see it through. )

( the god of order stands in an eternal vigil, for after all, one day the stars will fall and one day the flames must come for rebirth. until that day, the order remains stalwart. he must protect even that which he wishes to look away from, for that is the order of this world. )
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