divinity will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins, take you over, and not leave you quiet...
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now do not misunderstand me // when i call myself a shell // i mean - a used up bullet casing// as in, the aftermath of something lethal // as in, an echo of inflicted evil
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CHER DELACROIX WAS ANGRY!
full of boiling hot rage simmering under the flimsy costume that her mortal skin is. She hated everything and nothing. Cher didn't know where her hate started or ended, all she knew was that this hate had taken her innocence and forced her to become a shell of who she used to be. Wasn't she too young? Too young to worry about who she was and what purpose she played in the world?
Her age did little to hinder fate. Fate had her bruised and bloodied at camp half-blood's entrance still fighting for her life with the pitiful dagger she'd fashioned for herself, the satyr assigned with her safety nowhere to be seen, his body still hot and fresh in his grave. The grave she'd dug with her own little eight-year-old hands, the dirt settled under her fingernails still there as an indication.
