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The Roman Myth . . . Chapter Five pitch black perfectness
When sipping the cold taste of pinot noir wine, again in her soul there is emptiness. Ripe sun-crisped grapes infused with an arousing black cherry aroma perfumes the air, the scent even heavily easing Wanda's running mind. Her pretty pink mouth wrapped around the rim of the wine bottle, throwing her head back as the alcohol iced her veins.
A tea had been made separately, only hours before yet still full to the brim with amber tea oozing lilac fumes, a mase of a pulled apart lemon that lingered atop. An abysmally birthday cake rested on a cylinder ceramic plate, a single candle still aflame, its wax running off the side onto the splotchy blue frosting. Wanda wasn't expecting her mother's ghost to suddenly blow out her birthday candle, that is just childish. A juvenile, immature, silly fantasy.
A rapt girl staring at the wine bottle in her palm, filled to the brim with her stroke of bad luck and bad habits. The wine sparks with fire as it is poured down her throat, bubbles whizz through the liquid-like shooting stars, whirling and spiraling upwards.
Although she was stuck in the body of an eighteen-year-old female, her mind had aged well beyond the legal drinking age. The wine, worth a king's ransom tasted just like its weight in gold. Wealthy, it made Wanda feel. Strange, how it decorated her pain with treads of the prettiest pearls and up-to-par chiffon. So strange, she barely recognized it herself.
Oh, but if the gods saw her now, they would envy her. They would understand her as their punishment, bowing down to their knees in fear. So strange, hallucinations of halos and holiness when all she vomits is filth, her ribcage full of rot. Fruit flies swarm and tuck into their lavish dinner. A wasteland of decay, bosh, and bile.
A sick attraction. Her perfect crime, and glittered golden crown. Diamonds split from her glass weld wounds, diamonds weep with her tears. After all, a diamond is a woman's best friend.
She felt like a child. Waiting, wailing out to her mother, twiddling her thumbs as she bites her skin causing a silk of crimson, drawing blood to cloak her soft babydoll lips. She anticipates her mother's call back when she knew it wouldn't be anywhere in the near future.
Under the sod, buried beneath a bed of bloodlust red roses, insects and creatures of the earth sit and invade, feast on her like kings in uncharted territory, their appetite expensive, tasting the wealth marr and perish on their tongues. The worms eat at the rind. They take her flesh and nerves that lie with her bones till her hollow skeleton is all that's left of her in that trammel grave.
Crooks and thieves of the dead.
A vile tongue drafts over the seething teeth of a girl, shiponing the wine from her lips, the wine that dribbles down her chin. The pads of her fingertips run along her jaw, delicate almost as though made of perishable glass, sweeping a soft pearl-like droplet glistening on her fingertip. A tear, glistened on the tip of her finger, her glossy, small reflection distorted and deportioned. A herd of indelible demons came pounding at her, all too strong, all at once. Like two top-heavy fractions they began to drill her into the ground. All of nature will hold its breath. By the blood of mother nature herself, she'll collapse into her arms like a lump of clay, and be molded into the everlasting forest floor. She would feel her coat start to drag through soil, mud, and clay, her bones beginning to decay and collapse on the forest floor beneath a pool of her blood and mushy leaves. Poetically, the devil was biding its time.
