LYCOS | tacet anima mea [Wenclair Omegaverse]

SCALDING | moon | ii (2) | 2.6k

| iii |

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☼ ⋆⁺₊⋆

| (she ruminates in scent) |

The first time had been after hours of desertion, where rut drove Enid back to Ajax, and the school semester to fume its intentions. (Your intentions, if anything.)

Thing had been dead asleep. There was no consoling your cold sweat, nor what breath rattled from yourself.

E-Enid...?!

You took to her laundry. Stolen the first of many, and with a frayed mind, you shed your mattress of its sheets, seized your favorite blade, and carved a lesion. The blouse was inhaled. Enid and her body, knotted to cloth. You burrowed it — burrowed her — into lesion.

(The mattress bled cotton from its gash. The springs caught your nails. Frantic.)

It hadn't been ... the most lucid hour, admittedly.

(The moment was frantic.)

The time was in desperation's name. You were scavenging for her, and found the best you could manage before plunging back to nightmare within an unmade bed. Her scent mulled as you stirred awake, hours thereafter. It struck you like liquor-poison. Your hands burned. Beaded lines, drawn across your skin.

Fixing your sheets was the cure to hangover back then.

The answer had been to haphazardly climb the academy tower a mere week ago.

...you fret over what, exactly, would appease this now.

It's the same torn collar in your hands. You smell her, and it's stitched to what your palm has left behind. You've had it strangled for too long. There's too much of you. Not enough of her. The room is quiet. You think of your bed, where the rest of this was stashed. You're staring into the punctuations across the page, all the while. At your desk. A hand draws to the typewriter keys; they feel cold again. The essay is of blank thought. Your mind, however, toils for words.

Her scent lulls you. Her scent craves you. Butchers him. Tacks to you.

Ripe, but it's fading. Her perfume has gone. Salt and musk remain. Then— Then decay. Sweet, sweet decay. Bitter down your tongue, honey to rot's eye — this is liquor. The keys are drawling. You...?

You feel ... the moon, and it pants down your back. Each step of yours, they're uneven. You move for balance — knock into wood stability. With Enid, her scent and musk, there's another. Horseradish. Caked in iron. It's close to rot's honey. There is no lulling, only...

Only heartbeat.

And black.

Enid...? Mon loup...?

The air is biting. Your breath is fogging. Both chime frostbite's glee as snow chars to your flesh, because though you run colder, you do, still, take the image of a corpse not done yet. You wish to reap. Your bloomed lust marks reverence.

Where ... have you gone? Where have you gone, mon loup?

Warmth finds your lips. It savors like the color dead. Velvet — a dark, tasteful shade on you.

You want better on your tongue. You reap for blood and flesh.

Not quite this...

The hour twangs, and your eyes snap to the wall you stand near. Several strides from your desk, to be precise. The chair is knocked over. Your blazer lays weakly beneath its back. By a numb hand, you guide the chair to its legs, then cloak it again. As you do, a crawling trepidation — this ... realization — finds you. Then sinks you. Deep in where you stand.