LYCOS | tacet anima mea [Wenclair Omegaverse]

SCALDING | moon | iii.i (1) | 9.0k

[WEDNESDAY]

I dreamt of breaking someone again.
It was boiling. Then I woke up.

In a cell.

I had nearly killed her,
with her ear still between my teeth, for no one else but my hair
my pride alone.

(in ink.) 23 November 2018

— — — — —

One week is what you've granted yourself for this. You followed him by the hour. You schemed through the nights. Slept at your desk. Ate whatever flesh was prepared. Words twisted, kept themselves rattled to your mind, and only slipped for Enid. Even then, they were reminiscent of the beginnings to your relationship.

Companionship. Kinship. Friendship. All truths, yet they feel as falsehoods. Enid, in her entirety, remains ... awfully unclear to you.

It was a week of a boa's starvation.

For there is a ploy to enact. A stroke of satisfaction to consume.

Tonight, when you breached the dorm's dark spell by corridor's light, you realized a package, for you, at the foot to your bed. Naturally, you thought of Enid — off to her club, for a late night of her own —; you thought of her, that is, until you realized the penmanship: precise, boxed, a pointed remark.

Yoko.

Only two lines, an odd few marks, then a cloak beneath. A vest as well. Pants.

Snap first.

<brick<[FORTUNATO]

You frowned, and by the pads of your fingers, you felt ink. You laid your eyes across its back. Never before did you think enthrallment would pass you like this.

I'll only share Div this once.

It took a moment, before you realized the time, Ajax's paranoia, and the cloak's intentions. Because this cloak is of older design — that you were quick to realize —, dated by a few decades or so — that you estimated —, and the Nightshade Society... They meet to their own whim. It is, by all accounts, a social exchange rather than a true, organized collective.

So you roamed across the academy, cloaked. Note in one hand, enthrallment in the other.

Then you stood before Poe.

And now, as you stand, your hand presents. The rare, goading smirk crawls to life.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —"

He recedes.

And rather than right, you stray left. Bathed in shadows, hood pulled over your head. You hear their congregation pause. A few voices. Several strides for the stairs. As they stalk, you palm across the wall. Your hands pleat dust. The brick is coarse. Up until it isn't, and you find lettering:

FORTUNATO

Brick sinks where you push. A door gives way beside you — still in the dark — in the same, gathered momentum as the statue's return. You slip inside. There are stairs, and though you are without light, intuition tells you that this hugs the main stairwell.