On Decadence

Side: Him

"In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood."

Pablo Neruda

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Baby blue, baby blue...

You'd probably think there's a catch but I reassure you, words are simply not my natural habitat. It is nothing but the truth. I think of you and forests of words,

rivers of poetry come to mind, floating to the surface like I'm the white sheet of paper and you're the ink I need for some meaning to drip through. But I always end up not making any sense. Even now, you're following your streams of ideas, you're brilliant, my star, and I'm worshipping you like something sound, holier, far prettier

than people born among sorrow, in pools of blood, and oh, that tenderness humans nonsensically ache to kill.

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The monster stays crouched on the balustrade, thinking in tongues that don't belong to him. If he tried to voice his thoughts, and he wouldn't dare in his creator's great dome, it would sound as if he swallowed an English dictionary and it was acting on his own, weaving a disconnected speech. Strategies, with their coherency and their room for sheer luck, that's what he's good at, or at least definitely more than average. It's no secret that he could win a chess match with anybody in five moves or less.Professor Carter hardly managed to teach him the basis, but his brain seized the opportunity and simply kept assimilating tactics as if John invented the game himself.

Lisa thinks it's weird. Then again, the few times he's in the mood to play,Lisa gets away with eating a bunch of his pieces and scraping victory enough to taste it on her teeth before John monotonously, categorically announces checkmate. At this point, usually Lisa can down another glass of whisky, but not two of them. It's by far the least satisfying opponent John has ever beat.

The question once was: "What do you see when you look at the chessboard?"

Sly eyes, that baby blue so sharp that John feels surrounded.

"Every piece is a pawn."

Lisa's face got skeptical. "Even the Queen? ...Wait, the King too? You're completely insane."

"Is that so..."

"Yes,John , I do believe so."

"Then it seems that can't be helped."

"Well, I suppose insane people make the best players."

That statement enamoured John to the point that he thought of chess for the rest of the day, and the day after, when the yellow Moon rose high over the black window and when it sank in the underworld below the roofs.

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He hops off the window and waits for a servant to arrive with the mail. The young boy looks up, and for a flickering second John gets reminded of the little blond lady with chubby cheeks and a gorgeous sprinkle of freckles in the framed portrait below the clock. It's the only portrait of her, but it is cared for with such devotion that John can't help but find it interesting, igniting a shadow of curiosity for his fathers life. His life before John, obviously.

The man fixes his collar before receiving the white envelope containing his message and dismissing the boy with a flick of the wrist.

After he tears the envelope he focuses on spelling out the words one by one, silently. A symmetrical smile stretches his arid lips, which split in the middle exposing almost-brown, stale blood. It is the colour of love.