LITTLE GRIM

03 ANGELHEADED DEMON

ACT FIVE        LIAR, LIAR

Pearl knows, she does. She knows those eyes, frolicking across her unsullied visage up to those thick tousles of black on her head, down again to the tips of her toes, enticing her stomach to twist with askew. The mans eyes are wide and light, showcasing raw, pure emotion knowing roots in the furthest of history: ingénue like those of Eve but a bit of compunction like what lurked long ago in the orbs of Adam, they display spreads of gold and slivers of blue and green resembling the deepest lakes and freshest forests—his eyes do not smile, but they watch with the most delicate fascination. They are deep and accented and find their way in the deepest crevices of Pearls being. She knows those eyes like the back of her hand.

Though girl of divine has yet to understand them. She had all her life possessed of difficulty in deciphering what the man meant for often times did his lips spew other things than his eyes radiated: it was much due to the liquor sleeping inside of his system, and Pearl had never liked that alcohol in lethal potpourri with self - pity grabbing and taking who and what it wanted whenever it yearned for it. Though now, they are more unclear - almost transcendent to her - than ever before. Her fathers eyes move from her cheekbones to her eyes, shared rugged crudeness with the man that had conceived him, over the sharpest of her shoulders to her eyes, to the curve of her pink petal - made mouth and the minuscule mole she has under her bottom lip.

It ends with her hair - thick and black and uneven, curled but so sophisticated she seems to be a lethal daughter to the Goddess of spring and all that blossoms and a peculiar omen of death. Juliette already stands beside Pearls father, eyes wide and overwhelmed by fatigue - but the little upwards curve of her plump lips cannot shield the melancholy that nearly reaches the darkest of her eyes. She is bone - stricken by now and pale in the face, looking as if she only is an ounce of ichor from weeping, crying - tears of ivory that like pearls and diamonds would stick to her cheeks.

  It's the voice, however, that entices Pearl to rouse from an abyss of sleep with eyes wide open - no, an endless pit of guilt concealing herself somewhere in her body, though she can in no manner tell where exactly. "And you've already made your decision?" Juliette speaks first. Her voice like red velvet amidst a room of harsh glares: soft, so sickeningly soft Pearl cannot wish but to drag it across her delicate skin until it blooms incarnadine. Pearl nods.

  "But why, Pearl?" Juliette tilts her head the slightest bit, "I know that you have no interest in wedding a man and not working another day in your life - but conceiving a mans child and then giving it away to never look or say a word to it again?" She questions, though there lurks no line of poison to her words: only pure compunction, because she knows her. She knows Pearl.

Everyone knows Pearl De Bulles - that beautifully innocent girl. Everyone is so sure of it, that Pearl harbors no great satisfaction in being so beautiful: but they do not know her. They believe she is one of the purest by heart as well - so young and a being of sweetness and ingénue, a babe oh so beautifully innocent the world has never seen. She is the one whom moves as though taught by Aphrodite herself, whom watches around the earth from besides the tainted Juliette with brown eyes wide, little fear and compunction aside from the curiosity in her irises, resembling a baby deer just torn afar their mother. She has features like no other: round cheeks, a nose resembling of a kitten, plump lips rosy and curls of coil-black hair that frame her beautiful olive-tainted face. They tell her, too, how innocent she is. And Pearl hears.

And she would always smile.

  "I've made my decision. I am going for many reasons," Pearl says, and Juliette, she almost shivers, from the manner her words behold embodiment of pitch and gloom and her eyes of all that is light and fragile. She is light of the sun with blossoms and fertile grounds but no less autumn, with her presence, others feel like washed away by the sheer tide of red leaves - leaves of blood.