LITTLE GRIM

10 NEVER BEFORE, SO MACABRE, SO PURE

ACT SEVENTEEN BURY ME IN ALL MY FAVORITE COLORS

Tick, tock, tick . . . Is it not peculiar, lovebirds, how eagerly time treads in hell? Hide, child, for time is running out - and by the ungodliest of the night the devils pen will have colored the kingdom in red, villains prophesied a cruel ending will make their divine beginning . . . But whose, oh whose, blood it is, that shall be spilled?

Dawn spells death, and Pearl feels it in her bones as she sits 'round the large table, beautiful like the moon and, like she, destined to die. The dress she wears is soft and beautiful, lightest blue. The dress, in color, is in heavy contrast with the way she feels. Pearl reckons herself a masterpiece of darkest grey and perhaps a little of blackness - oh, she is so tired. She, strong girl of the dawn, is a living dead hardly standing on her feet, as if she has spent days on end dancing to the drums of a melody of hell, entangling her ankles with the lilacs of the fountains of fire and her heart with the tunes of the forest pixies with eyes like they are posed to kill. Her whole body cries for rest, claiming the sweet embrace of the tender silk or satin, but it is not what she is given.

In this ink night well advanced, she knows not of the occasion ( nor does she care - she simply wants it to be over as soon as the angels and the devils up above permit it, so she can be embraced by the warmth of her bed ). Lady Pristine did not tell her a thing in advance; she had merely dolled her up as if she was to face the man of her dreams, the Prince atop the white horse or the knight in shining armor, whom would adore her and write poetry about the dips of her bones, the lengths of her hair and the flaws in her heart - Pearl knows it is foolish. Girls like her, girls whom behave like she does, they do not last - not long enough for love to come around.

Nonetheless, Pearl sits besides the horrible man she has met before on a fateful evening - not one whom makes butterflies and bees stir in the lowest of her stomach, nor one for whom she plucks petals of flowers like harp strings. Something else. His voice feels like wandering hands where they are unasked for, stroking wildflowers with fingertips doused in diabolical venom. They pierce deep and dig mercilessly like the comb Lady Pristine had pulled out of one of the shelves earlier, one that glimmered in the faint light that sept through the curtains, and across which were jewels that formed flowers. ( Unfortunately, his words - and his face, too - are not as pretty as the comb had been. )

"Your mother, she must have been quite the charmer," the man, whom she recognizes solely by the eerie grin on his fat lips - as dark, but unfortunately, not quite as breathtaking as the night. His mouth glistens, coated in sugary sweetness from the holy lands Pearl knows she will not ever live to see. That is a good thing. "She must have fed you a lot of apples. They, the apples, come from between the ribs of the goddess of beauty, purity, my father once told me. He said that that is why they're so unbelievably sweet. And so are you. You are . . . Spellbinding, so beautiful!"

Oh, little Pearl is so tired. And yet still, no art can seal the beauty of the maiden of rosy cheeks and a rotten mind - she, made of stardust, scented of milk.

"You are the loveliest Lady in the room," the man commences lowly in a hushed murmur whilst Pearl does no more but eye him, her hair liquid silk around her shoulders. She does indeed look beautiful, flushed, pouting every so slightly. With a gaunt, greedy hand, he takes hers, and brings it to the swell of his crotch, brushing it back and forth as light as a feather. "Too pretty, too sweet, to be ruined by a man like the Prince . . . I could shower you in jewels and silks and chiffons in every color of the rainbow. Even for your father, for your mother, I will buy everything - anything."

Enraged, Pearl brings her face to his ear with one of her little hands harshly pinching his neck, where she knows it hurts most, "Shut your mouth about my mother and never again make me touch you," she snarls, watching with looming eyes as Teivel entered the chamber with the woman - that woman, "or I will cut off your small joke of a cock with my own pretty, bare hands. Yes?"