Collections of Embellished Fictions, Philosophies, and Poetry

As Always

May 16. 2020.

Stepping into the mansion warranted an air of violet and awe. The white marbled walls spoke with sighs and whispers, a luring bait. The word of blood lingered on her red lips, and she drew a line in the air. It seemed to stain the small sky she painted in the atmosphere, a glowing line where her fingers trailed. The violet mixed with her rouge, would the white satin be splattered and tainted now? Her back arched, shoulders set back, and the line disappeared with an indigo splash. Outside, the rain poured, thundered, but its wails and howls could not disrupt the sunny night inside her lair. Where were the stars, the stars she drew? The stars on those blinding, yet dark marble walls? The stars she left her victims seeing, galaxies of blue and indigo, while being drowned in red? Where was the lavender bath she'd create, ones to lie her victims in and suffocate in curtains of lace and silky smooth voices? Now there were only sighs and quiet. 

Another crash! and the quiet was disrupted. Her back arched again, and she gasped. The carpet lay drenched in regurgitated onyx, and she shuddered, coming to rest. Her legs curled back as her stomach met fabric, her curly, benitoite hair falling in front of her face. There was no reprieve for her now, no salvation. Nothing for the poor woman suffocating in riches. The silk crumpled underneath her, the purest white. From her navel outwards the soft fabric began to blacken, much like the vomit surrounding her. Perhaps not so pure, then. She reached out, reached to the rouge, to the candlelight just inches away from her grasp. Where were the stars she needed? Stars of gold and silver, stars of topaz and tanzanite. Where were the drawn stars, the ones she'd allowed others to lose themselves in?

The door opened, and she gasped, a familiar sensation. She felt eyes trailing over her, her blue-black head to her silk-stained toes. She felt a spark of lightning, the room igniting with indigo and aquamarine. The charge reached from the visitor's heels, through the ink, through the silk to her heart. Another shudder, and she wavered. A small devilish voice spoke in the depths of her spirit, her soul, and said, The wind shall take what she wishes, and shall always do her duty without hesitation. The wind will howl and bring proper consequence. 

The wind arched her back once more as the stranger drew closer, with the word of her body on her crimson, bleeding lips.

A.N. I tried to create a less violent piece, instead trying to get more seductive themes, as that isn't something I usually do. I think it turned out well.