feufatale
oh — you startled me !
/ i am SO sorry this is late lovely !
SACREYED
⠀ A parasite-gnawed cadaver, she. Loose limbs of a tawny shade: damnably wrought, battered arm within battered arm, pulsating in cadaveric spasms. ⠀ ⠀ “I—” ⠀ ⠀ MOUTH OPEN, IN WINCE MOUTH SHUT; the Aubade of Saint ████’██² plays upon ghostly cue of morn’ in taunting echoes off the walls of a troublesome skull– the sensation is a disorientating burn. A fiendish groan swiftly followed by one-thin fingers shoot upwards into the sunken sockets. Outward the brains of the deluded woman song doth not transpire in the tombstone-quiet town whither even lowly vermin keep in their hush’d silence.
⠀ “. . . Little sister³,”⠀ ⠀ So Das takes peek betwixt two curled fingers, ⠀ ⠀ “ ——[ /ack/! ], AH… you hath caught me acting like a babe in Misfortune’s bassinet, ( AND I SPIT ON THAT DASTARDLY MATRIARCH! ); tis’ much too dark to see yet my Eyes endeavour to design the wildest of fantasies as Truth. SO I AM ALONE, verily, and miserably without way.”
1. A reference to Anne Carson’s ‘On Walking Backwards’.
2. Aubade; a poem or piece of music appropriate to the dawn or early morning. The previous house of which Kiara Das has lived since youth played it every morning til it started being heard in the brain at the appropriate time without being physically played.
3. Non-literal, polite address. Likely mistaking Claudia for a youth. (2/2)
SACREYED
⠀⠀⠀✸ ݁ ⠀WORLD⠀II.⠀⠀ The Wretched Prodigal Daughter ⧹ K̲i̲a̲r̲a̲ D̲a̲s̲ ⠀ ⠀: ⠀⠀(@feufatale) “AS YE HAVE STARTLED ME!” ⠀ ⠀ As scrawled in the fault-filled translation of the folktale on dead men’s walk¹ the ailing body (in a founder of the dark maiden’s airy tread) scrambled rearward into a towering pillar of Parian marble. With windblown and greased locks that hung themselves in the way of the self-slaughterous practice, the soiled veil discoloured in its Persian green falls into the downcast face hidden like a burial shroud. Tis’ late night or perchance tis’ early morn’; the hour lacks is ere two and Kiara Das, faulty as the folktale, slumps against the scabrous marble with scarcely the coherency of mind to recall wherefore the initial thought of departure from ‘Home’ —— as it must be graced with the name —— at such dusk had arisen in bleary brains. [ ———OF WHAT MATERIALS WAS I WOVEN THAT I HATH NOT THEN EXPIRE? For my mind doth grow weary enow to fashion out dreary visions that my mad Father once, upon His most distraught of days, would hath glimpsed. Tho’ withal of the forever ruinous antic disposition of which I newly don from my Father in a fashion most daughterly, this wretched soul and blemished flesh still withstands such varying shocks in its Promethean way that, indeed, He would hath not... ] In truth t’was no other shooting purpose but the maddened scatter for life accompanying swiftly enveloping mammalian terror that lingered still upon her toilworn person as a second veil or perhaps a most foul scent. She hoists her Eyes to high heaven from the hanging state of the head. (1/2)
