writinginmetaphors-blog

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Bones In Her Lungs.

"Must we dream our dreams, and have them too?" — Tear from me, my beloved, the flesh that dresses this body of seduction. Calling your love where it's forbidden to caress; and leave me naked with my bones that are laden with the longing of your kissing touch to uplift their burdens of time. ••• The lights waned between purple and red, as if a glitch of continuity was cursed upon this limited spectrum of colour as the booming bass of this modern music Freya's hips were still pleasantly unfamiliar to celebrated their loudness. Between senselessly gyrating bodies, Freya's movements cast hypnotism with its specific sensuality that was written out of the pages of Time – clocked with mystic modesty yet ticking with unwinding wildness. Gazes were stricken waxy upon her, melting as if by the fire fuelled by a blazing candle of a siren's spell. But a blink (or lack thereof) couldn't summon her attention. She was laden with lousy fatigue, blanketed upon her bones by her millennial slumber. And midsummer nights were spent on with eyelids closed, dazed with rum and dancing; and even if there was a potion of infatuation upon her lids like in the Shakespearean stage to have her lovelorn for one who fell first in her line of sight, the lines recited by her wrung out heart would still remain of the same dialect – with words calling out to her deceased love; Mathias. As it was his face that meld itself into the features of others every time she opened her eyes. Like now. The hallucinations hexed upon her, the reddened room having its hue bleed into her eyes as if blood seeping out into her sockets from her pressurised skull; as she collapsed upon the bloody bed of thorns that was her memories. » Freya's immortality was a child, the recipient of unrequited affection from its mother as it clung onto her with stubborn limbs coiled around her body, smothering her with guilt. She didn't want this child, it /wasn't/ her child. It was shoved into the cradle of her arms and it rocked her limbs until they broke; until she lost and couldn't hold the child of her own. Freya's fingers clutched onto the then flat plane of her stomach, deflated of the handful round dimension it had swelled up to, as she traced the ghost of her lover's touch that was breathing with life upon her flesh even a month ago as his fingers held onto her bump as he spoke in the language of gibberish accented with affectionate tuning of words to his unborn child. "Our child will see the entire world." Mathias has declared, promise stitching itself in threads of vibrant colour over his face. A sad smile subconsciously conspired on her lips against her lover's happiness as she spoke, "If Dahlia doesn't bind herself to him..." As if his ears were scarred for only the hearing for that one word he asked, "Him?" His brows drew close to one another as if in curious consultation. "How do you know?" "Maternal instincts. Witch instincts. Perhaps I drew a spell to find out." Freya's smile switched sides to become playful instead as her fingers rubbed affectionately over her inflated stomach. His smile, that always breathed the air of freedom into Freya's lungs, liberated himself upon his lips. Her gaze was an explorer and his face still the map of an unknown paradise, filled with tales of travel and adventures and overseen by the laws of freedom. His passions were the keys that unlocked him from the jailing cells of the standard society judgement. Opinionated and outspoken; he had unlocked her from mysticism's imprisonment and legalised permanently the charges of affection from her towards him. She thrived off his energy, and he lived on hers; ever famished for one another. "A boy or a girl..." He finally says. "Dahlia won't take our baby away from us. I swear to you." And before she could reply, his lips were dictating upon hers, ruling her hopelessness to silence. 'But you forgot to promise that she wouldn't take /you/ away from us, Mathias...' As immune as he was to the disease to her pessimism, his immunity didn't stretch to cover the region of hexes. And one born from the sickness that was the infection of Dahlia's mind, he was vulnerable to it in all alternates of reality. Especially their own. And to a curse and a poison, she had lost both Mathias and his child. She had sobbed with her body convulsing as Mathias collapsed to his death, as she was sobbing now; clutching her stomach, her own breaths smothering against her throat. With the exception of the fact that her lungs were no longer laden with the responsibility of inhaling life into another growing inside of her. Her child had withered in her womb, defenceless to ward himself against the infectious incantations of the fatal poison. Had he welcomed it, with untainted innocence perhaps thinking it would only be goodness to gift him with if it was through his mother? What was she thinking... As she remained seated in the middle of the improvised pentagram sketched upon the granite floors of her abode, only covered in flimsy white fabric waist down with her torso bare, a scream tore itself apart from her thrust once again at the recollections as her fingers branched out to grasp the sharp serpentine bone. She jut the bone's flat and fatal end she underneath a nail whilst her lips began to kiss the Devil's tongue in the incantation for this spell of forbidden magic. The snake's bone pressed between the pink flesh and the opaque transparency of her nail until she began peeling the force backwards to pry her flesh off of her finger. Blood cried upon her, while she cried in applause to the punishing pain she declared herself to deserve while the cursed bone scathed over the solidity of her own bone as a substantial amount of skin was uplifted to have her drop her butchering equipment to free those fingers to grab onto the bloody, linear clump of flesh to bare it off expose the ruddy ivory of her skinned finger. Inciting a scream into the incantation of the sadistic spell, she tossed the flayed flesh to accompany the rest of the unholy ingredients in front of her, before carving a chant into the atmosphere with her mutilated palm that sparked embers of her magic in the ancient bowl where it all was stocked. Her nose flared in contradictory opposition to the foul fragrance of burning flesh, as if that would have aided in the smell not charring her nasal canals. Her unharmed hand guided its fingers to claw underneath the other's bleeding skin over that bony finger to pare off the rest of the human tissue conjoined to her metacarpals, pinkish skin allot underneath her nails as she bared herself down to the bone, tearing off the skin that had once touched her love's. She tossed the dripping lump clasped in her palm into the flames as the spell had demanded, the embers in the bronze bowl screaming up to a bleak blue blaze. Madness seeped into her laughter, as with psychotic fixation, she scraped her bones clean up to her wrists with the serpent's remnant of both her hands; now a venomous paralysis possessing them where only bones remained like a skeleton's – just abundant in blood – due to the curse upon the serpentine bone just before the fingers distanced themselves from one another at calculated and equal distances, but not by her own instructions. Her blurring vision gazes longingly at the slim lengths of her ivory bones. Soon, her whole body would be reduced to the vestiges of only this, ripped off of skin and eternal life and the ignorance that came from era erasing sleep. If this spell worked. "Ettimier em caem," Her tongue flipped in backwards Latin as her wrists, guided by the conscience of dark magic and not her own, flicked to position her unmoving fingers in vertical alignment underneath her breasts, over the gaps between her ribs cages just as the bones' tips plunge into her skin until half of her skeletal digits got swallowed into her chest, excruciating agony burning her veins. "Aem ossa te menrae erepicca." The strips of her bones were protruding into something plush and jelly-like — her lungs. Her respiratory rhythm flunking into fluctuation as blood thumped up her throats and cascaded in a blanket of scarlet down her mouth and onto her bare chest. Suddenly, sensations returned to her bones and she felt her fingers curling around the shape of her lung, lacerating it into pieces as it closed around the organs, her ribcage rupturing from the dark strength spelled into her bony fingers as her body got engulfed in breathless bloody and her spine snapped backwards, in a semi-lunar curve before the links amidst her vertebrae crack one after the other. With a serene smile in contrast against the tangle of lamenting limbs, immortality embraced her no longer. After all, how could she live breathing for one when she had breathed for two for so long? Freya Mikaelson was dead. Or so she had dared to hope. A hungry howl hounds herself back from the blackness of her peace. "No, no!" A wail grieved itself from her broken body. Her arms lay on either side of her torso, as if her fingers had seeped out through her torso by themselves. She mechanised deep inhalations into her chest, both out of mental turmoil and to sense for any gaping holes in her lungs somehow. But there was none. God fucking damn it! This was BOUND to work. Bound... The Armaic anatomical and muscle restoration spell her aunt had crafted upon her in her youth. In her mad misery, she had forgotten of that invincible imprint of a spell upon herself. "All I am asking is for death... Is it a mercy to great to spare upon me?" « The coldness against her cheek seeped into her consciousness, inviting her back to the time that was the 21st century. Drenched in sweat that acted as glue for her tousled blonde hair to stick to her face, Freya lay upon the club's floor, with a circle of people in formation of the shape around her as if spectators oddly fascinated by the workings of a freak show. And given the soreness that thumped in her bones, she knew she must have been a hell of one. Her body must have reenacted some of the spine snapping moments from the projection of her past. She left the club, vexed voices echoing against the dome of her skull as if they were on rent to fill up its vacancy. Her vision blurs and filters vignette with blackness staining its edges with quivers climbing down her long legs with every step. She finds herself in front of the bayou, out of an unexplained instinct. The forest's foliage unfurled in front of her like vines of silken hair tumbling down from a bun to drape the back of a petite maiden. The nexus of the dark and Aramaic magic having as if political power struggle inside the podiums of her body from the realistic recollection of her memory. Her knees buckled as she neared the edge outlined by the silvery strand of water as howls resonated throughout the bayou. The wolves. Hayley's wolves. Perhaps that was Freya's instincts, suicidal in imprisonment from the violent vestiges of thoughts from her past. She was drifting in the realm of past and the present, and she desired to be torn to shreds. Thump. Thump. 

Freya rolled back, the muddy ground squirming underneath her as her obscured gaze fall upon the sinuous sight of a predatory figure. The wolf's chrome rimmed irises embraced her own as it approached Freya like a benevolent leader, ready to strike his damaged disciple out of her misery. She wondered if it was God's plan all along – to have humans morph into animals and laugh as His fanatics tossed themselves into madness as creatures without linguistic tongues remained more empathetic than men themselves. Why else would He have designed for her to die like this? The wolf's teeth drummed soundly against each other, perhaps composed out of hatred for her identity as a Mikaelson. But just before the murderous jaws could strike the final note of the harmony of death, the whisper of a bullet cut through into the music to introduce unappreciated cacophony. The bullet dug itself into the wolf's leg, and it sprinted in the opposite direction after a guttural growl of rage. "Woman, what were you doing lying about like that? I thought you were dead." Unblinking eyes still dimmed by the absurdity of the events, stare into the where the lycanthrope had been. Then she finally looked upon the man who denied her the peace she was craving after, Latin lining up in her head to devise a curse to damn this bastard with. In her daze, she still managed to recall the rumours of hunters in the bayou, equipped with the vendetta of leading the wolves into extinction. "I wanted to be dead." She said plainly while getting up, the back of her hand slicing away tears that had escaped without her will. "Too bad someone employed us to kill down your suicidal aid, huh?" Rage was her crutch as she towed forward, fingers trickling up to down to arrange the air into an electrified field for her magic. "Well, though, why would a beauty like you want out of the world for? Your boyfriend dead?" Still delirious, Freya's laughter was contaminated with toxic humour, "You don't know how close your guess is." She was about to flick her wrists to crumble his knees to dust but when the familiarity of his face blurred into focus, she was leashed back. And she would have rather clawed her eyes out to blindness than have optimism infect them. "Mathias?" All the facial lineaments on the male's face marry into each other to the holiness of her lover's, a face she had studied and touched down to every pore. Hope bursts inside her like a riot of colours unknown, painting her black and blue with the bruise of consequences that may sketch themselves in the future and then bloody red with the muse of love. Before a word was spoken, she tossed herself into his arms, her lips seeking solace in the entanglement with his own whilst his hands raked down with viable hunger down her petite body. Maybe she was in Death's embrace, the moments that had followed her wake just an initiation to shock her into the company of the dead. Her lover returned without the chokehold of the hex having him drown his lungs with his own blood as they now remained coupled together by passion. His hands grip onto the back of her thighs as he provides a lift and her legs instinctively hike up and snake around the width of his sturdy waist. Her back slams onto the prickly support of a tree, an adept spine curving an arc against it to have her bounteous breasts pressed up against his chest while his hands closed on to tear her shirt to tatters. But his body... It lacked the familiarity that had hers always tangle to his will. His mouth lacking the eloquent mechanics of passion that would have her driven mad in pleasure. And that tongue certainly did not speak French with hers with the same fluidity. And most of all, the touch of love didn't caress her body; but unchecked just mutilated it. Her lids drew up to unveil her eyes to the truth. As if the lines of facial matrimony divorced their ties, this face was lawed as someone else's. Her stomach felt a sickness spread as if housing a plague of abhorrent sorrows as she pushed herself out and away from the arms of this dog; this stranger. Her skin burned with betrayal, as if screaming to chastise her for the violation it had endured. Her flesh clawing to unburden itself from the bones that had sworn their fidelity to Mathias, but now had been lured out from their loyalty. Her legs shook as shame suppressed her pride to bits of broken fragments. What had she done? "Come on, babe." The man said. "Decided fucking in the forest was a bit too bold for you?" Her brows drew together in raging disgust whilst her shapely lips broke their pursed line in sorrow. Her fingers lifted, constricting in air as she channeled the pain to bite into his abdomen that had been fortunate enough to press up against hers before her hand gestured down in a violent pull, his stomach ripping down and having his intestines coil onto the ground in a bloody heap as he collapsed onto his knees. "You Wiccan bitch!" He screamed his profanity in agony. "No, /babe/. I'm not a Wiccan." A twisted smile eclipsed her features, fingers poised into a circle just right enough to grasp the heart that tore out of his chest and flew into her grasp after an airborne flight, beating its last against her palms as the man fell face first onto the ground, blood and innards gushing out of the gaping hole in his body as she recalled back to the roots of her father, roots of her own. "I'm a Viking."

#solos freya #bones in her lungs #musings of magic #voltaicaradia

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Lagneía. (Lust)

Woven by the hands of secrets and threaded by the threads of beauty, with scars to lace the framework of his enigma was Kyrian of Thrace. 

His skin was the shade of the fabric of a golden lust, eyes paradoxical to the craft of his masterpiece with the prickling darkness embroidering their shape. His eyes were the least of him which spoke, in contradiction to that charmingly immoral tongue. But even if so, volumes of his history were literary in encryption in those dark spaces. Eyes were hypothesized as the windows to the soul. And for my fingers to have the will to keep grasping onto the tether back to my sanity, the hope lanced itself in my heart as to oppose my aching body - that darkness was intermediary in the instrument of his life, and that the strings of his were only struck to entice the air particles into vibrating to wind the waves of music to bring ashore the troubling tides for a basic human as myself. 

But then, as infinitely certain and slowly regal in its realisation like a suspending sun in its dawning with painting the horizon with miscellaneous tints of color, I had the remembrance that his body was a vessel for vacancy - no soul was there in its occupancy. Wasn't it the jurisdiction that ruled these... creatures into obedience to servitude of protection? But why did that matter to me? 

Why did he matter to me? 

Incoherent thorns were jagged against the soil of my mind, the blooms of complacency were luring with their scent in coloring me to once believe that my... attraction towards him was more infected to withering if I accepted his soul was constituent of darkness - an aspect whose reign was so huge that it was tyrannical in the kingdom of children's dreams; a multitudinous barbarity of of weapons that was used to mutilate minds and lacerate limbs in the fields of war. Even if his soul wasn't bricked of that dark matter, or the fact that he had no soul made him the dark matter itself... 

In what plagued flesh of my mind were the buds of desire sprouting? How could my body ache for the touch of the hands that robbed lives for millennia in toll? 

How could my lips want those made of sin committed so mutinous that its corruption would brand me as a convicted inmate for something so unique in its touch.

Addiction without injection of touch; haunting of fingers without ever having laid a decisive claim on my the curved ravines of my body. 

His ideology was a violation in my mind. His disrespectful and vainglorious behavior an irritation to my skin itself. 

How hate spurt in blisters throughout the flesh of my heart at the heat of his reckless rushes bordering over the ambit differentiating insanity from death and at the surges of trembles that trickled through my veins at the slightest specter of his touch. I was no longer a veteran in the field of control but a soldier under the order of this lustful commander. 

It terrified me into the realms of repulsion how readily I'd allow the conversion of our intermittent fantasies into reality and what my tongue would want to forge its way over the stretches of his scars, in order to scorch those linear lacerations with literary passion sequencing to the exposure of the tales that lead to their creations. The churning chasm of immoral impulses terrified me to an end. An end where my memory would be likely to drown out the echoes of pleas that could lead me back to my ways of sanity.

#solos amanda #lagneia #musings of temptation #vivolamonada

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

The Nightlight Fairy.

'The Sisters Of Quiet Servitude. – Home for troubled youth, where disenfranchised teens will learn virtues such as discipline and respect; enjoying lives of quiet reflection and servitude.' Betty's green eyes swarm over the bleak banner of the website, gaze sticking upon certain words like insects inside the fleshy appetite of a Venus flytrap. 'Disenfranchised.' 'Virtues.' 'Discipline.' 'Servitude.' Her fingers tighten upon the wooden head of Jughead's chair, her thin bones gritting up against her skin in to give even her milk white flesh a deserving contrast with white from the pressure. "Poor Polly." – Was the whispered that sighed past her lips finally. 'Poor' – Guilt gutted her stomach in slithering twists for the selection of that adjective; an adjective her mother used to condescendingly classify her sister during the reminiscence of when she used to be a 'shining star' before her sister's gleam met its eclipse in the murky moon that she considered to be Jason Blossom. But, then why did the whole world remain in standstill as even their breaths were considered as insolent intrusions of privacy as the sun and moon kissed after a longing of centuries; drowning the world in the beautiful darkness of a solar eclipse. Perhaps in those moments, the moon was passionate in its gratitude for the sun — for it only was viable to the eyes of us mortals and was an insignia for requiem to poets because of the light that shone upon it from the blazing star. Or perhaps it was the sun that was fortunate; having found a lover as dedicated even in a distance that could have been covered by miles of eras, after the lifespan of poets who had died musing upon their love affair as the moon kept spinning and spinning on its axis to meet this ball of fire. Betty didn't know who was the unmoving sun and who was the approaching moon in the story of Jason and Polly, but perhaps their tragedy wasn't in systems known for in this solar system. Or of that one in this small speck of a town with even smaller acceptance tolerance. The bus stops reels away, clearing Jughead and Betty's vision to project the sight of the archaic architecture that was the home for Quiet Servitude. "Hey. Don't judge a home for troubled youth by its facade... Right?" It didn't befall upon a certain spectrum if it made even Jughead Jones colour himself unsure. Thin arms uplift to her skull, her fingers relieving their stress and simultaneously fixing her the armour of her own facade as she tightened the flaxen vines of hair tamed in a ponytail. Her eyes swarm upon the stoned angel that remained a lifeless guard and an accurate representation of the coldness that harboured inside that hell. But it seemed like rigid matriarch figures were always absolute and resolute in their lives; no matter where they went. And she couldn't even process out a sequence of events or thoughts or the realistic reason as to why her sister had to face that statue here to begin with. "Now is the time of silent reflection. Your sister spends this time in the Garden of Deliverance." Betty stopped to peek into to what must have been her sister's room, as she assumed. And dread climbed up her stomach with an agility that would oppose nausea with rivalry. Walking the halls that spoke languages foreign to kindness or even a home, Betty's mind wandered like a child footed with curiosity, wandering through these halls... 'Did you bring a nightlight, Polly? Were you able to? I should have brought you mine, I've been so thoughtless. But you never needed one. Polly, my nightlight fairy. Even then, mother wouldn't let you stay beside me in the dark, all I had to hold was the thought of you and the small shine you left switched on behind. Are you as afraid of the dark here as I was as a child? Did we finally switch places with my fear now? When you should have been blooming in the Garden of Youth and not of deliverance? Bloom? Deliverance? What odd words to line together...' The Garden of Deliverance was no floral fantasy – it was drowsy with fog and chilled with coldness. "Polly?" A familiar back draped with the thick curtain of blonde hair, unmistakable and sharp in Betty's memory as if she'd just seen it yesterday. Her sister turned, but she knew long before who she was. "Betty!" Her sister's exhaled her name with loud happiness. "You found us!" Us? But Betty didn't get to think long on it. Her sister rejoiced and embraced her with a lifetime's lockdown of affections finally set free, and not just a summer's. And she did the same. As they peeled away, Betty's gaze fell south and her hands shot out in an undefinable instinct, her palms cupping the bump that was her sister's stomach in surprise that somehow bordered on the hinge of happiness as her lips tore away to reveal a smile. "Polly... You're.. With Jason's?" "Please, be happy for me, Betty." Oh, my nightlight fairy. You brought with you your own light. How stupid of me to think otherwise. "I am, Polly! I am just sorry I didn't come sooner. I tried but mom and dad stopped me..." Her fingers gripped onto her sister's elbows in consolation, in understanding, in comfort. Feelings Polly was torn away from, and stitched into a life to dour herself with the threads of discipline. A blooming garden and deliverance... At least she had the mind to not think of 'blossoming' and 'delivery.' Well... or not. Irony was bittersweet upon her tongue as it unfurled in conversation with her sister, clutching onto each other as if they were only fleeting reality as they exchanged the lies their mother and father fed to have them digest their parental pride. "So they locked you up because you were pregnant?" "Because they couldn't control me, Betty." The leash about Betty's mind seemed to me always slipping from her own grasp today, as her thoughts trained off rails again. 'They won't be able to control you either, Elizabeth Cooper.' — A voice, /her/ voice, chimed in the secrecy of her skull with a snark unbeknownst to her personality; at least upon the pristine surface. — 'Then you can join sister dearest in servitude, just not as quietly. Unless your sins end up planting you /inside/ a garden in their judgement. Just like Jason...' Betty blinked as she wrung the thoughts out of her brain, bleeding out her ears and nearly eyes but as tears almost as that was around when Polly began her rapid recital of her plans with Jason – the car, the stash, the route towards their freedom. She really didn't know. She didn't know. Betty's brain was ringing, from her own thoughts and her sister's words, and she breaks off the ties of her hands with Polly's own in an abrupt inclination. And then, with straying gazes and broken sentences, the sentence of the tragedy broke through to Polly Cooper. And her sister stood, saying nothing more than apologies as she wasn't taught better than to offer these hollow words as fluff for a loss. But she tried to make them as hurt and helpless as she was feeling. But nothing got through to her. Perhaps this was how the stars wept when their kiss ends; but the sun and the moon still had another era to meet again. Polly and Jason didn't even have a lifetime. With another unborn star in between them.

Betty's thoughts on astronomy remained even after her departure from Deliverance. Even as she ran into the school halls to meet the sheriff. Her head went up to the speakers flooding the halls as lonely as her heart, by a voice she recognised even in refined melody. Not different from her earlier day to day situation. And as she left, with Archie's voice still filling through, she realised some stars could only fall upon in a constellation in pattern — together yet far apart, existing to form the same design but never on the path to cross like the sun and moon. Was it a better blessing or a worse tragedy than an eclipse? She had no right to say. 'Oh, Nightlight Fairy, if only I could ask you to guide me through this lighted darkness...'

#solos betty #the nightlight fairy #musings of lamentation #lamentaballad

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Split. - An Introduction.

—When with the mind that has been brought up by society begins to harbour the thoughts that has been festered by your heart of dark desires instead, perhaps that's when personalities peel – like the skin off of an apple, of the same flesh but of different measures and that's when one's brain s-p-l-i-t-s. ( An introduction. ) Betty Cooper was the headline for perfection. Inked selectively by the pretentious hunger for perfection of her journalist parents – she was written off as the perfect child, the perfect student, the perfect sister. Her holy aesthetic was sermon into a house of religion, where the exposure of skin with explicit intent was an act on the lower grounds such as a sin. Her fair flesh went with the standards of society, her fair hair upheld the headlines for her in society. But her fairly reddish lips were always a contrast – whose colour fought over the shades of pink perfections; sinful yet innate in colouring through light hues upon her full mouth. But her own fairness invited a darkness into herself; like light being invited into a dark storage to cast shadows where footsteps would remain untouched upon. And this fairness cast a spell upon her heart, its shadow eclipsing her senses and the looming over each of her breaths taken in act of composure for this town of Riverdale. The sage that was lit to keep the evil at bay; she always had wished its smoke would rather be of black cigarettes – sweet in taste but still strong on the senses with its scent that lingers with the strength of sin that invites the miscreants of natures into her threshold instead. Perhaps even her bed. But since a child, a panoramic picture of perfection of her future was shoved into her palm which didn't want as much, with a paintbrush of life to paint that exactly after for her existence. Exactly in the hues that were chosen as if simply the colours of blinders by her parents, exactly in the light setting that was obedient to submission of non-judgement in this world. And after Polly's departure from their home and sanity, even tints of red or black were scraped out from the dried paint of expectations. Colours that were too loud, whose noise could lead her astray. Like the colours of Archie and Veronica. Betty, to herself, couldn't certainly say that the love she felt for them was out of obedience to her heart or of submission to her silent rebellion for defiance. Did she love them to love? Or did she love them to love a "herself" that couldn't see the light of day? The "herself" that yearned for the feel of tight leather skirts up way above her knees; for the show of her glorious midriff in short shirts and for the sin of touch and the kiss of temptation on a stranger of foreign forbidding. Clad in heels high as the pencils she used to gain her good grades and laced up in black lingerie that could earn her the Scarlett Letter in modernist settings from literature over the flesh fabric of just her nude flesh. These were the freedoms that were denied to her – the ideologies that earned you your bed of fire in Hell even without a jury to determine your demands for Heaven. The aspects that made her suffocate. So these became the aspects that got churned to make her breathe under a different thread of hair or role within herself. These became the aspects that could make her kill.

#solos betty #split #split 1 #musings of lamentation #lamentaballad

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Poster Girl — The first tear in the poster.

Amane Misa was a poster girl. For what, you may wonder. To begin, her angelic aesthetic was printed in pixels for actual posters that was pasted up on walls of men or women in whose fantasies she starred in; dressed in perhaps with some fraction more than nudity. And on walls of women, who remained as understudies without the men's knowledge to want to overthrow her from that stage they set her upon – but with admiration, of course. But she rarely found a form of admiration from a woman to another without a tint of envy staining it. This was model Misa — whose smile shined more luminous light upon Japan than the sun's most glaring grin. She was also as much for the ideal school girl. With her cherubic charms, more than ideal IQ and grades, and unusual wit – she was the top of her class. This was student Misa — an exemplary species for the teachers to lionise as the top of her chain to striving students themselves, especially with her being a model as well. Those students either bowed to her in awe or in spiteful submission from an unannounced competition she never got the notice for. Misa was also a poster girl for an impeccable child. Obedient and pampered, with dresses and dolls from her childhood she kept until this day. She was an only child, in pursuit of her fame famished dreams while having no record of being a culprit that had committed the crime of breaking manners with her family or people in general. Her mother was a lawyer and her father, a playwright. An unusual combination but they were the poster couple – delved madly in love and rare of debates. Perhaps this was where an unrealistic script of love was written into Misa's mind. She was still a naive girl after all and she idolised the fact that they were so dependant of one another even though their interests and lives were so clashing. They never let a caress of pain touch their little girl, she never knew a life outside of this picturesque poster panorama. She was bathed in innocence and beauty of life, never had the world's ugliness as a stain upon her. And somehow that childish innocence still remained in her. This was her life; her family — the poster family. Misa heard a lot about the American dream, her concept was never really clear on it. But she knew they were the Japanese dream, if there was such a conception. But even the sweetest of dreams could distort into the most tragic nightmares by the hands of our own subconscious. Reality's ones were even more merciless. Misa viewed this dream as a silver mirror, or glass rather. Out of perhaps some old lore, rich in happy memories but saturated as well to the point of opacity that nothing was clear exactly. But that mirror collapsed from her grasp as reality's hands smashed upon it, silver shards spreading everywhere; some even now stuck in her heart like pieces of shrapnel that was injected into a casualty from the war and couldn't be operated out. They were small and scattered in attacks, but major in agony. It left her heart crying in grief and bleeding in madness. It had been New Year's Eve. Misa and her parents were on their way home from the dinner Miss had treated them to. It was her first time treating her family with her own earnings. She had given an opulent fountain pen to her father and an extravagant blue suit for her mother to match her eyes — the eyes Misa had as well. She had picked an affluent restaurant and had reserved the window seats where she gave them their gifts for the world outside to see. Perhaps this is where it had went wrong. But in that moment, snow fell outside from where the angels flew above, but the family was warm – inside, it was all golden lights and amber champagne and gold culinary. These moments were woven in the most silken golden threads of memory to string those moments in her mind – as if Midas himself had cast his hand over them. But even if for glinting gold, Midas's hand was cursed. And cursed that night turned out to be. They had left late. The restaurant owner was an admirer of model Amane Misa and he remained open for business, well her gratitude. And gratitude he got. The Amane family were laughing and tipsy besides her mother and drunk mostly in their conversation. Someone had to drive them home safely, her mother decided to refrain from alcohol being the face of responsibility of the family. They were crossing an alley to get to the main road across which their car was parked in the local garage. That was the first and last time Misa had tasted the sin of alcohol; she wasn't entirely drunk but there was a tipsy lightness to her steps. Perhaps God was enraged at her for this he claimed a slip in character in his holy books, as she had heard. BANG! Misa's senses had opened up like a freshly cut wound, and she realised there was a bullet burying through her stomach. To describe as a cinematographer, she felt like she fell sideways and the camera fell with her, the screen shaking and the lens quaking. BANG! Straight into the forehead and through the brain and out of the back of the skull. Her father collapsed. Dead that second. BANG! Her mother fell. Misa couldn't see where she was shot. The events - no, no - omens, that were being ritualised around her finally seemed to project into her brain as reality and not a twisted dream. And all she could do to repel this evil was sing sermons of screams. But it had attracted instead of repelling. The burglar had shoved everything into his duffel bag. The packet the suit of her mother was in, her chain, her watch. Her father's fountain pen, his watch and wallet and even his glasses. Basically everything besides their clothes. "Oh, you're a pretty one, aren't you?" He used his filthy, muddy boots to kick Misa over onto her back, resulting in her gurgling up blood through her mouth from the pain that snapped through. Then he planted both of his feet on either side of her legs before he leaned down to observe her face. Misa could see the burglar, his face was scorched into her mind for the rest or half of the lifespan she had received later on from her lovelorn Shinigami. Misa could see each line on his face, each filthy feature as his pungent breath fumed over her. She wouldn't forget him. She wouldn't forgive him. He looked her over, pudgy hands clasping onto the silver necklace from her neck – the contact of his rotting skin against her own making her flesh cringe up against her weak bones as he snatched the ornament up. This carved scalding lines of red upon the porcelain that was the skin of her neck and in result, more blood gurgled into her mouth like water in a broken sink. Misa felt hot tears condense to coolness as they lined down her face due to the chilled temperatures. She felt what may come and her body was taut with pain and frightened anticipation as he straightened up and looked her over yet again, his gaze travelling south of her wounded stomach. "I know what else I can rob you of." Misa's chest heaved up and down. She had thought of this. The innocent girl from the posters, was meeting world for as ugly as it was. And she was thinking of rape. Her shot wasn't fatal, or it would at least take her a few more minutes to suffocate with her own blood clogging up her lungs. 'It's okay, it's okay.' She thought to herself. 'Mamma and papa won't have to see this. It's okay. Just let me be dead, God, please, after this.' The burglar was about to ensue, but a strained voice came from their right, rattling both their attentions. "Don't you dare put your filthy hands on my daughter, you animal." It was her mother. She was supporting herself up on one elbow whilst the other hand clutched onto her bleeding stomach. They were shot in the same place, by some design or mistake. Wails of sirens cried from a distance, someone must have reported something. A spark of hope flamed up in Misa's already burning chest. They might just make it. The burglar heard his freedom call as well. He looked frantically from daughter to mother left and right before speaking again. "Looks like I won't have to." BANG! All respiratory mechanisms chained to a stop in Misa's body, her blue eyes diluted with tears and widened with screeching shock as the bullet took home into her mother's skull. The strength the woman had summoned to defend her daughter haunted away from her body with her last breath as she collapsed onto the snow, the side of her face against the white carpet of nature and her eyes - Misa's eyes - glasses over and open. The pistol was pointed at Misa now, but her nerves had constructed to such narrowness that impulses wouldn't travel one inch to any muscle in her body. She just stared, at her mother, the red hole in her skull piping out blood in a single file. Just like her father's. Till death do us part, was it? It was a beautiful death, perhaps. But she was shot in the stomach as well, just like Misa. She passed away carrying both her father and her burdens just like she did always. When she was still breathing. Still living. It was a beautiful death. She had to tell herself that in these last moments. Perhaps to come to terms with it all. "Hey!!!" The police cars had screeched up to the alley and two police officers were running towards them. "See you around, pretty." The burglar just... She remembers this in slowed moments. His lips parted, like dirty curtains to reveal the filthiest of windows between his decaying teeth. A kid of his shut over one of his brown eyes. He grinned... And winked... What sort of world was this? Were humans truly capable of such insincerity? And then he took flight, clutching onto his duffel bag with the stolen treasures; knowing the seconds it would take to kill her would cost his freedom. A police officer rushed and kneeled against her, firing words away into his device for an ambulance. He was between the triangle or distorted circle the collapsed bodies of her and her family arced upon the ground, his knees drenched in the blood of what truly seemed like a satanic ritual. The last sight Amane Misa saw before closing her eyes was the blood from their three bodies struggling to snake a path against the rough roads of snow to conjoin in their finality from the diverse directions they flowed. And bind together they did. A faint smile fluttered onto her crimson condemned face as her eyes shut. Bound by blood in death still. Truly the Japanese dream.

#solos misa #poster girl #poster girl 1 #musings of justice #calunniare

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Séance Of Sins.

"Kiss me when the stars still sing together in a constellation for God, before my lips bleed to taint the skies to disrupt their prayers with the Devil's imagination." 

×

The doors thrashed open as if with the winds of her fury, each pore that perforated her porcelain flesh respiring  in restlessness to exhale the darkness had clawed into her body. The murmurs of fright broadcast themselves throughout the masses in waves of interrupted static, the signals tiding both towards and away from her. She could dress herself with the silk of sane humanity in yards enough to enrich the business of fabric for eras, but it wouldn't veil the poverty of her soul - her tar black soul where all light was consumed and which reeked of the slum of sinful desires no flagrant perfume could overpower. And the nauseous odor would breathe through her skin at times, repelling the company of social grace - as what had happened then.

"I believe we're about to commune with the dead," She had explained to the fatally attractive Dorian Gray. What she had couldn't have explained was how she'd been the human radio through which darkness flicked its channels to air the shows of tortured spirits.

Her bones twisted and her soul screamed as she fought in the name of her maker to not allow the potion of darkness to seize her body. Spasmodic and betrayed, a malignant spirit forced itself into her body - and the feeling was a thousand times worse than of having a spoonful of bland food grate down into her throat like in her days at the mental institution. "Father…" She could feel her vocal cords disfiguring themselves to sound the voice that came out of her mouth that she had no ownership of. "Cold blows the wind to my true love, and gently drops the rain. I have never had but one true love..." The song lamented in no tune, as Peter's spirit violated control of her body and its senses. Through her eyes - yet as if through another's - she saw the shards of her human mask exploding onto Sir Malcolm as it cracked as if nothing more than fragile glass, and having him bleed pain. "Did you name a mountain after me, father?" In the haunting of this witching hour, Vanessa tried to seize the dominion of her own anatomy, but she was smothered by the emotions that weren't her own - memories of both Mina, Peter and hers looped through her mind in the casting of a broken projector on a canvas far from pristine. It was so dark. So cold. So lonely. How does one go on? How does one live again? Her limbs crawled upon the cracked glass of the rounded table towards Sir Malcolm, like a spider stalking towards its prey as words of foul measure imploded from her uncontrollable mouth. She stood up, the grace of her tall figure shrouded in vile fragrance. She had to fight, if not for her then for the sake of Sir Malcolm. His emotions deserved better than to bleed out in cascading pain. Or that's what he told herself. Where were his emotions when he had fucked her mother in the secrecy of the unfolding maze of his manor, did he think once like she was to stop - to spare the pain of betrayal to his loved ones? She thought not. And the vestiges of her dignity snapped like the last stitches of a tearing rope as she fell into an abyss of despair, giving up all fight and having darkness as the puppeteer of her body as it snapped her spine backwards and had her sing the screams of its disgusting glory with the terrorised shrieks of the women of tricks.

The needles of rain cleansed her pores further from the tainting touch of the dead, her mind drenched in shame once the opinions of the malignant spirits had cleared away from it. She wasn't ashamed for the events that had unfolded, but for the fight she gave up on, simply to whip agony onto someone she claimed to love. The vines of her raven hair clung to her face with the influence of rain, her dress laden with the droplets of water and drawing down towards the ground to further deepen the cut that exhibited the hefty amount of her cleavage as she tread through the isolated London streets. Her walk in the dress was difficult, resulting in her shoulder to collide with another that of a stranger's. She walked on despite the hindrance for a two steps, before flood of her repressed desires screamed through the cracks of the dam darkness had broken. She turned, her pale eyes coaxing the the chime of seduction only to find the man to also have stopped in his tracks. She knew how inviting she looked, and it was clear in the timid's man gaze how much he wanted to tear her clothes off and fuck her right then and there.

"Your hands want to touch, but your head wants to appraise. Your heart is torn between the two." - Dorian's words played through her mind again as her eyes drawled over the appearance of the man, which impressed her not. What was his worth, mental and by wealth? Did her hands deserve to touch her? Was he a man of dignity? Dignity? She scoffed at herself internally. Even the lowest grade of criminals had more dignity than she did that night. And as if that was the final gong sounded by her decision's bell, her hands got rid of their desirous itch by rubbing the balm of his skin over their palms. Demanding and desired, Vanessa shoved him into the alley shying away from the main streets, unconcerned his wellbeing  as he toppled onto the ground on his back. She lowered herself down, her knees caging the man's naked hip after she had tugged down his pants just as her lanky fingers clasped onto the flimsy fabric that clung to his chest before her wrists flung sideways, reducing the clothing to tatters. Her hands roll down the plane of his surprisingly muscular torso, down onto his already hardened member to clench onto it. Foreplay bore no meaning to her then, neither did gentleness which she wouldn't offer this man in this murk. Neither would she bestow her nudity upon a stranger upon whom Fate must have been kind after ages to allow him to have her. Thus, she angled his manhood to the degree that had him thrust into the warmth of her walls while her adept body remained ruthless in painting the pleasurable strokes upon this man, upon whose face the colors of relaxation had been smudged as he indulged in the bliss she was the dominating artist, the bliss she did her best to lock herself away from throughout the years. Her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders obtaining more leverage for her movements, her skull flinging back as she moaned up to the heavens as it kept draining out the angels' tears, as if still pure in God's attempt to wash her off the sins that He Himself had mold into the clay of her model.

#solos vanessa #seance of sins #musings of prayers #illectatio

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

A War Unwated. - Death Of The Dragon.

"The riots of rumors left our love unbridled, but yet the fumes of fury of a lover lorn laurel our graves - with no rose to wither upon your coffin."

×

"Prince Rhaegar is dead."

"No!" The scream denied itself of belief and quietness, its volume rallying through the tower's chamber like an army of miscreants, unsure of its cause.

"Robert killed him near River Trident.  They've began to call it Ruby Ford, the rumors have it the rubies shattered off of his breastplate from the force of Robert's hammer and scattered into the river." Ser Arthur Dayne recited the events, no blade of emotion piercing the armor of his impassive visage.

Lyanna's then frail arms slung out as if like whips of wrathful weaponry before her hands grasped onto the wooden table to breathe her fury and body's momentum onto it, thrashing it off its four legs. A blate of agony shrieked through her swollen belly as she toppled onto the ground, having lost her perpetual battle with gravity.  

The imagery incensed itself in rolls into the projector of her mind, beaming out in the scattered streaks of red as her mind casted Robert Baratheon as the antagonist who deluded himself with the self opinion of the hero. As during the lapse of an unfortunate roll of Fate's dice, the Stag's warhammer made the Dragon's armored chest its anvil for vengeance, having its rounded scales of ruby fly off as if like the suffocated snuffs of sparks from the force.

"And in his drying breaths, he was said to murmur a woman's name."

Another scream scratched itself free from the gullible innards of her throat perhaps with the company of plump flesh, as the column of her jugular became the channel for a reddish undercurrent that waved out of her mouth in smothered tides. Her fists slam themselves into the granite ground, just as Robert may have with his bare hands onto Rhaegar as if to pound back the time he had been bestowed with her, along with the vestiges of aesthetic and battlefield  dignity that may have managed to rust onto his armor after the rain of rubies. Blood kissed the floor, as the joints of her fingers eluded from one another's embrace under the shame of when the skin's veil uplifted from the sides of her hands. A stab of pain jut itself into her inflated stomach as Ser Dayne and her female care takers seized the spasmodic Stark and towed her up and away onto the mattress where Rhaegar's muscles would imprint their waves onto the cotton shores. A set of cracked fingers rope themselves in a linear tug down the pillow beside her as she lay on her side, her eyes microscopic to observe the details that would support the thesis of the Targaryen's touch once burning here, even in the impossibility of it all. But his greatest touch  remained, the Targaryen heir breathing in ignorance in her womb, and burning in pain - the proof of it being another flash of pain which slapped her into a conscious oblivion where memories gripped her back to times where her roses were still blue and the Dragon's betrayal was just to endorse fidelity to her.

"Lyanna…" Passion rolled off in steams from the tongue of the Dragon whenever  he called her name. With his lips fuming down the naked course of her body or as his hands caressed over her with the reverence as a Sept would be enslaved by while reciting their religious script. A sob hitched in her bloody throat as her mind curated how the sizzling sound of dying passion had condensed from steam to a watery word as her name upon his Targaryen tongue - and it haunted her. She didn't think he'd have spoken of Elia in his last moments. Not out of a  pitiful purchase of self comfort to maintain her own vanity, but out of a comprehension that was borne so deep in her it nearly surpassed the certainty of her having wolf's blood in her veins. Rhaegar loved Elia, that she knew. And the only reason over time why envy hadn't painted her as green as the Tyrell's banner was because she knew it was akin to the affection one would have for a close acquaintance, nothing more. But Rhaegar and herself… Their love was Fate's miswritten hand, its carelessness inking love so literary in its greatness that only countless cadavers in a war could bring back balance to the cosmic cycle after its birth. The next time Fate starts to tipsy, it was easy to imagine it reminding itself not to engineer a love so livid it could decapitate dynasties, just as with perhaps the Targaryens.

"He started a war for you," Rhaegar had said, his pale fingers reigning over the supple exposure of the thigh whose knee was buckled over his manly hip with the rest of her leg falling down and over the back width of his waist. "You should be flattered." A scoff embarked from the station of her lips, as she maneuvered the weight of her body forward to have Rhaegar's lengthy spine now pinned onto the mattress with her thighs caging in his hips as she remained domineering over him. "You men." She said, a dismissive tone dialling in her voice whilst her head settles itself down onto the grand expanse of his chest. "Offer unnecessary acts of grandiose chivalry when all we women really need are small acts of loyalty. And then when it all goes south or may as well go, you expect us to be grateful and kiss your peckers for it." "He expects much more than a kiss, I can tell you that." That sense of doom dripped into the cool tonality of his voice, suggesting the conclusion for any jocular conversations. "Sadly for him, your maidenhead isn't up for offer anymore. And after that, he'd simply  settle for my head." His fingers designed patterns incoherent over the satiny skin of her back, but Lyanna knew it to be the outline of a wolf followed by a dragon in its shaky imperfections. His speech wasn't inspired by fear, but  by a burdened instinct that drew him away from violence. "Hundreds of thousands are going to die for Robert's jealousy, for us." He said. "But I need you to understand and remember. My men, his men, his life, my life. If the loss of all of that meant that I could have you, I'd choose it all, all over again, faster than a raven can flap its wings."

The cry began as a soft drone first, a kind of sound after hearing you weren't certain if you heard anything at all, before evolving into the hopeless gape of despair. If only the Stag could have understood that even in all its kindness, it couldn't possible embrace her fantasy and shield her reality like the destructive dragon's wings on just it's four legs. But in the end, the antlers tore through the wings, severing flight and marring myths.

#amorvictrices #death of the dragon #a war unwanted #solos lyanna #musings of memories

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

God Against The Devil.

↱In the choir of death and screams, he becomes God and the remorseful Devil consecutively as he peels off from the bones the skin he touched with the sermon of deceit with which his heart had once been preached.  

†

To those who had the curse of dark dreams we typecast as nightmares weaved into their slumber by the threads of fear that tangle them in their conscious hours for the knowledge of the supernatural, to them, Stefan Salvatore was the maximal monster of blood thirst and perhaps who caused them to wake up in the vociferous echo of their own screams.

The Monterey Ripper, infamous for slaughtering the village brimmed with immigrants in high aim of desire to occlude the voracious hunger of the void in his chest with the abundance of blood from his human nourishments. But it was to no avail, the echoes in the chasm of his heart couldn’t be dampened. With the rampant restlessness for a suitable sustenance, he was on the borderline of madness, and soon before long, he was in the land which was at war civilly with his morality and madness in the escapade for discovering a state with doctrines of inner peace. And the first legislation to be used was starvation and torment, signed on him by the arms of a fair maiden, which hadn’t remained attached to her curvaceous frame in the stretch of her small future to wrap themselves around another man ever again.

----

 “13.02.1923

Tonight... The one I killed, though ‘slaughtered’ would be the appropriate term, not even then perhaps. I tried methods of torture, to write in civil terminology. She had been beautiful. Curvaceous body, bounteous breasts, flaming red hair, kind blue eyes. The laughter from when my lips grazed the supple flesh of her inner thigh still echoes in my mind. It was indescribable – sinless – like the sound of crystal chimes of a church being caressed into song by air.

The reason I write upon her aesthetics is because I don’t want her faded from my memory. Not after what she’d offered me and the pain I brought upon her. And for the dilemma she left me battling over. And to take into account the calculative measures I had to improvise for the ‘predicament’ that later appeared.

Now I look upon her name etched onto the wall to increase the longevity of a scribe that is to be recited to elaborate why my skin was deserving to melted by the fires of the lowest pit in Hell, and why my evil bones should be broken out of my body to be fed to the hounds to stir more darkness into the pots of their souls.

Her name, Cassandra, her existence and the vestiges of the essence of her last moments that I can’t extract for my mind now remain to be nothing more than worthless ink imprinted on a wall, which wouldn’t retain its color just like the memory of her on this world.

Naïve Cassandra, with an eccentric glint in her eyes – nearly crazy – that I should have taken into more of a serious note before. Only wanted a worthy orchestration of affection from her man on Valentine’s day. And I felt the two districts of my mind at war with each other as words of praise and millennial old seduction caused her mind to lapse with the weight of lust whilst she’d been persuade into infidelity, as a part of me remained arrogantly amused and the other remained direly disgusted with myself.

Nothing satiated the hunger of the misery inside, and in desperation as the last few months, I fell in line to buy myself into the trend of the madmen who renowned the pleasures and peace that had been instigated into their souls in the moments of mutilating murder or after.

And even though it wasn’t the exact mutilation I had in mind, I was left to balance whether the enjoyment of my satiation had more weight than the lack of coordination that had my mind crippled due to the insane whirling of the needle of my moral compass. ”

 ------

 Stefan’s manly hips ground into the lower region of Cassandra’s spinal expanse whilst a muscled hand of his clutches onto an abundant portion of the flesh of her thigh to have the length of her long leg remain stretched backwards and over the dip of his figure’s side as he took her sideways. Despite the tangle of naked limbs and the restriction it constructed with movement in the embodiment of this position, Stefan still wielded his body with fluid ease as a weapon of pleasure whilst the length of his throbbing cock thrust in and out of the wet folds of that remained shielded between her legs usually and persuading the sounds of loud moans from her lips whilst the arm at liberty of his remained underneath the weight of her side that was pressed against the plush mattress with his forearm out in front of her voluminous chest where his capable fingers kneaded the plush roundness of her breast with the pretense of significance an explorer would have sincerely personified upon touching the maps of an unfound land for in its primary discovery. The sound of his own grunts were suffocated by the skin of her neck, where his face lay buried amongst the foliage of the vines of her red hair as the pad of his thumb encircled itself in circular motions around her nipple prior shifting to exert a needed pressure upon its hardness. But his senses could barely encompass the sinful sonance of the atmosphere, as all his mind was zoned in on was the accelerated cadence of her beating heart as it pumped blood to all the fractions of her body from the accentuating curves and then to pigment the rosy hue that emblazoned her cheek. Stefan’s lips were susceptible to the gush of cascading blood in the vessels of her veins in the curvature of her neck, and his mouth salivated at the mere imagination of parting just enough to expose his invasive canines and burrowing it into her flesh then to taste the flavorful fusion of her sweet sweat and bemusing blood. He’d register the screaming sonance from her then. The dichotomy of exertion or not of this inglorious sin had physical extremes as the mental struggle had a trembling rake through his body just as he angled his body so that his chest completely usurped her spinal region as he pressed down his weight upon her, causing her stomach then to be flattened upon the silken sheets. In less than a fraction of a second, his cock slid out of her cunt as he maneuvered his hips to raise enough whilst her arm his arm slithered out from beneath her chest to free his hand to grab a hold of his member as he swiftly guided it in between her plush butt-cheeks with the aid of a thrust. His lips crash over hers as his fingers then clutch onto her jugular to angle her head in the right measures for the rough and lewd language of French their lips and tongue then spoke in between the elevated rate of her breathless moans, the taut tension from his shoulders receding as the distraction triumphed in quieting the urge to disconnect the connection with her skull and spine with the help of only his bare incisors.

 Stefan climbed out of bed, quickly covering the muscled length of his body with his cloth with the earnest intent of abandoning the schematics of torture that this quest for static sanity had designed across the blueprints of his mind.

‘She doesn’t deserve that,’ He had thought over the staccato rhythm of her pumping blood and the roar of the growling hunger in him, a sliver of hope had begun snaking itself around his heart in serpentine spiral and with each shift, he had dared allow the vision of a life without this Ripperdom unfold.

But silence hadn’t been quiet in trying to take his hand to accompany his stealth, in term rousing Cassandra from her slumber.  A petty confrontation for the attempt of leaving without a goodbye; culminating into an unseen psychotic breakdown from the redhead’s behalf. A lamp was tossed, having the spherical bulb shatter as the furnishing collided with the wall right behind Stefan, a drizzle of glass pieces sprinkling down. Clutching as tightly as possible onto the leash of his patience, he turned around for the door.

‘Did the woman you love leave you behind like this after she fucked your brains out, huh? Is that where this is coming from?’ Cassandra challenged in her eccentric tone.

Rage seared through Stefan’s mind, the heat melting off any leash he had strung around his control. Images of Katherine Pierce spliced through the pages of his conscience and the responsibly of reasoning was as faded in his mind as Katherine was then in his existence.

Stefan turned, predatory precision stalked his muscles as he loomed towards his prey. As blood riveted up to redden the visible vestiges of white around his irises, in contradiction, the blood paled from Cassandra’s face just while the forking shades of the trailing, dark veins painted themselves underneath Stefan’s eyes. In the combination of visible blur of movements and audible splits of Cassandra’s cracking vertebrae from the inhuman momentum with which her spine collided into the brick wall behind her, Stefan’s mouth was already guzzled with the vibrancy of her blood. But right then, more than the crackle of spurting blood, the thunder of her screams were what pacified the cries for collective misery in Stefan’s subconscious. The scratches from her manicured nails across the extent of his back infected his clothed flesh with the illusion of power as each slash prayed in paradox of its violence for a show of mercy – but Stefan wouldn’t even allow its pretense. He was Almighty then, the capability of demolition and extraction of a human life by supernaturally occult opportunities was enhanced with every gulp of the rubicund liquid he ingested into his system.

Stefan’s hands clasped onto Cassandra’s wrists just as he ripped his mouth apart from her neck, a part of her jugular clamped in between his teeth upon which he shifted oral pressure to have the remainder of the blood in the tangle of skin and flesh trickle into his word before spitting it out after another sufficient yet not long lived chew.

In the spur of indecision, he forced the lengths of his arms to split backwards with vampiric velocity and strength so that in conjunction of these actions and the vice upon her wrists, the force caused the shoulders to be amputated from its joints in her body to have both her arms severed with anything but surgical skill. The dwindling dome of light in the fields of her eyes and the ghastly horror that eclipsed it strung Stefan’s nerves to symphonize a sinister song of satisfaction within his heart as he laced his fingers with that of the detached arm  and dangled the bleeding section of where the shoulder would have met the limb above his head, having the rain of blood shower his face and bathe his mouth. And just as his booted feet met with Cassandra’s skull, it countered onto the wooden floor before tumbling down and around across a considerable distance given it was only hinged to the vertebral column by a weak stitch of support.

“THE FUCK!”

Stefan’s head rotated to find the sobbing and rattled mess of a man that stood at the doorway, undoubtedly Cassandra’s lover. Taking his sweet time, Stefan’s bloody fingers rounded into the separated arm, his digits clutching onto the long bone that had been encased by the sheath of fair flesh before expertly forcing out the white and reddish mass of long calcium. Presenting the man with a condescending smirk, Stefan aimed the length of the bone at the exposure of the man’s neck with a calculated angle before pitching it in the imagined measures with demonic heights of strength and speed. The bone butchered right through the man’s neck, cleaving the cranium right off its column as it also tumbled onto the floor and rolled in close and superstitious  proximity to the severed skull of his lover’s just as the sound of the bone colliding with the wall abaft thrilled the room.

But the conceit towards this masterpiece in the gallery of artful abomination, with streaks of red stroked across the walls in aerial brushes and the freed imagination of a tortured artist inflicted upon the canvas of human bodies, distracted itself into remorse of a creative failure as Stefan collapsed onto the support of his knees, his gaze straining over his blood coaxed fingers as he realized this blood didn���t only symbolize the power his digits domineered with in this massacre, but also their future when they’d scald and tear themselves against the obsidian bars of the cage that would be specifically design to contain the plague he brought upon Earth. He’d be – he was – the reincarnation of the devil, the ambassador of chaos. 

------

Stefan had left an opening next to Cassandra’s name, he’d have to procure her lover’s name sometime. With one last look at his wall, he returned to the secretive binds of his journal.

“And later, in her small apartment, when I pieced back the severed segments of their limbs to complete the puzzles of their anatomies to entirety, I painted another picture. Of a couple on their couch, hand in hand, staring off into oblivion with the comfort of each other. And I hoped at least in their deaths, they’d be right for one another. They deserved this one human accomplishment of togetherness.”

#interemptor #god against the devil #musings of blood #solos stefan

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Flings and Conflicts.

“He’s so tall, and handsome as hell.     

      He’s so bad but he does it so well." 

The only law of physics I was familiar with was one that stated that "Every action had an equal and opposite reaction.” Adopting the scientific yet puerile perspective for this correspondence, loving was an action and loving back was probably the reaction. This verified law was what domineered over the rotations of universality, in various embodiment - karma, nuclear wars, bitch slaps. If much profundities of prospects were delved into this, we’d discover the intermingled threads of paired aspects in this scientific rule. But when, love was   the subject to be amputated and diagnosed, all wit eluded me to perform this mental surgery. I had probably lost my mind, adrift in the unknown tides of life, trying to grasp onto delusional debris, trying not to drown in thw turbulence of heartbreak. Thinking may be, just maybe, his reaction to my love was as equal as my action of it always was. But I’ve been smothering myself with contradictory hope. Not just now, but ever since when my gaze first clashed with his aqua stained irises. And just as the reflection of that color had fooled everyone to visualize this tormented abyss of depth bound in his pupils, he had fooled me to think that those depths were meant only for me.

“I always thought it just those pretty blue eyes and hypnotic lips of yours that got you through in the industry.” He had said. “And now, I’m proven absolutely right. You have no talent at all.” Sensibility had eluded me in the comprehension of how a person could have possessed such a paradoxical matrix to encode the use of such covetous charm and raunchy rudeness into one behavior. And I failed to conclude whether I wanted to strangle him or just shove him against a wall and have my lips suffocate him into silence. The eroticism he influenced upon me disturbed me more than his comments. “I’m sorry, I thought you said I had a talent in being The eroticism he influenced upon me disturbed me more than his comments. "I’m sorry, I thought you said I had a talent in being completely useless just before.” The amiable ambience during scenes was a negligible aspect now. There was simply threads of this tension that wove the framework of our relationship. His eyes were always stripping me raw, painting their palpable desire with each look over my breasts or as they honed down with a predatory edge onto my lips. The scenes unfolding in the secrecy of his mind certainly conveyed no correlation to the ones composed for the script. And disclosure was his companion in expressing his desires to act them out with me - in the caresses of stolen touches upon whatever decent stretch of skin he could find on my clothed body whilst our bodies grazed in a passing walk, or those smoldering and explicit comments he deemed appropriate to phase. God, what did the egomaniac fucking think of himself? But the more significant query was, what did /I/ think of him? All negative… I wished. I wanted him. With a thirst that famished my body cells to restlessness, infected with the curse of insatiable hunger for hardness of his muscled body over my my feminine curves and the movement of his lips reigning over my naked flesh. I wanted him to make my stomach writhe and I wanted him to be susceptible to the senses he awakened inside me with the arsenal of putrid hatred that burned in me towards his haughty personage.

Words couldn’t transcend our connection into an explanation. Electricity coursed between us, voltaic and malefic. I had kissed actors on set before. Summoning the wraith of seduction and passion to possess me for my act wasn’t the most fatiguing aspect to fake for me. But their was no fraudery in the passion that engulfed my sensations for him. The falsehood of the enactments constituted itself as my reality as I marooned myself in the fantasy of romance, our bodies complementing the structures of one another in yearning consolation as our lips cherished each other and the opportunity of the charade of theater, within which the slivers of candid feelings began to break character in such a way that it actually enhanced the performance. And this propagated so much fear into the soil of my mind.. My nerves were rattled at the spell he bound me in. And tension of my own trickled into the flow of my professionalism, sequencing my ‘eccentric’ demeanor and disputes over the intervals of the past few days. “ ––And I don’t understand why hard it is for you to cooperate with me!” These obviously weren’t his only blades of words strung in line to spear in my direction, but the audibility of the prior was drowned in the gurgle of my own stream of thoughts. Willing the waves of my thoughts to settle only backfired to unravel a storm. “It’s not hard. It’s too fucking easy!” The words were morphed with an acidic twang. “All I can think of is 'cooperating’ with you but I also want to scrape the flesh off of your face! You arrogant, arrogant bastard. Just-” His hands were in my hair then, his lips robbing mine of whatever remnants of oxygen I had left after that onslaught of speedy words, rendering me breathless. Fingers of mine grasp onto either side of his defined face as my skin ignites with the embers of lust, my vision blurring with craving just as our livid bodies dispute in symphony against one another. Clothes are ripped, flesh is scratched as the inferno of lustful hate scorches the entirety of us both as we fall onto the bed of my tent. Breasts swell up against the muscled nudity of his chest as thighs cage in his waist, and just as we began to be convicted in this sun,  a resonant and weathered voice scratched my mind: “He’s going to destroy you.” And boy, was it true.

#kineticthespian #solos ava #flings and conflicts #musings in stardom

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Casualties Of War.

The screams that brimmed the void of that night weren't by any strand of doubt human. Guttural and abysmal, abundant with cannibalistic voracity is what they were. I was awoken from the slumber by human shrieks, however they weren't nearly amplified enough to reign in volume over the ravenous cries of those warped monsters that had raided our home. Our screams couldn't outweigh their declarations for blood, just as our frail strength couldn't domineer theirs. Spasmodic shivers were tumultuous across the pores of my fragile frame as the reality or basically gory fantasy of it dawned over me, or mostly punctured multitudinous holes in the walls of my beliefs. Muffled screams were roaring from the ligneous perimeter of our stables as well. Father.. He had been outside feeding our horses. My hazed vision had  latched onto the silhouette of one of the figures as it dominated with its feet in the support of shadows. I wasn't certain what it was, but it was humongous in its built. Or maybe I had simply adopted the gaze were my bones and body had become useless due to the absence of bravado and potency that was coupled with my soul. My feet carved their path out of my room; my nieces. The enkindling impulse to conjure a framework of defense over the little bodies of the twins astonishingly caused the whim of halting the own trail to my death to flee. But Lady Luck was siding with malign this time. The junction of the next few moments weren't were epiphanies of philosophy woven with the embroidery of death sow itself into the canvas of my mind. My heart didn't perform those fictional endeavors of physical anguish when I beheld the severed limbs and crimson blood of my nieces strewn around the hut's room like adornments for some sadistic parade to celebrate the malicious rituals of these creatures. But instead, alike all most of the witty entities of my prior species, I maneuvered my neurons and impulses to a primary state of inactivity so that Death could offer me its closure without having to behold the pleadings and breaking of a helpless human. But the Ripper's assignment this season was just to haul the souls of my deceased family into the ravine of lifeless oblivion. I was to be left as the cadaver of a soul, with the youthful body of the powerless girl with no aesthetic scars to remind me of my survival but the smoldering arson of gory memories in my mentality. War had spilled into our homes and claimed its casualties with its touch of misfortune. And I was left - immortal, the standing soldier equipped with the instinct of vengeance towards the Lycans.

#akintodolor #casualties of war #musings of misery #solos selene

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Mercy of the Muse.

On the precipice of a sunless world, the first glisten of humanity Hades had craved was her. Cored with streaks of lightning and bound by vines of blooms, she was the incarnation of rarity. Even Hades's mind couldn't flex around the prospect of how of lightning and bound by vines of blooms, she was the incarnation of rarity. Even Hades's mind couldn't flex around the prospect of how much more wit his brother could get rid of after winding the band of marriage with Hera, a junction of events obviously unbidden by the Queen of the Heavens. Otherwise, why would he station Persephone in the worthless fields under dominion of Demeter? It was where the transgression of the ground was in union with the snark of a minor deity who couldn't get over the "pomposity" of being able to sprout into vitality blossoms that apparently paint serenity across the canvas of the world. But then again, Hades couldn't ever the insight of his interest into the abstraction of Life, the concept where the deeds you conveyed and the darkness you pervaded into your soul was  a mere illusion, a matrix of lies you had to decrypt to only lead to the true worlds, in mortal terms, Hell or Heaven. The personification of Hell, he could comprehend without wanting to writhe the slimy body of a serpent down the throat of a Cyclops. He was the personification. The conception of Heaven as that was vague until clarity bound him to Persephone - with the feist of a thunder but the tenderness of an incandescent rose. She didn't deserve the mirage of Demeter's paradise, where the crops couldn't even depict the shade of a spectre of gold that would ignite works of passion towards her daughter. What Persephone deserved was power. Power so omnipotent, humans would include her name to bring in the quake in curses, reminding the world of her destructive power and enthronement to darkness. Serpents would slither to coincide with the grace of her footsteps as she bloomed the petals of florets even in absence of the sun to create the perfect portrait of beautiful contradiction that remained in her own soul. The oath of darkness was to be her crown - abundant in its laden weight, not the candid vestiges of light which was deceitful in its own flesh with beings, casting the shadows intricate of darkness upon contact to offer betrayal to its own imagery. The darkness was fulfilled, true and one in itself only, just as she was. It was only a matter of time before she understood that.

#regnummortis #musings from hell #mercy of the muse #solos hades

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

The Transition -Chapter 1- Crimson Coated Cries.

⌈2 years ago.⌋ ❛The Death of an Angel. ❜

Muscled fingers of mine scathe up her soft flesh, the pressure of my touch integrating the rigidity of the vertebral bones of her spinal column in the ascent. My lips humbled their signature upon the curvature of her neck upto the triangular distinction of her jaw just before they crashed over hers like untamed waves would upon a much desired shore, desperate for a destination. The leisurely longing in my movements then abruptly revolutionized to begin an era as if of a lovelorn lover who was finally allowed to caress the curves of his object of affection. Lust spread like famine between us, with her flaxen curls caged amidst my a single set of fingers whilst hers took it to unbuckle my belt, and the strip of leather slid out smoothly from the vertical denim hinges it was bound in before thudding over the carpet, just as the jeans followed after a decisive tug. The hand that had creeped over her well formed behind to express its duress onto the malleable flesh now increases the pressure of its grope prior tugging down the overly flimsy fabric of her skirt down, ridding her of her lace panties in the process.

The moments that followed always coalesced into blurs. Her legs imprisoned by waist just as our bodies plummeted onto the plush mattress, before echoes sang through the white walls of clothes ripping. The choir of lewd grunts and moans rose to mock the purity that the white walls of this chamber should symbolize, the friction amidst our moving bodies impassioned the physical sins that were inscribed in the Bible mostly to speak of it as a transgression against religion. But not treating her body as a temple would offer offense to my biblical beliefs, as she was my religion. Whilst my hips ground into her own, a linear stretch of light paralleled over the line of her eyes only from slight parting in the curtains, causing the caffeinated color of her irises to be sundered from the blackness of her pupils to highlight the harsh kindness in her gaze. And like every time our bodies were conjoined as one, in the heat of searing passion and sweat, I fell in awe in one moment or the other of the goddess that was Sloan Anderson even though she was the image scorched in my mind for permanence. And this time, it was in this instance.

“Any new findings to link Eduardo Gonsalez to Michelle’s case?” I asked whilst my eyes trailed the prominent curves that accentuated Sloan’s figure as she veiled its nudity with the coverage of fresh clothes to wear to work.

“You can say murder or rape, Raf. I’m not one to flinch.” She said as she wore her pants. “But I recalled this instant that you’re a lawyer and saying ‘case’ is as in built as breathing.”

This was Sloan. A paediatrician who was as soft hearted as her job required her to be and as hard hearted as the imagery of a children’s doctor would oppose to. Her tongue never twisted to dissect away the cancerous bits of reality when speaking but it had a talent in making the hard truth sound as a blessing from God. Clear minded and peculiarly humorous with beauty to compete with her bounteous brain, she was the cumulative calculation of virtues and modernised sins. And if I bring myself in calculation as the level headed lawyer, this paediatrician was my equal. And if with Rafael Arguelos, Sloan Anderson too, was an equal, with her being “not one to flinch” with all the dark chapters that entail the story of my existence.

“But the answer to your question would be yes and no.” She said. “We’ve found this slight bit of information that doesn’t correspond c-o-m-p-l-e-t-e-l-y with the MO of this maniac. It may be nothing but.. I just feel icky about it.”

“Well, this pedophile has been doing this, for what, ages, as we know? Serial murderers don’t break from their habits unless it’s a really pressing matter. Like if someone uses a dagger, and if the police knows where he buys it from and he knows that somehow. But that kind of information doesn’t usually make it to papers. Usually.” I offered. “I know, I know.” She had a slight frown laced onto her brows as she slid into her coat. “At least your dad would be happy if a Gonsalez is put away.. I just don’t want such a monster around to walk the streets if someday we have a baby..”

Michelle was a patient of hers, and her death didn’t really sadden Sloan as much as it angered her. She wanted vengeance, through the judicial system, of course, being the daughter of the Chief of Internal Affairs. And maybe she’d then pay some inmate to give Eduardo a facelift or worse. So I pulled a few strings to have her help with the autopsy as per one of her rare requests.

Eduardo Gonsalez was infamous, to provide an understatement, in the field of pedophilia. These string of murders that Michelle had the misfortune of being inclusive in, was conducted by a killer whom basically the whole public thought - no, no, k-n-e-w - to be Eduardo Gonsalez. But the Gonsalez family had more influence over the police department than color would on a chameleon’s skin. So each time, it was concluded that there wasn’t any or sufficient evidence to link these tragedies to Eduardo. And him being one of the sons of the rival family of the mafia of his own, he perhaps had a more lucid confirmation to Sloan’s last statement than others.

“Well, I won’t discredit that fact.” I said.

“Hmm.” She was lost in reverie, and captive in a common moment where she would branch her arm out to expose her left hand to the light, allowing it to illuminate the craft of sapphires and diamonds on her finger that was her engagement ring. From her expression, it was inconclusive whether she was calculative in criticism or admiration of it. The curiosity of it frustrated my mind, but I’d ask her when it would be the right time.

She bent down to join our lips in a short lived but ignited embrace before her departure.

“And if you don’t bring me a list of who would be attending the wedding from your office by today, obviously I’ll be sure to see they have no tables to sit on. As obviously no list means they won’t be there.” She said in a characteristic blabber as she shut the door behind her.

|That very night.|

The list was fastened between my fingers, the paper’s flimsy frame waa motioned up and down to fan my face as I entered the manor and my legs sketched their path upto my chambers.

An acerbic ambience was dense in the house, an environment nearly familial yet the illusion of normality had a haze too saturated to pierce through.

The door of the room was slightly parted, and the room seemed to kneel back towards nature by only being visible by the light of the moon that floated in from the transparent rectangles of windows.

The unmistakable scent of a viscose material inflamed my nasal canals, that breath slithering down my windpipe and its aerial venom lancing my heart as to stop the blood circulating through my veins. The fingers around the knob of the door tightened, and the sensation of the heat of my skin being conducted away by the physical capacity of the metallic orb felt all too heightened. Probably because all my senses were honed into concentration there, my neural wiring heating up in resistance as it refused to be wired to the circuit thay would allow the current of reality to flow and electrocute me to paralysis. But I already couldn’t move.

I had spoken in the end of a life in multilingual memories, and I had walked too many hallways in architecture of misery to recognize the whiff of death anywhere. And I couldn’t fool myself by misguiding my senses to believe that it hadn’t invaded by home to leave behind its putrid presence.

After a time that stretched to eternity, I opened the door. The door cried out in protest but it wasn’t crying louder than my heart. Each step taken was one away from sanity, away from the vibrancy of happy memories and towards a future shrouded with the material of misery and flakes of withering dreams.

I hadn’t switched on any light, but the moonlight was enough to conclude the chaos that had annihilated the serenity that had been conserved in the white walls of this chamber. My skull rotated to every angle but at a linear one, but finally, when it did, my body was slowly stripping away the instructions it had labelled to overcome the difficulty of breathing.

A triangular silhouette was framed by the silken sheet Sloan was covered by, the sheet my lover and I rolled and laughed upon together, but that sheet was probably where she shouted her last cry in her lonesome. It was a signature Gonsalez kill. The fucking bastards. They executed this twisted technique of a kill upon spouses or paramours in the family who were infidels. The lover of the cadaver was rumored to have no clue of the betrayal and his family would seek retribution on their behalf. And even if he had a clue, they’d have no knowledge when they’d find their other half sullied with the color of love from their blood on the bed.

But with Rafael and Sloan, it was more personal than family. This was business. They only didn’t murder her, they blemished her pride by using a method known for whores. Sloan’s body would be, inevitably, inverted so that her stomach would be flat on the mattress and her legs and arms stretched back over her spinal region to create a flexible triangle of her back, and upper and lower limbs which were fixated by thick widths of rope - sickly symbolizing the state of bondage for many in intercourse. And she’d probably have a linear gape in her throat from the slitting, and the imagery of the concentrated depth of blood just where we had made love this morning churned my intestine in twists. But the reason they covered her with the sheet, was to test the limits of my courage by having me see myself, whether I’d leave the removal of the veil to the police or if I’d tug it away myself to see if those coffee brown eyes had been closed as even the slightest gesture of mercy. The salty dilemma over the gaping wound of my heart. More like three thousand rifles being fired into it at once. Even that didn’t cover it up.

“Oh, baby..” My knees buckled as I collapsed onto the side of the bed, losing to the war I had against gravity and resultant with life. Tears blurred my vision as my hand reached out, vulnerable and rattling with trembles as I could only summon the courage to slide back the sheet upto her neck to only show her face.

And what I saw, sent me scrambling back to the wall. More than the exposure of her roped up body could have, the sight of her face, angled down onto the bed by a bloody cheek to the side with those plump and blood coated lips agape with a sticky strands of hair in cohesion to them, cause breaths to be pumped to my throat but never leave my chest. And as I stared into those vacant and horror struck gaze, suspended in lethal time, I could say I wouldn’t remember them as the eyes of the woman I loved, but that I’d know them as the eyes of the wraith that would haunt my reality and dreams.

#archetypalaxiom #rafaelarguelos #the transition

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

!The Transition -Introduction- Cries Of History And The Innocent¡

The filaments of the bulbs of my success, philanthropy and heart break that illuminated the course of my existence were higher in voltaic intensity than others, and completely in a separate circuit than from the ruddy colored lights of my family. Rafael Arguelos - the name now wouldn't stitch threads of connection to the nefarious family that the patronymic all alone attended to frame for. But instead, the identity of an illustrious lawyer would be crafted, with a tongue mastered in the arts of persuasion and seduction, walking with o-n-l-y his lone shadow with no other to eclipse its then applaudible outline. When you're the eldest son born into a family with a flavor for human flesh as garments and tears as wine to quench the sadistic thirst, yet with no genes to impulse that drive for bloodlust, to divert from the fate of being enthroned to the gory throne embodied of laborious bones, you had to construct an empire of your own. And the notoriety of a lawless birthright can only be competed against with the reputation of a judicial profession. Basically, it was to shit on with pride everything your family stood for. Murder, money, misery. The three M's of operation for the Arguelos family. •Someone unable to compensate the loan taken to fill the vacancy of their children's stomachs? - Examples were crafted by filling those very stomachs with corrosive poison, coaxed over the very food brought to satiate a poor man's hunger. The blight would perforate through the intestines and soon emerge to scorch holes flooding with pungent pus from the inside out over the area of the abdomen. Foams of cough would clog the oesophagus once so desirous to ingest the aromatic foam of caffeine. And if not from those agonies, they'd succumb slowly to death by the explosion of their livers. Children would be found decayed in the dead arms of their parents, - the fabric of their clothes a sickly shade of foul yellow from the pus and blood red, also burrowed in where the flesh had caved. The house not only a studio to the song of sufferings but also for the melody of apology - loud and echoing with the falsettos of regret. The alchemy for this blight was composed by the hands of my great mother, with the very hands with which she cooked food which diminished our own hunger. The hands with which she raised my father, who carried on the devious legacy by inciting the delusion of honor in crime into the hearts of so many more. It was never that I had a strong calling towards justice. Or that in some epiphany, the vision of court was scorched to my vision. You see, when you breathe in toxic long enough, even your lungs collapse to embed the toxins in their gullible walls for adaptability, for survival - and you're left, exhaling even the chemicals of your destruction, spreading it out to infect the world. And that - being transitioned into a virus - it scratched my airways and set fire into my veins, having me feverish in a restless frenzy. Inhalations weren't inspiring as my insides couldn't absorb the pollution to respire a second longer. Exhalations wouldn't exude as my mind was adamant the stalks of health and prosperity in the outer environment would wither from the whiff of the pollution i-n-s-i-d-e me. Cocaine, heroine, sex, alcohol - nothing hazed me out from the damnation of the hell inside my own body and mind. But, each hell had a dawning to freeze after. And mine was Sloan. She was like the kiss of icy dew over my scalding skin, sounding a sizzle of passion thus with each touch of ours. Once the my body had remembrance of how to breathe once more, my mind had then the epiphany - I wouldn't be transitioned into a virus, but be mutated into a vaccine. And the tools for that operation was only available in the stores of law and order itself. So, really. Fate would have the chance of calling me a fool when it was I who had misguided it by partnering with chance if I say I never expected any tragedy to befall when I rejected the throne of bones. But when I call myself unlucky, all the forces in the universe could agree despite their existential disputes that I have the right.

#archetypalaxiom #rafaelarguelos #the transition