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H I S T O R Y H A S I T S E Y E S O N Y O U
What he should have felt was shame. Bone-deep, yellow-bright. It should have felt like drowning. For she is all ocean: every inch abyssal, ever curve Neptunian. And it is an angry sea; one that seethes beneath a hastily-sewn tide of skin. He should have died then and there in the very grip of her briny gaze like a seal under the shadow of an orca.
But there are no margins left for anything to quell his contempt; not here, not now. He is swollen and blackened and the insidiously watertight.
He doesn't know how to die twice.
Truthfully, he has never meant to be cruel and maybe that was all the worse: that it came naturally to him, from the pit of his small dimpled heart like blood from a wound. A mother tongue that felt easy and familiar when all other sensibilities felt quite uncomfortably out of reach. Almost childlike. Stunted by the privilege and the loss and the litres of vodka. He had closed all the doors left open by his brother's love, quietly, in the dark, his throat collapsing under an implosion of restraint -- a vow to crush the grief.
And so her words are wingless birds damned to fall. A tragedy, he thinks. Their weight drifts down to dance gently across his skin as if to mock the way she burns; a matinée before medusa, a kiss upon a monster. He feels the fever of her anguish as she writhes so close, too-close. Perhaps, they are already in Hell. To Raziel, this feels something akin.
Because it is not easy. This moment, in the streets where he lost everything, under a moon he cannot forgive. He feels a tender heat radiate away from her skin in waves and realises he had forgotten what that felt like. It is not easy to stand here like a man bearing strength, when he all he has ever known is weakness. Though his eyes might raze Sereia with the bruise-dull shine of lead, set high above a mouth drawn horizon-straight -- his grief crackles like a fire lit anew.
His expression is bottomless as evenly he steps backward, setting distance between them once more. Empty of malice, of melancholy, of anything at all.
"We are owed no kindness in this world, by mere extension I owe you nothing. We live, we die. There is no mercy. I would have thought someone like you would know that."
What he should have felt was shame. Bone-deep, yellow-bright. It should have felt like drowning. For she is all ocean: every inch abyssal, ever curve Neptunian. And it is an angry sea; one that seethes beneath a hastily-sewn tide of skin. He should have died then and there in the very grip of her briny gaze like a seal under the shadow of an orca.
But there are no margins left for anything to quell his contempt; not here, not now. He is swollen and blackened and the insidiously watertight.
He doesn't know how to die twice.
Truthfully, he has never meant to be cruel and maybe that was all the worse: that it came naturally to him, from the pit of his small dimpled heart like blood from a wound. A mother tongue that felt easy and familiar when all other sensibilities felt quite uncomfortably out of reach. Almost childlike. Stunted by the privilege and the loss and the litres of vodka. He had closed all the doors left open by his brother's love, quietly, in the dark, his throat collapsing under an implosion of restraint -- a vow to crush the grief.
And so her words are wingless birds damned to fall. A tragedy, he thinks. Their weight drifts down to dance gently across his skin as if to mock the way she burns; a matinée before medusa, a kiss upon a monster. He feels the fever of her anguish as she writhes so close, too-close. Perhaps, they are already in Hell. To Raziel, this feels something akin.
Because it is not easy. This moment, in the streets where he lost everything, under a moon he cannot forgive. He feels a tender heat radiate away from her skin in waves and realises he had forgotten what that felt like. It is not easy to stand here like a man bearing strength, when he all he has ever known is weakness. Though his eyes might raze Sereia with the bruise-dull shine of lead, set high above a mouth drawn horizon-straight -- his grief crackles like a fire lit anew.
His expression is bottomless as evenly he steps backward, setting distance between them once more. Empty of malice, of melancholy, of anything at all.
"We are owed no kindness in this world, by mere extension I owe you nothing. We live, we die. There is no mercy. I would have thought someone like you would know that."
@Obsidian
![[Image: deadj5s-7ea0ce6c-63ed-494d-a2b1-1ea29d98..._KYezSKapw]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/62895f4e-8c60-4924-a6f1-54bf30743d42/deadj5s-7ea0ce6c-63ed-494d-a2b1-1ea29d98adc1.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvNjI4OTVmNGUtOGM2MC00OTI0LWE2ZjEtNTRiZjMwNzQzZDQyXC9kZWFkajVzLTdlYTBjZTZjLTYzZWQtNDk0ZC1hMmIxLTFlYTI5ZDk4YWRjMS5wbmcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.No4YMruHY_LHkiZwS9oVnGKGelURHdwU3_KYezSKapw)
