In Which our Hero Remember Her Hungers
Previous - this entry written on 2001-04-15 at 7:16 p.m. - Next


Um. I have no idea why I'm posting this... no, it's not about anyone specific at the moment. No, I don't understand it. Yes, I remember when and why I wrote it.



I think I might be posting it in the hopes that maybe I won't feel it again so soon.



---



Her eyes are closed when you enter the room, lashes turned to iron bars, shadows cloaking her expression, forming a mask so deep that you can no longer really see the woman beneath, merely the darkness.



Her hair is drifting around her, shading her from light, from the touch of your eyes, seeming almost a protection at the moment, as one might wear a thick coat and warm boots to protect from the filth and grime of a city street.



Her hands are clenched into fists, angry, the skin pale. You can see each pulse, emotion passing through her veins, tracing its way through her body with each breath, each beat of her heart, sending sweet rage from her mind to every inch of skin.



Her clothing is no longer black, now every item she wears is the same dangerous hue, bright red of fresh-spilled blood, dirty brownred of dried blood... even the hot harsh crimson of a single bead of blood resting on skin.



Her boots are new, the leather never touched by your hands, your lips, stiff, well-polished creations with deadly sharp heels and an array of laces so complicated that you know some fortunate slave�s hands were put to work to fasten them in place.



Her pose is a masterpiece of carelessness, a sprawl that you doubt she�d ever show the world, ever even reveal to you if she deigned to acknowledge your presence. She sits crouched on a cushion, face turned down, silent.



Her voice... ah, if you could hear her voice, you might be able to truly tell the depths of her anger, of her disappointment. But instead, there is only the harsh whisper of her breath, the faint murmuring that ceased the moment you crawled through the door.



She waits there, near enough to touch, but so far from you that if you could build a bridge to cross the universe, still she would be out of reach. Distant... cold. Nothing about her speaks of mercy or of kindness. The only emotions you might catch are anger, frustration, even sorrow. Unwilling to forgive, unable to forget, missing the company of her pleasing, wonderful slave... and no longer seeing that slave when she looks at you.

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