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Quiet As She Bleeds
Quietly she bleeds into the palm of
his hand, moonlight shattering into a thousand dark shards. Touching,
he tastes her, skin pressed against skin; wishing he dared to take more
of her in. He holds these memories to himself: her eyes dying, her hope alive. Fragile heartbeat pulsing louder in renewed fear and agony. And the lips... Oh the lips... cherry red, stained with her heart blood. Smiling demonic and sweet, their hair entwined, braiding. He remembers the hair (not his) Falling over her face, shielding them, braiding light dark contrasts with her dying breath. He remembers the hair that sheltered a kiss. (not his) (as his) He will remember the kiss pressed to her lips, as his. And take refuge in the memory as she bleeds quiet into his hand. "She's bleeding," he murmurs distressed. The woman sewing Valenciennes lace onto red plush bites the thread off with sharp teeth. "Drusilla!" His voice is louder, made bold with fear for her. "She's -" "Look," she says, holding the dress up against herself, "for my baby. Won't we be pretty?" "Yes -" "But then it stops," she hums, twirling up to him. "The blood stops and then we dance." He starts to speak again, but she lays a finger on his lips. "Shh," she whispers and he is silent at once. She smiles and kisses him. The kiss bites. Hard. He would rear, but her hands pull him into her, delicate and vise-like as she lightly savages his mouth. When she finally lets him go, he sways, not realising he's stepped on the pretty new dress. Drusilla snatches it to her bosom with a cry of dismay. He stands stupefied as she weeps blood tears, staining the fabric deeper crimson. Behind them, Darla dies. "Does my pretty one sleep?" she asks him. He nods once, meaning yes. Drusilla lifts his hand and licks it clean of dried blood. Her movements are precise and cat-like. "Soon," she tells him sadly. "There will be pretty maids all in a row." Hours pass. He moves around the room. Drusilla looks for stars and talks to the smog-filled sky. Forgotten, he notes the slow inroads of perfection. Blood having leached out of skin, leaves lips incarnadine. Bone moulds upon bone; hardening features, gaining strength. He closes his burning eyes and wishes hard for life. Cool hands cover his forehead, and the madness breathes into his ear. "Shall I tell you a secret?" "Yes, thank you," he replies. She laughs delightedly. "I'm going to be a mummy." "I know," he says, then adds, "Congratulations." Self-preservation is a fine instinct. She laughs and draws her nails across his cheek. He closes his eyes again and tries not to think. The skin is paper-thin, a fragile layer over fine etched bones and many scars. He touches her, outlining features, holding his breath lest she crumble to dust. He forgets and breathes. She moans low, a whimper. "Look at me," she says, riding him. He does, trying to forget. He wants to learn. Has to learn this. She slaps him smartly, not hard, but the cheek tears anyway. "You weren't looking at me." He reminds himself where the windows are. He remembers and smiles, touching her. She isn't marble, nor is she flesh. Her breasts are soft and strong when crushed to him. Her body both pliant and alien in all its demands. He does not want to kiss her. Tasting blood, he does anyway. Her teeth are marginally sharper than he expected. Side by side, spent in climax, he forgets enough to ask why. "Because..." she says, trailing her hair across his chest. "Because there were pretty maids, three in a row." He does not know what she means. He is not stupid enough to ask. They hear a sound like a whimper. He freezes in guilt and is immediately cast aside. Drusilla runs to cradle her woman-child to her breast, crooning soft nonsense lullabies of safety and (love?) "Hush-a- berry, child, there's my love, hush-a-berry, hush," Getting up slowly from the floor, he sees them rock together, crooning, nestling cheek-to-cheek, breast-to-breast. Whispers, "Darla," and sees her look at him. Nestled in the crook of another shoulder, she still turns her head to look at him. Bewildered in his solitude, he sees them embrace and turns to flee. Her gaze upon him commands him 'Stop'. A glance that seems to say *Perhaps I could have loved you ... * *Except you wanted my body alive * Dead hands rise and travel shyly across the sheltering frame He stops and watches jealously Watches jealously the kiss pressed to dead lips by dead mouth Leaving no hope for the living, when dead resurrect their dead. He watches and remembers, replacing the memories. (his hand on her breast) (his thigh atop her thigh) (his mouth shedding kisses down the curve of her spine) And in gaining the memories, he forgets which is he. Quietly they bleed into each other, moonlight broken into a thousand shards. Touching and tasting, skin pressed against skin. He holds these memories to himself: her dead eyes, her dark kiss. Wishing he dared to take more of her in. ~ End |
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