Fabien’s body was sprawled within the walls of some lavish abandoned suite with all the artistry of a murder victim, the clues left perfectly in place. The attire he had recently salvaged far from appropriate, consisting of only an overly large shirt with yellowing lace sleeves, while the rest of him still bare, indecent, like an animal. The drama of his misery was not without finesse, like the finale act of an opera, curtain call. He’d had a crisis, and it was recent. The omen had awoken from nightmares which smelt of fur, and blood, and teeth. He had ripped his mind free from bad dreams which came in fragments and windows of pain and gasping and wanting, that shivered through him until it was hard to discern where dream ended and reality begun. He had returned to this immortal life with flesh glistening in cold sweat and hot, aching need firm between his legs, and had answered it. And after the cries of longing had died on his lips, the horror had soon come creeping.
Instead of slipping with gaiety deep into the surface of a nearby mirror, plunging into his free world, he had ripped the portal from the wall, heaved its excessive weight down with force enough to shatter himself entirely. And after the initial fissure had grown, when the way in was lost, he had plunged fist after fist into his own image until the knuckles on both hands had split like the skin of an overripe peach. So now here he was, the frame looming around him, capturing his fallen figure like some cadaverous masterpiece escaping its painterly realms. And oh, how it was screaming, a cacophony of piercing cries, a hellish choir of shrieking betrayal. It was agony, and it was bliss. Sweet blessed relief compared to his thoughts, the tauntingly sensual whispers which filled his head. And the stars of mirror glass remained sprinkled about him like a sea of ice, glittering frost-like in the wheaten hair.
The massacre of this mirror, and of his reflection, had not been enough. He’d found a convenient weapon, a beautifully sharp blade perfect for rending some fresh misery into his skin. His hand, the clever, cunning hand, had been mercilessly punished it for its weakness. Berated it for how quickly it had crept arachnid-like across his stomach, the palm primed to address the nightmares and the wanting. This ashen hand which beckoned soft things, plucked raindrops from the sky, and conjured coin from nothingness. Adorned with a faded, inky red heart, this hand of trickery and illusion, marked with the symbol of adoration to represent how cherished it was. Though it should have been the club really he ought to have sliced into, over and over, until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp.
By now the omen’s energy had depleted, the hostility of self imposed civil war had drained his resources, and nothing else remained but miserable stillness. But not silence, for the boy directed gentle whispers into the hard floor, and the curves of his lips were embedded with jewel-like beads of glass. “Que suis-je? Que suis-je?” Over and over it was murmured, and with every soft word he ground the reflective blade deeper into the painted heart of his upper hand, deeper into the only heart he dared destroy. It wept too, thick trails of rich cherry red which painted the charcoal fingers until they gleamed.
Instead of slipping with gaiety deep into the surface of a nearby mirror, plunging into his free world, he had ripped the portal from the wall, heaved its excessive weight down with force enough to shatter himself entirely. And after the initial fissure had grown, when the way in was lost, he had plunged fist after fist into his own image until the knuckles on both hands had split like the skin of an overripe peach. So now here he was, the frame looming around him, capturing his fallen figure like some cadaverous masterpiece escaping its painterly realms. And oh, how it was screaming, a cacophony of piercing cries, a hellish choir of shrieking betrayal. It was agony, and it was bliss. Sweet blessed relief compared to his thoughts, the tauntingly sensual whispers which filled his head. And the stars of mirror glass remained sprinkled about him like a sea of ice, glittering frost-like in the wheaten hair.
The massacre of this mirror, and of his reflection, had not been enough. He’d found a convenient weapon, a beautifully sharp blade perfect for rending some fresh misery into his skin. His hand, the clever, cunning hand, had been mercilessly punished it for its weakness. Berated it for how quickly it had crept arachnid-like across his stomach, the palm primed to address the nightmares and the wanting. This ashen hand which beckoned soft things, plucked raindrops from the sky, and conjured coin from nothingness. Adorned with a faded, inky red heart, this hand of trickery and illusion, marked with the symbol of adoration to represent how cherished it was. Though it should have been the club really he ought to have sliced into, over and over, until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp.
By now the omen’s energy had depleted, the hostility of self imposed civil war had drained his resources, and nothing else remained but miserable stillness. But not silence, for the boy directed gentle whispers into the hard floor, and the curves of his lips were embedded with jewel-like beads of glass. “Que suis-je? Que suis-je?” Over and over it was murmured, and with every soft word he ground the reflective blade deeper into the painted heart of his upper hand, deeper into the only heart he dared destroy. It wept too, thick trails of rich cherry red which painted the charcoal fingers until they gleamed.
