by: poetic abortion (4/15/05)
beta reader: diedre n. flora (5/13/05)
soundtrack: lacuna coil - comalies
The siren bides. (Sing beautiful) Her fingers tug at my hair, nails scratch, they claw at my flesh until ruby droplets fall upon the floor. She is crying, her voice muffled by the song; the music that blared from the radio. The voice, so uncaring, beautiful in the hypnotic melody. I feel her lips caress mine (so soft), faintly possessive as her hands cup--touch--my flesh so softly, as though I would break if she grabbed upon me, if she clawed once again at my skin. (Let the blood flow) The sirens call. Her voice left her lips, but I could barely hear as she possessed, as she claimed (marked), what is hers.
Body and soul.
It's ugly--a voice cries, whispering in my ear. Ugly, ugly. There is a taste of copper upon my tongue. I feel it, I love it. I bite down upon the soft flesh, and I am rewarded by the taste--the rich scent--of her blood (Mixed with mine). I feel her mouth upon the ruby crest, sucking upon it, nibbling at the wrinkled geometry of it. I weep, my fingers grab at the auburn locks, and she rises, blood dribbling down her chin.
I can smell the alcohol.
I can taste it upon my tongue.
Again and again.
"Please . . ." She whispers, wishing for release that I don't think I'll give. Such is the tease.
"You won't remember this." I whisper in her ear, and she smiles.
"Forever." I'm confused about what she is talking about. She shakes her head and presses a salted kiss to my lips. The copper taste shall never leave me. Not in eternity. She begs, and I give.
And I regret it.
- - -
The siren is with him now, curled in bed. She sleeps, peaceful and unaware for that forgotten blur. She'll not remember what happened, not even by the mark I made. No, she'll never remember. Never.
Though I wish she would.
- end :: lulled in
. the .end .
Fixed the format a bit; I think it's a bit prettier now.