black notes on white paper and black soul on white skin
/du-ende/ n. (Spanish)
¬the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person
¬the feeling of powerful awe experienced when viewing a piece of art, watching a performance or listening to music th...
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Being in charge of deciding wether somebody has to die or not is intoxicating, you drown in the feeling of power and it's even more intense when your victim doesn't know that you decide on the following course of their life because even though it has its attractions when your victim knees in front of you, covered in sweat and tears streaming down their cheeks, pleading for their life like they should as they finally recognize you as the god you are, it actually feels godlier to decide about live and death in silence because God doesn't just appear to give you a chance - either he gives it to you or not, you can't question his decision because there is nothing to question - either you're dead or alive and you don't even comprehend that God has interfered in your fate.
It feels like playing god when musing about the victim's life in their presence and when they sleep in their small, warm bed while World War II is raging outside and you're lying beneath your blanket straight like a soldier to prevent you from closing your eyes while your mind starts frazzling and think if they're worthy to continue living...
This is what being a god means, isn't it?
Tom is still young and cunning, planning and achieving in the dark like Death's shadow, he isn't so pale yet that he reflects in the dephts of night, being urged to reveal his ugly, snake-like face to the world in daylight. (Why didn't he stay pretty and witty but aged, letting the poison of time infect his brain so much that he didn't think of throwing his baby arch enemy out of the window, I beg you.)
But it's murky now and nobody gleams in the absence of light, not even Nikita whom's hair is coloured like the fullmoon when it's the brightest.
Tom strokes an inky streak of hair out of his face with the same ease with which he could end Nikita's life - he decides that he won't play Atropos now, the scissors don't feel right in his fingers tonight, he rather takes Lachesis' part when it comes to Nikita, deciding how long his thread of life will be.
Nikita won't die tonight, Tom decides before finally curling up, allowing Morpheus to enter his mind, decorating it with skeletons and demons and power.
But Tom isn't holding true power in his weak fingers, true power is far to mighty to be handled by a mere mortal who thinks he could become a god.
Oh Tom, Lachesis murmures softly, how pretentious you've become, thinking you could possess the same power like me. She measures the obsidian coloured thread, marking it with a frory white.
I'm looking forward to cutting it. Atropos smiles gently and her scissors snap like a barking dog, gigantic in her petite hand. Not everybody has to die, she whispers as if she'd be passing sweet nothings to a forbidden lover's ear.
The three sisters smile at the thread in their middle like crocodiles smile at babies and Clotho strokes it, the thread she's so carefully spinned, picking the darkness between the stars and the silence after death for it - for a unique life.
