THE GRIM BALLAD OF GAIA, tom riddle

𝖽𝗎𝖾

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     Tom Riddle sat, ruminating about the woman in front of him, but not the reason you would think.

     His mind was a warehouse of labored deception, for each lie told was smelt by the hapless hands of his slain victims—staining every corner a deep shade of vermilion until all he knew was the distinct odor of hot metal. The laborers would carve, smelt, stitch, and polish his iniquitous mind, piling up the tools in gold buckets for him to abuse as he pleased.

     As a young boy, he never felt one with the children around. Poor Tom, always the black sheep of the herd. The other kids at the orphanage he had, unfortunately, grown up in teased him — pushing him further away from the reality he was already disconnected from.

     He found no pleasure in generosity, oh he was a selfish man, a selfish man indeed. A thought of compassion had never grazed his mind in the twenty-one years that he had been alive, for it seemed to be absent of any warm feeling besides a crave for bloodshed — tepid, metallic, red.

     It had been quite a long time since his last murder: forty-eight days, to be exact. Tom would have been a liar if he said he didn't think about murdering Gaia Arbore right there in then in the street — not that he would mind being called such. The young man found her existence to be just as repulsive as she was, and he figured it would have been a blessing to rid the Earth of her completely.

      So, as she sat in front of him in that quaint little bar, he devised a faultless plan to make Gaia Arbore regret asking him to accompany her for a drink. Just by how she held herself, Tom knew the type of girl she was: innocent, compassionate, generous, hopeful. She was the epitome of angelic beauty — both inside and out — and he wondered what it would be like to watch her celestial blood pool silver at his feet for him to consume.

     Tom Riddle was a selfish man.

     The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was a stake in his mind, crucifying him back to reality where she sat in perfect condition — alluring, joyful, alive. A combination he despised, for they were dangerous if not handled with absolute care.

     The polished oak wood that adorned the walls reflected mocking faces through each carved detail. They laughed, cried, and pleaded, all within the same sepia lines of the timber. His jaw clenched slightly at the mockery in front of him, resisting the urge to blast the oak walls with a reducto curse.

     The sound of whistling milk frothers resonated through the bar, piercing through eardrums in a shrill ring similar to a dissonant flute. Smoke billowed through caffeine-laced air, glinting like fresh nectar as it reached the flickering, golden ceiling lights that hung from metal chains like wisteria.

     'Turn that blasted thing off.'

     "So, Tom Riddle, tell me why you are here in, Roma," Gaia asked the handsome young man in front of her, blowing on the piping hot espresso that she held by her fingertips.

     This question had snapped Tom out of his intrusive thoughts, slaying the fantasies of him slitting her precious throat — he made a note to finish that one later.

     The young man knew precisely why he was here; to create his forth horcrux, of course. But he wasn't going to tell this muggle that, for even the most sinful beings had lines they would not dare to cross. For demons, it may be a river of holy water. For angels, the tormented mountains of hell. Tom Riddle's was exposing his capability to perform extraordinary magic.