content warnings. reference to cannibalism use of a knife
o. prologue 'i fear i may be found ungodly'
A thirst for retribution pulled at my heart.
It made it want to crawl from its cavity by rotting away from the inside with my sickly thoughts. It sought freedom from my mind. My heart wanted to leap out in spilled guts like splashed out oil—paint. I didn't want my thoughts to flash towards it, but it was our thing, painting that is. Even as much as I didn't want to remember it. Paint-splotched thumbs over wandering hands that curved silhouettes and cupid bows. A voiceless show of affection was shown when it came to mixing paint, one that had perished, left in the dust.
But there was something about the past finding its way back into my mind when I sought an answer for my present. So I let my mind wander like my hands used to do, reminiscing of the pink hydrangeas and stolen kisses because that was the thing about illicit affairs and clandestine meetings and longing stares.
Before it all came tumbling down, I believe he showed me what being in love was, or the closest thing to it I would know. Being in love was what I would only describe as being known. Slowly but surely having the pieces of myself be picked up by another, even if the pieces of me could rust, they could be polished back. But he let the pieces drop, and they shattered, and I let the pieces of him I carried in my hands drop too and I let them shatter too.
He broke my heart, and I broke his.
But it isn't your fault, it could never be. (At least it's what you always believe.)
I sat at the coast. I have been here for a few days now, maybe a few weeks, embraced by sand and roofed by sunlight. The sun wasn't as scorching as other days, the salty air hit my face in the right spots, but the sand at times felt uncomfortable to my body. I lost track of time, I forgot about it by thinking of different things. Time had lost its importance to me, it's funny to think now how much importance people gave to time. I have to go. I don't have enough time.What if I run out of time? What if I don't wake up tomorrow? What if I die soon? Maybe it was that I thought I moved through space and time now — since I didn't need simple matter anymore, like food or water. Even if my throat rasped like sandpaper, even if my stomach rumbled till it started consuming itself — I could not die.
You cannot run out of time.
Though I have kept myself full, every few sunrises a ship would disembark here. Then that settled it, maybe I have been here for some weeks. When the ships came, I didn't care for food — since they carried men. I could hear the devil singing when I arrived, maybe it's of joy, but it never sounded quite sound like joy, more like pleasure, yes, pleasure. He liked it when the sinners paid penance, I liked it when it sounds like penance.
You like the taste of flesh and blood now. (If only mother could look at you.)
His hands, her hands, they molded me. A weapon of mass destruction, a slaughterhouse, a graveyard, I became all these things and forgot myself in the process. I became nothing but rage and bloodshed. It wasn't the kind of rage that was white-seething and hot, but all the same consuming. Yet rage was often antagonized, one often disregarded how much of a strong drive it carried. It was what kept me holding on.
Obsession cut me into who I was. An obsession wheeled by rage, consuming me. Alone with your mind was like being at war with myself. I lost...everything. Sometimes I wished I would've stayed. Sometimes I wished I would've said no. Sometimes I wished I wouldn't have let the beast inside win me over. A beast I called rage, a beast I called vengeance. I am angry most of the time now, and when I'm not, I'm empty. I fear anger is the only thing keeping me together. I liked to chant to myself that I would take everything back. But that was a lie, deep down I knew it. I was closer to losing myself each time.
They called me mad, uncontrolled. How could I be mad, if I am just a woman seeking to fix her heartbreak? To rid of those who wronged her, to feel satisfied, to feel full again. I sought to be complete. I wanted everything again when I shouldn't. It was then that I feared to be torn apart, and see that my insides were rotting away, or worse, that I would be empty, empty of heart, empty of soul. Sometimes I almost convinced myself I was. So, no, I am not mad, just...lost.
Though perhaps a contradiction, it was in the moments that I thought I would lose myself that I was closer to knowing myself, truly knowing myself. Then I would wander off again, and think to myself that I have never wanted anything, never desired. I was just a fake, empty, and half-alive.
The poetry that made up who I was had become my religion. The vigor that flowed through my veins was one of the things I would always know about myself. I hadn't always been like this, powerful, immortal. I used to be small and human, though still filled with grandiosity. But it was better that way, being naive, thinking that I had everything and that I could be anyone. Now, I think the power has consumed me. I relished it, because that was the thing, even if it was a better choice to let it go, to go back to who I used to be, tasting true power won't come close to anything else, not when I didn't know anything else anymore.
A dagger sat next to me, just a reach of hand away. My fingers glided across the sand. The specks of sand felt soft against my skin, almost as if they were hugging me. My hand lingered on the warmness of the golden grains before I wrapped it around the cloth that covers the black dagger. A stolen good from a pirate. I brought it back to me and carefully unsheathed it. The blade was sharp and shiny. If I turned it slightly, it could reflect the sunlight, making the sunbeams bounce and cloud my vision.
But that is not what you want.
I have always given in to temptation. I grasped the dagger from its handle and neared the edge of the blade to my cheek. I was grazed by something lethal. The blade pierced my skin. I did not wince nor did I fear it. I felt weightless. A dribble of blood fell down my cheek. Feeling the wetness of it, I rub my thumb over my wound. The only remainder of my wound was the small smudge of blood for my cut had mended. Ichor ran through my veins.
I like being immortal. It'll be easier for my plan—when pain brushed off me.
You became a stranger to your own shallow pain.
this chapter is dedicated to lucy even tho the cunt won't show her face in this app anymore she still listens to my incessant rants and keeps up with me. i love u possum <3
this prologue takes place at the beginning of act two. so during the timeline i'll be writing, this is the future. i just want to say i have a very clear idea of where i'm taking this plot.
