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07 the mortal girl king
Mercy is sitting on the edge of the kitchen sink, severe in the moonlight. It's dark, other than the light through the window, Siken Lane enveloping her within it's shadows. The house that crawls with bleeding strands of ivy, intertwined with the porch frame, and cracking, thick white brick that keep the crumbling psyche of the house within tact. Her home is a polarising place. Not for it's appearance or the strange energy that's found within the skeleton, but for it's matriarch. She knows that she's within a dream, anchored to the kitchen because the rest of the house is a sprawling maze of wickedness. If Mercy steps past the threshold, she could get lost forever.
"Welcome home," Illusion's voice is a quiet lull, menacing in the moonlight that shines through their hollow figure. "It's just you and me."
"It's not really home." Mercy says.
Illusion leans against the bench. "He misses you."
"He isn't capable," Mercy snaps. She pushes herself off the sink, boots hitting the floor with a thump.
"But think of what he taught you. What he gave you." Illusion hums. "And all the beautiful things that you did together; you'd never felt that free before. We can offer you more. We could create a whole new world if you just took a little more."
It's rage fuelling Mercy's heart: the way it beats like a drum and the blood rises to her ears so fiercely that she can hear it, a waterfall clashing against her eardrums. Teeth bared, she's overcome by it. The sound that she emits is wholly un-human, teeth jagged in her Cheshire cat smile. As much as she resisted it, Mercy King was raised to be cruel; to be feared rather than loved. There's no mistaking that she's a monster. A wolf in sheep's clothing. She gives in. Pale hand rising, Mercy whirls on Illusion, attempting to grasp their pale neck between her fingers. To feel their skin underneath hers. To hold. To squeeze.
