Demon Turned Lover [BxB]

Picture perfect

         The raven-haired didn't sleep last night; albeit my back could sole afford a view, I could tell. Like droplets of water sat on the green tongues of trees, revenge and melancholy was above Mammon's cocooning aura as we laid wakeful in the estranged bedroom. He was staring at the little viridescent stars, stuck eccentrically around the lightbulb. I groaned. Mammon didn't even utter a word, let alone speak to me. A shaving of my core conjectured that he would feel content in this homey abode—I mean, the aura here was sifted of any lumps not cordial. My eyes shut as a realisation was poured into them. This was his late mother's home. Perchance, the raven-haired loathed to be reminded of her death. And that, fashioned with the blood on his hands, could have been the formula for such heavy atmosphere.

        An apricot daylight knocked eagerly on the clad windows as Mammon pitched the patterned quilt away from his muscular body. I slid onto my back, and surveyed as a shirtless him maundered around the double-bed. "Where are you going?"

        "For a smoke."

        "Oh, well-" Feeble words distilled out of my mouth, but it could not ret his pace. I took in a breath, winnowing the mislaid tears from my throat. Our love. It could never be the same again, could it?

        My feet alighted on the draughty wood as my uncut nails anchored itself to the wrinkled plane. Demons were carnivorous creatures whom perpetually moulted—the opening of Helena when I was chosen. I rose from the bed before my orbs fixated on the floral curtains. They were volatile, like the oceans, awnings of fish. They were fiery, like the marrow of planets. Communities of light overran the inside of the room as the cream curtains were pushed along the aureate rack. For a successful conversion, you needed to moult with them. The rays acknowledged each small pot of faux greenery, before concentrating on my ill-used face. I knew that was what I was supposed to do, but how could I keep that up? When my core needed still a respite from everything that had happened.

         I sprung to the corridor, an earthy aroma colouring the walls whilst my eyes drove along the paintings. They were rather chaste, and seemed to be used directly as a mixing palette. A pair of potted monstera flanked my legs as I reached the entrance.

         I tried to justify Zalgiur's death ever since it had happened. All of the sordid things he did to Mammon, and the others, left a bubbling broth in the abyss of my stomach. Though, even then, I felt a rage anent the raven-haired. He killed someone, and risked sundry lives. My fingertips ghosted up the fur throw on the leather couch. But I hated that submersing feeling, because it wasn't his fault—or at least, that's what I made myself believe. Like blood spread out from core to body, my blame did too. The gone demon marking. His relationship with Zalgiur. The break-in.

       My failure to act.

       A numbing breeze eluded his barbarous siblings by rushing in through the ajar porch door behind me. That was right. It was my fault. I ignored my duties, and fell in love with him instead; none of this would have happened if I hadn't kissed him that day. Why did I stray away? I began drifting towards the wide shelf next to the dark oak vanity. It wasn't written for me to abandon myself to love.

I didn't know what this meant for me. Weeks had passed, and so had the leniency. I knew this would catch up to Ezekiel, in one way or another.

        Using my finger, I levered out one of the holy books at the left of the line as the others fell slightly. It was black, with a drab golden border. I blew the crown of the bible, which was veneered with dust. These books must have belonged to his mother, Caira—I remembered him saying she was pious. I used the black ribbon to open the bible, and let my eyes loll around in the tempering text.