・❥・ She thought maybe she was okay with being wicked. That she was so angry, so desperately, bitterly livid. She thought perhaps there were pieces of this world that deserved her wrath. Her wickedness. Some souls who deserved to be snuffed out.
・❥・...
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╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗
・❥・ Cirsei didn't understand how the water could still be so warm. It had to have been at least two hours, if the endless peaks and valleys of her pruned skin were any indication.
Her mind had completely taken off on her, scattering in all directions, dipping in and out of thoughts and memories she had long been hiding from, and some she revisited often.
At this point, she was recalling the details of her escape from home. The catalyst that brought her to the confusing place she was currently residing in. She thought about those she had killed. Both of them. She searched through the space in her chest, the shaded corners of her psyche, anywhere she may have been harboring any guilt. She came up empty.
She did not feel guilty. She did not feel remorseful.
This realization sent a chill up her spine. How could she not feel any guilt for taking not one, but two lives? She knew they may have deserved it, may have even had it coming, but by her? Did the blood on her hands feel heavy, damning, sinful?
And she could no longer look away from the truth that laid out so plainly before her; She did not feel guilt because she liked doing it.
She liked the rush, the power, the violence. She liked how their flesh parted so willingly, how their viscera had barely put up a fight. She liked the way they crumbled, like anyone else. The undeniable fact that they were no stronger than she, she who was contained within a small, cruel, weak body. Taking their lives had been easy.
There was a warmth that crowded her veins, that writhed under her skin when she replayed the memories. A sensation of sickening pleasure. She thought herself wicked.
She thought maybe she was okay with being wicked. That she was so angry, so desperately, bitterly livid. She thought perhaps there were pieces of this world that deserved her wrath. Her wickedness. Some souls who deserved to be snuffed out.
Did that make her any different than the High Lord? Any less malignant?
She didn't - couldn't care. She was vindicated.
She lifted herself out of the water, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time.
She didn't wrap herself in the robe she'd left on the counter, instead hesitating, finally allowing herself to take in her reflection in the full-length mirror. It was... jarring.
The most upsetting thing was the state of her body. It was knobby and frail, her hip bones jutting out below the ripples of her visible rib cage. Her clavicles cast shadows over the uneven surface of her chest. She turned to the side and inhaled sharply at the sight of the slight concavity of her stomach. There were far too many scars. Puffy white slashes or darkened lines. One in particular spanning the entire length of her side from her back to her hip. A relic from the first time she learned that fighting and struggling against her "clients" was futile and would only bring her more harm.
