Do the gods regret?
I spun the rose gold faucets that reminded me of a ship's wheel without the bulbous edges. The similarly coloured tap dripped to life before water that steamed poured into the black marbled claw foot tub.
Did the gods lament? Did they understand what it meant to face the consequences brought to you only by your own hand?
I tied my twists up into a messy bun as I got into the shower. I used a honey scented soap to lather my skin. I hummed a tune. I had heard it from another world.
My favourite lyrics had to be ‘Heaven and Hell were words to me’.
Are they swallowed by the forward marching of time? Can they undo the irreparable? Or do they watch quietly hoping that their mistakes don’t breed misery?
‘My baby’s sweet as can be, she gives me tooth aches just from kissing me’.
To The gods who dictated what was blasphemous, could they undo what had been done or were there circumstances where even divinity was insignificant?
‘No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her’.
I rinsed off the suds and stepped out the shower. The towels smelled of the suns. I took the pristinely white towel off the hook, before closing the tap of the nearly filled tub. I added the scent of valerian to the water before lighting candles that then came to life on the little black table next to the tub.
I sat in the comfortably hot water and gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows that had red peonies blooming around them. I enjoyed hearing the water overflow as I settled in. The bleak landscape quietly yawned behind the black window panes.
As a god. I wasn’t sure which one, I was. The mere fact that I understood that my divinity could not mend my decisions. I wondered if my regret made me less of a god. I sighed and placed my arms over the rim of the tub.
The sound of water dripping onto the soft white tiling was loud. I smacked my teeth. I hated being alone too long. I pondered on stupid things.
The gods were dead.
The writing seared into my palms told of what I had done. Of what I decided. I found that it was such a wicked game.
After all the only things I was allowed to remember were my beginning, my love, my demise and him.
I heard knocking from my bathroom door that slid. Having one that locked gave Wren anxiety.
‘Master?’ Wren’s velvet voice called.
Bittersweet.
I sighed before I splashed my face and once again glanced at my palms as I stepped out of the tub. I sniffed the towel, their scent gave me a nostalgic feeling. I quietly took solace in that fact for now. I was surrounded by my favourite scent.
‘Master?’ he called again and I pulled the plug of the tub.
He always requested that I answered him after he had called me once.
‘I’m here Wren,’ I said before I made my way to the door and slid it open with a smile on my face. Wren only frowned down at me.
He was simply beautiful. He had hair as alluring as obsidian. Layered curtain bangs accentuated his features. His eyelashes were long and inky only serving to compliment his sage green eyes that held specks of forest green in them. His nose was long and his mouth full and soft. He towered over me as I stopped at his chest.
