The Glory of Gore

FIVE

FIVE

HE HAD ALWAYS BEEN IN CONTROL OF HIMSELF. It was the people around him who weren't. He had always been in control, that was never a question for him. He was not only in control of himself, but in control of everyone around him. He never understood what it was that made him so compelling: his velvety, angelic voice; his warm and darkly tanned skin; or his eyes that glowed like sunlight, his irises created out of molten gold. He knew that he wore the face of innocence, everyone desperately trying to make him happy. He had an aura around himself that made others feel calm, wanting to please him. Little did they know that he was truly a serpent, coated in the petals of beautiful flowers, creating the perfect illusion. 

He used these weapons and wielded them perfectly, using them at his own discretion. He used them to keep himself content and pampered, only to create destruction all around him. He ruined the people around him, the ones who loved and adored them. The ones who were too blinded by his steady compulsion to realize that he was the one creating their pain and grief. 

He was used to this steady understanding, this constant that would never change.

What he didn't expect, was this. 

For the first time in his life, he was confused. He was out of control, he didn't know what was happening, and he didn't remember how he got here. Something was so sickeningly wrong about this situation that he felt it deep in his bones. Deep within his marrow, seeping into his cells. The wrongness of it all was killing him inside and out.

He had lost all self control over his legs, someone else controlling him. Almost as if someone was the puppeteer and he was the puppet. His legs felt like lead, making him incapable of lifting them unless whoever was controlling him decided they should rise. He felt his left one extend, moving forward, but everything within his being was screaming for him to take a step back. All he wanted was to back away, but he couldn't, not when his eyes were locked on hers.

She stood at the end of a marble walled hall, torches lighting up the expanse. He felt as if he had been taken under her spell, her eyes an intoxicating song that held his mind. It was like she held his brain in the palm of her hand, her sharp nails raking along it. If he fought against her control, she could puncture it with ease. He was hers to control, hers to use. Her eyes were feline, lit up with a molten gold. They seemed to light up, popping out against her dark complexion. 

A feral smile was painted on her lips, watching as the fear swept across his face. It was a sight she had seen before, the one of realization. He was falling into a horrific sense of understanding, realizing that she held a powerful compulsion. One didn't even have to look at her to be taken under her spell, she could instantly have them at her disposal at the mere thought.

He knew, in that instant, that she could do whatever she wanted with him, and there was no way he could ever save himself. He was stuck this way, the gazelle walking straight into the cheetah's mouth.

His eyes raked her body, getting a feel for the woman who had promised him glory and history and immortality; the woman who manipulated him into walking straight to his demise. She was covered in silk, white gowns, a gold belt tightening around her waist, and a gold band wrapped around her head. Like a crown. 

From where she stood, she looked like a goddess. The way her molten eyes glowed, and how the light from the flames only flashed across half of her face; it gave her an air of mystery, of power. His steps grew faster, realizing that this was a losing battle. He slowly felt himself slipping away from the fight, allowing her more and more control.

Her grin widened. 

Any thought he had to fight back dissipated, knowing that this was a fight he was destined to lose. Instead, he tried to analyze what his fate would be. He was now trying to brace himself for whatever fate he would meet, hoping it would be able to soften his fear.