Romance In A Column

chapter twelve,

In Deniz Gürsel's infinitely dark eyes, Eryn Sallow can vaguely spot the silhouette of the demon the woman embodies.

It's not the feminine trail of her breast down to her hips—the curves which an outdated culture standardized, and held women to it. It isn't the ablaze hair, strands with the color scheme of a late October bonfire with the lipstick—coating a plump cupid bow men conjure in their most sinful fantasies—and stilettos to match.

Abbadon is all but the image the mainstream television show, Supernatural, might have one believe.

As a matter of fact, Abbadon is nothing to begin with. The demon—sometimes confused as an angel, one of the pit's of hell—is matter, just like any creature who resides in the unending blackness that is the abyss. It's a conscious being, a soul prisoner of the unfanthable or, perhaps, one with a taste for it. However, it doesn't possess a body, and in it's darkness, it's aimless; quite like it's home.

The abyss is the mere definition of an endless void. An everlasting torture submerged in the obscure depths of hell in a fall with a long drawn existence, being progressively stripped of the simple delights—the feel of sunlight softly running it's fingers across one's skin soothingly, and it's warmth engulfing one like a coat on a winter day.

As a person dwells lower and lower, they'll come to resent their only company besides themselves—a color everyone with sight equates to blindness.

The imagery of one's memories will be dulled until the canvas of what had once been their life is a scheme of greys and charcoals. The navy blue of the pacifc ocean one gazed at from the shoreline, sinking into the beige specks of slightly moist sand which infiltrates every layer of clothing and adheres to every inch of skin. The greens of the stems the person gripped tightly while surprising their significant other with a bouquet. The purple hues the petals of the lilies the flower shop worker had said signified the bloom of love.

A love which, in one's thoughts, will wane. Because the truth about the abyss, is that it is aimless. There's no bottom, no inch of land which will break one's bones into mere crumbs after an inevitable crash. It's truthfully the perfect metaphor for death—specifically the flipside of whatever happens after it. Without ending but not without pain.

Absentmindedly, Eryn realizes, one doesn't drown in darkness but rather is consumed by it, which truthfully seems worse.

And while Deniz Gürsel is, physically, what popular culture might have one believe is Abbadon—minus the red hair—her eyes hold its truest form.

Those eyes which follow Eryn's movements as she sidesteps Deniz, who holds the mahogany door open, into the apartment.

"Hi," Eryn sheepishly greets, maintaining her grip on the strap of her bag tight after Deniz assessed her getup in a way which made the intern regret tucking the front of her button up into her dark-wash jeans.

"Leave your shoes by the door. " With a closed-lipped smile, Eryn steps out of her pumps per request, bending forwards to place her celeste kitten-heels in the barren shoe rack.

She follows closely behind the woman whose sock-clad feet pad further towards the heart of her home, to a living room where a plush, L-shaped couch lays with a knitted blanket sitting idly atop.

Wordlessly maneuvering past the coffee table before it, Eryn lowers herself onto the cushions, retrieving her laptop from her purse which she sets down onto the furry rug to their feet.

Truthfully, the only area of Deniz's house which seems inhabited is the living room. With a handful of cups lining the crystal surface, a lowly playing show on the large screen of her television which seems to go by ignored. A pale hoodie is slung over the armrest and her purse, a black handbag whose contents spill onto the longest section of the couch.