Original [Prose] - Devilish Vernacular
Title: Devilish Vernacular
Word Count: 997
Comments/Rating: "K+". No language, but implied suicide. I'm in a "mood", and when I get like this, I write odd things... This is a quick original piece, written in present tense, oddly enough. The POV is that of someone's inner demon, and this portrays how one's mind can kill them. Happy, I know. -.-
Her mind is a maelstrom of thoughts half-grasped, and visions half-seen. There is something infinitely gorgeous in the chaos of her misery, and to this we toast, our wine glasses filled to the brim with the red-red tears of our sickened joy.
We drink.
Tongues loosen and inhibitions slip as we drown ourselves in a sadist's show of gluttony. Lips stain crimson and briefly, drunkenly, we think we are swallowing mouthful-after-mouthful of blood.
We keep drinking, despite this fluttering perception.
She walks, eyes flickering downward, trained on the ground three feet in front of her. She is not shy, nor timid, and yet she cannot bring herself to lift her head and view the gray-tinged scenery around her. The day is apathetic, drawn, too bold to rain and too bored to shine. There is no reason for this day at all, and that is just as well, for as soon as she awoke it had already been stricken from her memory.
One-step, two-step, three-step, four.
A rustle of dead leaves startles her, makes her tilt her head upwards and shift her gaze from left to right. A rattlesnake in the limbs; gray-orange hissing in protest as the wind glides silkily along the husk of its former glory.
She doesn't care. What is the dying if not but a hindrance in the world of the living? Soon, the trees will fade, as she will fade, and they shall both live in the world of the dead, and be nothing but a hindrance there, as well.
Her feet carry her forward, not because she wills it, but because her body simply cannot stop.
She sees how small tufts of gray-green grass reach straightened tendrils towards the cloudy sky above. Gray-brown mud squishes delicately beneath her feet, the earth soft and pliable, easily twisted and shaped to whatever form best suits it. Her eyes blink upwards for a moment. Gray-white clouds set against a gray-blue sky, roiling calmly, undulating back and forth.
Gray gray gray gray gray.
It sickens her.
She pauses, then, and doubles over, clutching her stomach as she retches violently into the open field. Her body is in shock, shivering, but she forces herself upright and spits out the remaining bile in her mouth. It sticks to the back of her throat, burning, but she can't swallow it down. It becomes a part of her - the sickness, the trembling, the putrid taste - and yet it is nothing at all.
Her body is a liar.
Glassy eyes look up, and yet she can still only see three feet in front of her. Everything is a tunnel, and her consciousness steps back even as her body stiffens at the disorienting sight. Is it the drugs? (She knows better than that.) But still, her mentality grasps at the thought.
Sometimes, her mind is a liar, too.
There is no reason. There is no reason. The mantra sings loud and clear in her head, rising in pitch and volume until it is nothing more than a desecration to the peace and tranquility of the day. It cripples her, makes her dry heave once, twice, before she can rein in control once again.
How quaint. How endearing.
We clash cups and bellow loudly into deaf ears.
Give us a show, pretty lil' girl. Give us a show that won't soon be forgot.
She walks, and we yell at her to dance. Never satisfied, the bell doth toll twelve strokes of dismal sound, and we flit about her form in a frenzy of drunken rage.
One ring-a-clang-clang.
Two ring-a-clang-clang.
Are we frightenin' you, sweetheart?
Her pace quickens, eyes cutting back and forth, scanning the empty field, but there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard.
There is nothing, but she knows. She knows as if her very next breath depends on it.
It does.
(She knows that, too.)
But she denies that knowledge with every last shred of her infinitesimal humanity.
Five ring-a-clang-clang.
Six ring-a-clang-clang.
Come 'ere, darlin'.
We make a show of it, haunting whispers tickling her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and we brush against them, marveling at their silky-soft texture.
She will be so beautiful when she's finally dead.
The thought takes precedence in her own mind, and a cold sweat breaks out over her otherwise inanimate features. Her body has always been deceitful, and knowing this, she realizes that the numbness is a lie; that her vision, her hearing, her touch and taste and smell is all lying to her.
She blinks, looking up again, and in seeing, realizes she doesn't perceive.
In hearing, realizes she cannot listen.
In touching, realizes that she does not feel.
That's it.
We grin, all of us, and crowd around her body; watching, waiting for the inevitable to finally click inside her brain.
Nine ring-a-clang-clang.
Ten ring-a-clang-clang.
Join us. We make death so sweet.
She cannot hear, and that is the very reason why she knows that words were spoken. She cannot see them, either, which only proves that they are there, crowding around her, trapping her in her own twisted thoughts.
Oh, God.
She falls to her knees, her entire body wracked with hysterical sobs. She cries, but she knows the tears are a lie, too, because her mind is so sickeningly apathetic. Tears shed of a clear conscious bring nothing but guilt to a guileless soul. She is breaking, which only means she is slowly reforming.
But there is more, girl.
We laugh. We laugh so bitterly, our blood runs freely into our wine glasses. It sustains us. It shall sustain her.
Twelve.
Twelve.
Twelve.
And she knows the truth.
In living, she perpetuates her death.
In dying, she could truly--
We cry. We cry so strongly, our blood runs freely into our wine glasses. It sustains her.
She shall sustain us.
[End]
Word Count: 997
Comments/Rating: "K+". No language, but implied suicide. I'm in a "mood", and when I get like this, I write odd things... This is a quick original piece, written in present tense, oddly enough. The POV is that of someone's inner demon, and this portrays how one's mind can kill them. Happy, I know. -.-
Her mind is a maelstrom of thoughts half-grasped, and visions half-seen. There is something infinitely gorgeous in the chaos of her misery, and to this we toast, our wine glasses filled to the brim with the red-red tears of our sickened joy.
We drink.
Tongues loosen and inhibitions slip as we drown ourselves in a sadist's show of gluttony. Lips stain crimson and briefly, drunkenly, we think we are swallowing mouthful-after-mouthful of blood.
We keep drinking, despite this fluttering perception.
She walks, eyes flickering downward, trained on the ground three feet in front of her. She is not shy, nor timid, and yet she cannot bring herself to lift her head and view the gray-tinged scenery around her. The day is apathetic, drawn, too bold to rain and too bored to shine. There is no reason for this day at all, and that is just as well, for as soon as she awoke it had already been stricken from her memory.
One-step, two-step, three-step, four.
A rustle of dead leaves startles her, makes her tilt her head upwards and shift her gaze from left to right. A rattlesnake in the limbs; gray-orange hissing in protest as the wind glides silkily along the husk of its former glory.
She doesn't care. What is the dying if not but a hindrance in the world of the living? Soon, the trees will fade, as she will fade, and they shall both live in the world of the dead, and be nothing but a hindrance there, as well.
Her feet carry her forward, not because she wills it, but because her body simply cannot stop.
She sees how small tufts of gray-green grass reach straightened tendrils towards the cloudy sky above. Gray-brown mud squishes delicately beneath her feet, the earth soft and pliable, easily twisted and shaped to whatever form best suits it. Her eyes blink upwards for a moment. Gray-white clouds set against a gray-blue sky, roiling calmly, undulating back and forth.
Gray gray gray gray gray.
It sickens her.
She pauses, then, and doubles over, clutching her stomach as she retches violently into the open field. Her body is in shock, shivering, but she forces herself upright and spits out the remaining bile in her mouth. It sticks to the back of her throat, burning, but she can't swallow it down. It becomes a part of her - the sickness, the trembling, the putrid taste - and yet it is nothing at all.
Her body is a liar.
Glassy eyes look up, and yet she can still only see three feet in front of her. Everything is a tunnel, and her consciousness steps back even as her body stiffens at the disorienting sight. Is it the drugs? (She knows better than that.) But still, her mentality grasps at the thought.
Sometimes, her mind is a liar, too.
There is no reason. There is no reason. The mantra sings loud and clear in her head, rising in pitch and volume until it is nothing more than a desecration to the peace and tranquility of the day. It cripples her, makes her dry heave once, twice, before she can rein in control once again.
How quaint. How endearing.
We clash cups and bellow loudly into deaf ears.
Give us a show, pretty lil' girl. Give us a show that won't soon be forgot.
She walks, and we yell at her to dance. Never satisfied, the bell doth toll twelve strokes of dismal sound, and we flit about her form in a frenzy of drunken rage.
One ring-a-clang-clang.
Two ring-a-clang-clang.
Are we frightenin' you, sweetheart?
Her pace quickens, eyes cutting back and forth, scanning the empty field, but there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard.
There is nothing, but she knows. She knows as if her very next breath depends on it.
It does.
(She knows that, too.)
But she denies that knowledge with every last shred of her infinitesimal humanity.
Five ring-a-clang-clang.
Six ring-a-clang-clang.
Come 'ere, darlin'.
We make a show of it, haunting whispers tickling her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and we brush against them, marveling at their silky-soft texture.
She will be so beautiful when she's finally dead.
The thought takes precedence in her own mind, and a cold sweat breaks out over her otherwise inanimate features. Her body has always been deceitful, and knowing this, she realizes that the numbness is a lie; that her vision, her hearing, her touch and taste and smell is all lying to her.
She blinks, looking up again, and in seeing, realizes she doesn't perceive.
In hearing, realizes she cannot listen.
In touching, realizes that she does not feel.
That's it.
We grin, all of us, and crowd around her body; watching, waiting for the inevitable to finally click inside her brain.
Nine ring-a-clang-clang.
Ten ring-a-clang-clang.
Join us. We make death so sweet.
She cannot hear, and that is the very reason why she knows that words were spoken. She cannot see them, either, which only proves that they are there, crowding around her, trapping her in her own twisted thoughts.
Oh, God.
She falls to her knees, her entire body wracked with hysterical sobs. She cries, but she knows the tears are a lie, too, because her mind is so sickeningly apathetic. Tears shed of a clear conscious bring nothing but guilt to a guileless soul. She is breaking, which only means she is slowly reforming.
But there is more, girl.
We laugh. We laugh so bitterly, our blood runs freely into our wine glasses. It sustains us. It shall sustain her.
Twelve.
Twelve.
Twelve.
And she knows the truth.
In living, she perpetuates her death.
In dying, she could truly--
We cry. We cry so strongly, our blood runs freely into our wine glasses. It sustains her.
She shall sustain us.
[End]