Mutilations adorned her hitherto insipid skin, manifesting an aura that radiated from her vessel, reeking of isolation. Ivory pigment flooded her cheeks; malevolent sutures scrawled across her limbs, depressing the pale silk, cavities among hollows -- distasteful dimples serrating the sapphire branches defined in deep shades of rubicund and grey overcast skies.

Dripping, dripping, dripping -- saturated, drenched, soaked -- inexplicable streams, falling from the core, descending into the soil and intertwining with the stained elegance of snow-laced ribbons buried far below.


Swaying back and forth, back and forth, soothing the head that hung on her shoulders. Her knees were pulled tightly to her chest as she gently rocked, slightly scratching at the arms that bound them there with overgrown, dirty fingernails. Her heart beat could be heard dimly in the back of her head, hushed and muffled, a certain musicality with a restful rhythm; it gradually slowed as did her swaying.

The corners of her thin pale lips tucked up to a taut smile, ever so delicate yet gracious; a smile her lips had long forgotten.

The shape among the shadows was just barely visible in her blurred vision.

"I smell suicide on your breath," the silhouette breathed into the hollow of her throat as he pushed the hair from her face and caressed her flawless skin.

She noted his tender touch; it masked her deepest fears, something intriguing but perilous on its own.

"I taste your veins on my tongue, bittersweet. It fills my lungs, asphyxiating my every thought," he hummed again.

Her repetitive motions abruptly halted out of horror upon the sudden realization that her death was helplessly imminent. The silhouette would never abandon his initial intent. This thing, it resided deep within her body, only resurfacing every great once in a while in attempts to persuade her into giving in, into letting go for the final time. He always claimed it would be a great act of martyrdom, but she knew differently.