Wednesday, 3 June 2015

The Beauty of Destruction

The cigarettes let out a bulky quilt against the air that inflated his chest, and he dextrously created stories between them, as he slapped the air for a ghost-less vision. And each time he sauntered through the heavy walnut opening, his past seemed to catch up with its bells high on. The stink of rye, and the stains of scotch. The burn of Cuban spices with the heaviness of the citrus cleanser. The pale, alabaster skin of her derrière, and the impulsive flare of his parchment. The moss of the lamps reminded him of the unripeness of the bedroom doors he squirrelled behind, each night, when the clock struck ten, and his old man in turn struck any visible hide he could find on her body. He'd kill her and bring her back from the white light, time and again. Time and again, he'd push her, praise her, need her. He'd destruct her piece by piece, and make her whole again, until both were gasping for breaths. He'd seen the old man's welts across her back, his nibbles along her neck, his whorls on her wrists, and fallen in love with her strength. He'd seen her bravery, her vouch to chin up and feel beautiful, and mourned her demise as if she were his own. And for four years now, he'd been escaping back here, for she reminded him of her, for he wanted to make her his, and he hated another's hands on her. She had her lips, they all say. She also has her fire, they say.
"Why d'you let me make love to you, when you know I'm the son of your sister's murderer?"
She sucked some life out of the filterless fag, and let out a pitched laugh. Her brittle ovation for herself made him wince and he let out those practiced lines he'd been contemplating for years now, "Why won't you leave with me? You know I loathe the thought of you with anybody else."

Her mouth curved into a sardonic leer and her thick accent fell through,"Why pretty fella, because I get to put you through what your father put my sister."

Source: Tumblr

Good to be back,