skeletonsofvirtue-blog

[skeletonsofvirtue-blog]

Prologue — Sin Found You

— May the heavens hurl down the prayers I sent up; for none of reached completion. May the demons devour the virtues I earned; for no part of me remained untouched. — 

 / 

 Merit, the grounds upon which her household held structure. 

 Mannerism, the bricks allocated to give shape. 

 Reputation, the cement that suffocated between the red rust to breathe substance.  

 Modesty, the brush with which the walls were painted in the shy shades of white; like a dame damned in white silk for Sunday. 

 Religion — the hammer that resounded through the roof above her head, the church bell chiming to call upon each movement of hers that tempted sin. 

 But Forgive me, Father. They named me to sin. 

  The hammer heavy in its fall as the judgement of religion as the palm of Synzia's mother cupped her face. Only to serve a slap and not a caress. 

 The Christian Cross hung behind;  the omnipresent oppression, deluding her eyes to mutilate their God's imagery as the shadows slithered about her feet — the messenger of Mother's mercy. 

 Or the lack of it. 

 Stars spun and the church bells rung in her ears in celebration of her chastisement as she fell upon her knees from the strike — a lapse in time and Synzia found the hilarity of the position, medieval in worship, modern in the 'worship' of man. Or woman, a preference perhaps unmentioned in the Bible. 

 Her preference. 

 She didn't dare declare herself, label her with the inseparable ink of word on her sexuality. 

Only within the walls of her own body, she kept painting her desires with a body akin to her own in characteristics — femalecharacteristics. But the organs had been drowned in her stains, her veins were crammed with her confessions unsaid and her bones were worn out from her screaming scribbles. 

She was another screaming breath away from explosion; and then, the shrapnel would  bomb across and stab through the ignorance of people as bloodied pieces of her heart and flesh. And turning the skin; they'd find the truth; ineradicable against virtue and God Himself. 

 But that wasn't the crime she was being sought for. 

A harsh slap only yet would be more fictional than a dream if she was convicted in that situation in her house. 

  The principal had found her stripped down to her red bra, her bounteous breasts the cradle for a shirtless jock's head in his own office. 

Good for him he got in a bit earlier than usual, otherwise pornography in the flesh wouldn't have been an experience outwardly from racy magazine pages or dumbed down sexual sites. 

 Perhaps she liked guys too. 

She had always been duplicitous in nature. 

 Her lips torn, blood frays out. But only a bitter grin defiles Synzia's stature, not the crimson. 

 "The disgusting clothes,—" 

Her mother sneered, her eyes drying over the fishnet stockings that clung to Synzia's porcelain fleshed thighs and over the top whose fabric lazed down her shoulder to bare her bones to invite tempted tongues and shaped her breasts to perfection for eyes to lean on. 

 "—the immoral hair,—" 

Once long and modest in black, now shamelessly short in bob and streaked in ombré with the strands of bluish grey. 

 "—the rudeness. Going out at night, hours past curfew. Coming home reeking of alcohol. We've took it all.

 We thought we could redeem you. The Father told us to bear through this; that youth now was far fierce to find its way through the darkness but we must endure. He said he saw your soul, that it is pure and it cannot be corrupted by materialistic vices." 

 The leash that once reined back Synzia's tongue hard enough to bear down scars had long been broken; and only the remnants of those shackles' rust and the iron(y) of her own blood remained captive in her mouth. But the words always found their violent escape. 

"How did the Father see, exactly?" Synzia question, sardonic cynicism in play; curiosity in charade over her battered features. "I don't recall tearing my shirt open with him as well and showing him into the depths of my body." 

 Another slap tossed against her skin, her cheek burning precisely in linear lineage of the imprint of her mother's fingers. 

Unspoken bitterness bled with the red; spattered against the white carpet that quieted down her missteps for the past months; and the stains upon its furry flesh were its scars to bear for laying down for sin. 

 "But I should have understood that you had completely caved to the seductions of the Devil the day your scissors slashed through your hair. You should have slashed it through your heart instead." 

 The scissors might have not, but those words did. 

Even through all the layers of black fabric and bare flesh and racy ribs; they tore through. 

Her defiance was her armour, the rebellion her fort. 

But they were all as soft as the white cotton she once always adorned. 

 "Find me some now then. I have no problem carving through my heart if your face is ready to lift itself against the shameful sin of suicide at my funeral.

And you named me as much anyway. I'll have that for my epitaph." 

 "For the umpteenth time, Cynthia!" Her mother screeched in anger. "The name on your birth certificate was nothing more than a slip of tongue!" 

 With nearly an arrogant scoff, Synzia replied. "My tongue on all those mouths was nothing more than a slip either." 

Her lips poised themselves in her infamous dialect of slow and sensual provocation. "All over. Inside and out." 

 Furious fingers wring themselves in her short hair, using the humiliating hold as a leverage of control; as if Synzia's gaze wasn't upon the same bridge as her mother's already, she had to tilt up the angle. 

She peered into her daughter's eyes, seeing anything but her. She only saw what her eyes painted; ignorant, ignorant eyes — a girl possessed by the devil. 

 "The demons really have you, don't they?" 

 My own do. 

 But she doesn't say that. 

 Or doesn't get the chance to. 

 Her mother jeers her head to the floor, ramming her cheek against the carpet as her skull clashed with enough force to cause a concussion. 

 Over her laid down body, her mother steps over to leave the living room. 

 "We're sending you away tomorrow. That's where your dad is right now. Making the arrangements at the academy. All girls' boarding school, you say. 

The Father reassured us that it was the right place to fix you." 

 Fix. 

 The word cleaved through her, cutting and slicing through in graphic proportionality not available even in a slasher cinematic. 

 But she rolled over on her back — as she had a lot the past months for the purpose it sounded for, for all genders alike — and screamed at the retreating back of her mother. 

 "Are you sure the Father doesn't want to see me again? Stripped down and away to wash with holy water for an exorcism? The screen we talk through don't really allow much for the gaze." 

 There was a manic glee to her tone; wicked. 

And loud laughter spilled from her lips, both in times of tragedy and comedy. 

 She wasn't going there to get fixed, she would be going there to get her fix. 

 / 

 The hammer now fell on the table. 

 An actual hammer from her dad's garage upon that of the principal's.

Sneaking into the school wasn't really a scheme of difficulty against her. 

Popping windows and cherries was what her designation. 

 But in this case, she smashed through the glass to get in. 

Whatever cacophony composed its way to the the school's guard, he was priced up with the last bucks she had left to stand in lie for himself that he was lulled down by the hands of slumber.  

Or whatever reason. 

 The principal had nothing to do with anything. She knew. 

But then again, everybody had something to do with everything. 

 The heavy metal tip was brash and laden with rage, and it met through the walls; the cabinets, the metal drawers. 

 She wreaked wholeness, everything that 

seemed together and fixed. 

Unlike her. 

 By the near end, even after tearing through papers of what must be every single important academic document of the school, she hadn't had enough. 

 The void blacked inside her heart was heaving in; an existence of bottomless voracity of violence and it demanded for more chaos to devour. 

 Making her way to the art class, slender fingers pick up the pots of paint. 

 Comprehension on some forms of art was finally her companion. 

It stood by her lonesome side as the paints splattered across the hallways, across the walls and upon her. 

 Penny for paint; lonely streaks of splattered paint upon a solitary canvas selling for more than any speck of her body. 

What did it contain? 

The drops of each splatter contained the hues of the spectrum of emotions — rage, sadness, guilt, remorse, happiness, loneliness. Unacceptance. 

She knew that wasn't a word, but that was her. 

And she wasn't right to begin with anyway. 

 And to put a dramatic dot on the end of her reign, paint drenched fingers sensually trail the silhouettes of letters to solve the mediocre mystery of who was here the night prior. 

 Sin was here. 

Within her. In her name. 

Within everyone. 

 "Sin caught up to you." 

 |End|