mephistophelianmusingsxo

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Sin City

It is said that loneliness is one’s lack of social activity, another humans company but true loneliness is isolation, it’s an emotional power to emptiness. It is more than just that feeling of wanting company, true loneliness is disconnection. No matter the amount of bodies that swarm your own with heat you’re still lonely, you’re still cold. It’s an impossible struggle to react and build a meaningful human contact. You’re hollow. Your insides whistle and echo the sounds of voices but they don’t quite reach your ears, the soft haze, the quiet buzz fades still. People fear being alone, they fear they may become lost without constant interaction but I, I chose to be alone. I chose this life. It wasn’t forced upon me, it was what my heart chose. You may ask “What is it like being alone?” And I can truly say, it is critical that you first assess the reason and actions to bring you to this point, whether in reasons for physical violence, emotional anguish, or the degree your mind is willing to go to accomplish this sense of being alone. I mean after all, we’re all, alone aren’t we? No one ever truly understands what it is like to be them, to experience their happiness, their pain, their sorrow and their guilt. So, how can we say that we are in fact not alone? We are. Some people find it easier to be within their own company, smothering their monadic existence from others. Pretending that all is good, life is perfect and they’re hunky dory. Drawing fucking pictures of a life everyone wants but not one single being has. Bullshit. Whether you will like to disagree or agree with my matter at fact, you cannot deny that solidarity is a fleeting feeling. It is universal. Race, creed, social standing. Once in a person’s life it will visit their soul and leave a mark so deep, they will always question if it ever left. Every song, every piece of literature, every painting extracts the inescapable fate of pure loneliness and we somehow are fundamentally distant from this, we protest that we do not have it. The paradox to all human existence for our social entities is to seek connections. May it be with another human or simply an object that holds great sentimental value.

Which leads me to my next point, by now you’ve probably already guessed my life became tangled in ways it never should. A typical story of a child not wanted, and a child gone wayward. However, you would be wrong. My childhood was the exact juxtaposition to expectancy, I was an only child. Sweet little protégé to dear old Dad’s booming company. Showered in love and adoration from the minute I was born, a child couldn’t ask for more. But it was never enough, I never belonged, I couldn’t excel in the areas my father wanted to carry on his heritage, try he might have, he could never tether my soul, could never cage my free spirit. I wanted to explore the world, I wanted to become accustomed to more than what I had growing up, I had a wild zoe for freedom. Academically I excelled in everything I did. From the writing short hand classes my father enrolled me in, to the logistics and statistics courses. In effect, there wasn’t much I didn’t excel in, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t care for flash suits, fancy jobs, exquisite restaurants, nature was more my thing. No convention or obligation, seeking out every unique possibility in each circumstance as it was. Enjoying whatever I deemed appropriate in this socially adverse world, limitations were minimal, and I rather relished in my adventurous unconventional conformity of a woman. Freedom, now freedom is open to arguments; social and political views as something that must be contained and controlled or something that cannot be. It has been across everyone’s lips, touched their tongues but never their actual mind set nor their soul. It has touched every human heart with adept fingers and a shadow that looms. Forever changing but never abandoning.

‘Freedom’. Freedom means many things to many people; politically the freedom to vote and choose your respected candidate, socially for you to choose what and who you like to acknowledge with. Standing free with those that fight for the freedom of speech, distancing yourself from those who fight for an entirely different cause but still freedom. Financial freedom is what got me in to this mess. Where others seek to free themselves from debt, standing credit and foredooming loans, I propelled myself further and further in to the outstanding debt. What’s more surprising is, I don’t particularly wish to be free either. Which is funny, wouldn’t you say? For a woman that has documented nothing but her free spirit doesn’t seem to want to be free of the hold finance has on her. I have to say it is interesting that we all pursue this Liberty as an ends to a means. An end to all our struggles. But what is our deliverance? The no longer outstanding debt, the ability to do what we like? Say what we like? It is not truly being what we all call 'free’. If you look, it is our hearts that drove us in to this mess at the beginning yes? So, who is to say that our hearts will not choose the same path? It will remain unchanged as long as our heart yearns for what it just escaped from. Why? Because we desire what we think we cannot live without. And… Voila! We find ourselves in debt again. It’s a viscous cycle. It eclipses all we know and only serves what we don’t. Feeds off the hunger of curiosity. And well, being a natural spirit of curiosity, I was an easy target. I was the prey awaiting the predator to seize. It was not an approach in the dead of night, it was more an ease of comfort and insurance slinking its way around your body, your mind, your heart until you realise and it’s too late. It’s not a peripheral remedy. It’s simply not something to help you balance your books it becomes your life. Symptoms begin to fester, and you apprehend that it’s a disease, but rather than dealing with it you run. I ran. Intoxicated with the deadness of every human strategy, the knowing that it’s something I could never conquer, my heart fell steadfast into corruption and sin. Captivating and keeping hold of the rebellion that would cause mankind to leap from ignorant innocence to full blown understanding. I do suppose that if my life had taken a left instead of a sharp right, I would never have found myself in this position, but then again, I also suppose that I wouldn’t be happy, I’d be stuck working at my father’s company, lumbered with a healthy pay-check and all the cuttings and trimmings that went with it. At least this way I was gifted with a substantial pay-check for doing what I love. I wasn’t just put on this earth to work and pay bills, that was not a life. Just an existence. There were other places I could have chosen to work, other industries I could have pursued but not everyone finds the labouring of a nine to five exciting and appealing but rather tedious. This line of work is for the ones that don’t have any advanced education or a set of degrees, for the ones that don’t have the looks or the luck, or the ones that don’t have enough gumption to be a pimp; they live a life of has beens and recent regrets. It doesn’t require sets of specific skills and it’s readily available in any city that you step your foot in. Have you guessed it? When the clock hits twelve we deal; cards and crack. Yes! The drug industry, let’s not call it that. That brings unwanted negative connotations, disastrous assumptions to those involved. Instead, I oppose we call it a free trade on the very large capitalism scale. Distributing and supplying to those who live the life in the fast lane, the ones that search for a kick, the ones that become solely dependent on the next hit. I would say I was sorry but I’m not. As long as their struggles line my pocket, I would continue to benefit from transactions, grant them another five gram, ten, the amount is limitless when you have the money. I feed their uncontrollable addictions to illicit drugs, I destroy families; people all alike. There is no age, no specific gender. It is whoever is willing to pay. Drug dealing requires no real hard work, but it’s no fun when you lose, and your balls are in the blender. Your pay-check comes from the clientele and if you slip up and squander your batch, you’re the one that suffers then. You have no income until your next run. It’s all a muddle of colours, a twisted web of lies. To say I had simply lost my way was quite the understatement. To be brutally honest, I had become adrift the many other souls settled in the ruins of their independency. People observe the streets just as people observe the sky, in one single hour a multitude of colours can paint the sky; blues, greys, oranges, yellows. In my line of work, it is crucial that I notice these. I may approach you genially, by no means am I nice. Granted I can be affable when I please, but please; do not ask me to be a friend. I simply can’t. Pick a colour and chose your path. Drug smuggling, runner, courier however you please to perceive. It is my job and as a right in doing so, I notice trends throughout rife city life. When demand is low, I simply move on. I cannot recount a single moment where I have remained in a place for longer than six months, that is until now. New Orleans has become my home, or perhaps I should say my place of work. An advantageous opportunity I could never resist. If I had known what I know now, it is almost probable my deterioration in to crime and misdemeanours would certainly have happened more rapidly. Would you believe me if I told you witches were real? Would you believe me if I told you I work for them? No, no, what if I told you my very purpose in this is to run errands where vampires cannot go? Would you believe me? Of course not. You’d only but believe I am a woman turned insane from her reckless use of narcotics or perhaps an insensate pursuit of an old crazy woman way before her time, my time. However, consider this there isn’t just one monotheistic being – Humans. We are only a minute percentage of the world’s population. Forever persecuting other people, killing them because they’re far more superior than anything mortality is capable of. But immortality, immortality is something else altogether. Creatures of brief season that remain for an eternity. Wherever you look in history, you cannot escape the record of inquisition, they have always been a part of our world. Undertaking, preceding and strengthening what we mortals are unaware. I once claimed loneliness and freedom were my downfall, I believed them to be a disadvantage of no plausible use, but as it turns out being in this new reality grants me the greatest asset of invisibility. Slipping from sunset to sunrise unseen, unnoticed. Free.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Les Loups de Paris

It is the Winter of 1450, cold, dreary and uneventful, the layers of snow that blanket the ground prove difficult to merchants trying to make their due. This year, winter is particularly unforgiving and harsh, all prey is scarce, even we – The Royals are devastated. I have not seen a Winter so bad since I was a girl, tucked in the nursery, warm and cosy, nescient to the bitterness that swirls a rage outside the Court and into the hearts of commoners outside Palace walls, demanding we feed our population. I cannot say much on the matter of our government, a Lady is never privy to circumstances that require men, we are too fragile and unintelligent enough to grasp that our Country is in a state of turmoil. Farms and Forests are pushed to their limits so that we may feed our civilians. It has been a century of suffering, France has endured brutal warfare over the ownership of the French Crown. Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I perched upon the now frozen edge of Fontaine des Innocents, watching city life bustle by. It has taken me what lifetime I have lived to perfect this, it is only when alone I’m able to feel content, young brash and eager must always break silence, it’s a great shame as silence is the purest when you allow it, like now, silence is holy, without speech it has brought a woman to my side, we do not speak but I know she is there, clutching at her rags for warmth. The Intense feudal agriculture and poor game management practices have created an ecological catastrophe throughout my City, there are fewer beggars; polar conditions have claimed them before starvation can, it is quite sad really, the French people are under extreme burdens to survive. It is not often that I am afforded the luxury of exploring the thriving Capital alone, and if I am, I’m surrounded by an entourage of Palace guards, because I’m deemed incapable of navigating my surroundings myself. I laugh, it’s delicate as not to bring attention to myself, I have the ability and integrity, quite clearly, I have managed to bribe the inexperienced squabs at the gates with a promised kiss if they allowed me my time and freedom. Simpletons, as if I would kiss anyone lesser than myself, I do not give to charity unless deemed essential, nor do I present worth to inconsequential. Sitting, I have realised that you can learn from the silence, it’s dimension is its own and my City is silent, it does not weep for our Hundred Years War, for the famine and desolation but for the silence itself. Everything has gone black, desperation has turned frantic, eyes dulled by sterility have now turned black with hopelessness. When and if these commoners survive the extreme Winter, despondency shall not immediately end. We are all the same in times of need, I am neither more important or superior to be unaffected by prowling famine. 

Night has fallen much sooner than I had expected, light diminished in a blink of an eye and the birds no longer sing or chirp, they too have succumbed to silence. Emerging from the blinding white snow came the deafening screams, I scarcely believe are from the mouths of my own people. Within in me my heart stops, at first, they were only but a mystery, unbeknownst to me and all surrounding, a horror that is far off and indifferent in my immediate vicinity. Then, emerging from the blinding white snow came the werewolves, immune to the bitter wind that cut into my skin like razor sharp knives, blanching my chattering lips. At first, they were no more than silhouettes, shapes in the darkness; their growling carried away in the screams. But as they neared, they become discernible, fur thick, sleek and shining like broken glass, with whatever hue their hair colour had been hours ago. Clutching at my skirts, I ran. The night is black and I cannot see any stars, my world now felt as depthless as the sky was black, I know I cannot run from this, I cannot run from them. There is no place far enough but I must try. Shedding my cloak and shoes, I refuse to be held back by the limitations women face with attire. There is nothing now but the shifting depth of night, not even the screams are noticeable over my own thundering heart. Without the soft tenderness of my shoes, bare feet echo against frozen stones, I should never have chosen to discard my shoes, the soles of my feet are punctured and sting with every bounding step, but at least I am alive. Leaving behind a shocking red, so vibrant and bright, it buzzes. This blood of mine will be the only thing left to live tonight. Every second of my search for safety is a second closer to meeting God and my eternity, I do not want to die. Not like this. Eaten to death by famished Wolves of the Forrest, torn apart like I am fair game. A single tear rolls down my cheek, I long to wander the castle walls in boredom, to hear the rustle of bed clothes as I slip into bed beside Sisto. Forbidden as it may be, my father knows nothing about the thousands of rendezvous. Harshly, I wipe the fallen tear. Crying will neither save me or conceal me. I am still here and I have all of it, hope, courage, bravery, I have them all, fleeting and gone in the blink of an eye; I have them. The woods are silent and dark as I blindly stumble over kernels and roots in the Frosty night air; here stars shine, they are ignorant to the slaughtering of my cities people, they watch me, bright eyed, as if they are alive and judging. This would never have become a reality, this disastrous night I’m trying to run from, it would have been a nightmare, soothed by the gentle murmurings of a mother to her child, had it not been for the cities walls falling in to despair, developing breeches that have allowed horror to envelope Paris in a single night. I would have been safe, we all would. I knew it was coming it was only a matter of time before they caught me, the feeling of untamed anxiety tells me so, I am no longer alone but in the company of a Wolf. I do not want to turn around, to look into its blood thirsty eyes as it tears my heart from my chest but I cannot help myself. Slowly, almost barely I begin to turn around. I stare at the razor-sharp fangs, dripping a river of blood, crimson eyes so full of inanition that I can almost pity the beast’s misfortune. But it is I that has the greatest misfortune tonight, while it eats from the flesh of its victims, my life will be but another dot on the horizon. Time holds me nowhere, it has stopped entirely, neither myself or the wolf before me make any attempt at movement, we stand for what seems like forever staring at one another. I’m afraid I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks creating a slender track of looking glass, my bravery has all ran out. I would fall to my knees and beg if I thought it would make any difference. It’s a sad reality, I will die at the hands of mother nature’s beauty; it stands before me, towering; lean and muscular, it’s fur almost black but with hints of rusted steel flecking it’s coat and its tail or rather lack of, is only a small queue, adding to its ferocity. There is nothing now but the impatient growl of building hunger, it lunges at me jaws snapping fervently for flesh that is white as pearls. Razor-sharp teeth puncture the flesh on my side, each an unforgiving singe like a hot poker. I cannot feel anything but the agonising reality that this is the pain of dying; I’m floating free, as if I was one with the wind, unhampered by time or feeling, free from gravity. I should never have been here, or anywhere for that matter. Consciousness is passing, a brief swoosh and its gone; a winged messenger. Death is looming and I’m not ready to go, with the unheard ticking of a clock, my heart is still beating and I’m surviving.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Impractical Vengeance

Arabella Evans, Patient 2413. Arabella, isn’t it lovely to the tongue and even more innocent to the eye? Innocent I was far from. I always knew I was far from the norm; I never once was able to fit in anywhere. My father, ah dear old dad, always used to tell me I was special. And special I was. Never did I meet a child quite like myself, I was the only one. Not that I gave a rats ass to even begin with. Special in a way a child would not wish, nor would a parent wish such a thing. It was not uncommon for a child to develop what I had been diagnosed with—schizophrenia, though uncommon at such an early age and this is why I was special. Unable to process any such psychological feelings of awareness, feeling or motivation, but yet, I felt so strongly. Often, I would sit and cry, silently watching the tears escape from tear ducts, how free they had become, and how free of this I wanted to be, to be me again and not just the girl with the disorder that no one was able to understand, just the one that had something wrong with her. Staring out in to the night, I prayed to the skies above to free me of this curse, of course my prayers were never answered and still I lived this way. It seemed so far, so out of reach; would I ever really know what freedom felt like? If I was not being controlled by the side effects of the many medications, my father would assume this position. His actions were solely fuelled by love of me, but still, I wished for freedom. Time, time here moves so slowly, a constant tick-tocking, but it wasn’t always like this, no. Time once did soar. But always on the weekends, when my mother was no longer with us, called to numerous work meetings in the next town over, or that time she had to visit Venice, but I was not without her, every night at 7 o’clock she would call, “Arabella have you taken your pills, sweetheart?” Of course I had, though I was certain they were unnecessary and I did not need them. I didn’t mind much, father assured me they would make the voices go away, and truth be told? I had never noticed any, perhaps this was down to the medication I was made to religiously take every day, feelings of drowsiness always ensued, so therefore I was dependant on my father, he worried so, constantly feared that without him by my side some tragic accident would take place. One night, after my bed time, my father slipped in beside me, his cool coarse fingertips began to caress the exposed skin where my night shirt had ridden up, for fear of percussion I did not question his motives, instead allowed him to wield me to convey the actions he wanted, nor did I want to open my eyes to reveal the situation at hand, though I complied with the demand told. Locking my gaze with this, I couldn’t help but notice a fiery passion highlighting his usually dim irises. What had caused this? Reassuring me that all was well, and only special girls received this kind of treatment, he continued to perform his actions with precise nature, removing his penis from the confines of his boxers and inserting it in to my prepubescent cunt, not that this bothered him in the slightest, pleasure never was absent. Crying in to the material of my pillow, I wished this to end. Why was he doing this? Had I done something to upset him and this was my punishment? No. It was my ‘reward’. To my surprise, more often than not he would caress my cheek and wipe away the tears that fell. “Ssssh, ssssh, my special girl, be a good girl for daddy.”  A glimpse of a smile played at my lips, it was simple, if I was a good girl this would stop, surely. How wrong I had been, this continued for the next thirteen years of my life; the same routine over and over, a secret never to be told, a secret to take to the grave. By now I was old enough to make my own decisions, I was eighteen. And with this new found power of my own, I decided I would no longer continue to take my pills, they were not needed and I knew this. This my father did not agree with, he persisted that without them I would not be able to live a decent quality of life, albeit, in actual fact it was he that would not be able to live decently if he did not have control over me. Stuck in a loveless marriage he was to coward to end, now at a loss as he no longer could control his daughter for his satisfactory needs. Observing him for the weeks, I weened myself off my pills, it became obvious. There was nothing wrong with me, I had no disorder, I became the control he needed and no more would I live like this, disenfranchised of my freedom and rights for far too long. Used as an object at the very earliest of my time. I was smart, and perhaps, a little too methodical in my approach to gain revenge, an act of atrocity. Those with corrupted souls, and immoral wrongs that festered in the abyss of minds could obtain such happiness from such malevolent acts. Perhaps, it drives us to embrace who we truly are, and which leads me to convey this disastrous act. Dragging the very point of the knife in hand against the wall in the hallway, I caught my reflection in the shine of the blade, my eyes glistened with an undying excitement and my heart raced at the sheer anticipation. It was perfect; I would execute my plan with precise precision. They would never know what hit them, some part of me did pity the end my mother would come to, she had never been one to hurt me, and she had always treated me fair. I was the apple of her eye. But this is how it had to be, she had to meet the same fate as he. Maybe I really was crazy, inside niggled a faint whisper coaxing me to finish the deed I set out on, the devil on my shoulder, but I was sure not even he was capable of what I was about to do. Silently, and without noise I crept upon them, first I would take my mother out, I had to make that bastard of a man suffer, and what better way of doing so would be the witnessing of his wife brutally murdered by his special girl. Sliding my tongue over the blade to begin with, I brought it down to slash across my mother’s throat, relishing in the shower of crimson I did not stop there, I hacked until her head came away completely, and there I stood, with my fist tightly entwined in a clump of her hair, and her head hanging freely, never had I heard my father scream with such terror before, and oh boy did I enjoy it. Turning her now decapitated head to face me, I spoke. “And what a shame, you came, to face, the merciful act set upon him.” Mounting her head atop the low hanging beam, I proceed to slice her abdomen, just enough to pull her innards out, all the while I sang the lullaby I so vividly remember her singing to me as a young child, I paid little attention to my father, I was far too busy constructing my masterpiece. I rather enjoyed art, and this art was about to come alive, or rather appearing alive. Licking her blood from my fingers, a contented moan slipped free. Oh how this was turning me on, making me wet. Finally, turning on him, he stood rigid, tears stained his cheeks and pleas fell free. Pathetic; pathetic man, like any apology would save him from the fate he had secured long ago. “Reap what you sow.” Was all I spoke, inching my way closer, he flinched however did not move, the horror that gripped at his every fibre rendered him unable to move, this I was glad of. Forcing him to kneel beneath the makeshift cross I had made out of my mother, I slid the blade across his cheek, and how he would suffer at my hands just like I had suffered at his. Cackling as the blood from the wound on his cheek stained his collar; I leant to press a kiss to his head. My intention was to torture every single pint out of his body, but upon reflection and the obvious request in his gaze, persuaded me otherwise. No longer could I deal with his pathetic existence any longer. He was to meet his end, driving the blade in to his jugular vein, I cheered as his blood began to squirt, it was like rain and I was soaked. Christmas had come early. Prompting his now lifeless body to stay upright was a task I had not anticipated, but with every success comes failure. This was not the case. Wiping what blood stained my hands, I stood back to admire my masterpiece. There my mother hung like some spectacular statue, and there my father rest, upon his knees, praying. He better pray, pray that heaven would allow him access, he had already encountered Hell and he was not fond of it. Ah, memories. Weren’t they spectacular? Not as spectacular as the night I had committed my revenge I so sought, but nevertheless, even the memory was able to bring me immense happiness. That is what landed me here, in this godawful house with the nut-jobs, the senile, and the paranoid. Even today I congratulate myself on my well executed plan, it had been two years and still the FBI were unable to pin point even one potential suspect. I was in the clear and forever would I stay this way.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Deliverance

Do you know the beautiful thing about life? It occurs amidst chaos, it is the force with the gentlest of touch, filling your lungs with the very essence until you fill the air with your very first cries, that is when life becomes precious. A miracle in its simplest form. A natural occurrence so great it is almost impossible to measure the intensity, it is what we as women are afforded to do on this earth. To bear and raise children, to wipe away and squander all fears; to humble and comfort when your child is awoken from a nightmare, chasing the demons away. But what of I? Now a woman deemed unwanted, tarnished and without purity. What happens to the women like me? Society has branded us no better than a common whore. And as these women stare up at me, I can’t help but become desperate. No one knows, no one will ever know what he did to me, I have been forbidden to say. For I fear if I tell a soul I will surely speak the true evil of that night. The man is dead and I was the reigning power that gave authority to his demise… It all comes down to that one word ‘life’ and I am not speaking about the type of life one lives, I am talking about life itself. It is of course one of the wealthiest inheritances one could get, waking up every morning with rays of sun streaking through your window, like fingers lacing with your own and kick-starting your body in to motion. Seeping through your skin and delivering warmth to your soul. Yet, no amount of sun could ever warm my soul now, I have become what I thought I never would; a killer, a monster. As I stand here with my feet dangling off the window ledge, I have no mother to chase my demons away, no comforting embrace to soothe a mind so full of misery, weary eyes found the ground below me. The ache that had begun inside me that night had finally come to consume me. In this moment, my cries replace the howls of beasts, for I sing a melody of grief playing right in to the hearts of the towns people. Whilst I had fought for normality, my every waking moment was spent reliving that moment; many a night I would demand the servants leave me be to bathe but no amount of scrubbing would rid his filth from me. It taunted me, no, no, he taunted me, he was the demon inside me, reminding me of how easy it would be for me to end this. No longer would I walk around pretending I was happy, no longer would my nights be filled with unheard cries. I wanted to jump, to float upon the air like I was truly free before my body hit the ground with a sickening thud. Granting myself the release I truly wanted, I have not slept for weeks, I’ve barely eaten. He is the victor in all this. I take no gratitude in knowing that I murdered him, however, I do take esteem that he can never hurt another. My death would be tragic. A tragedy to the Medici family, flowers would arrive from near and far, providing a whole new life as my family would now be absent of one of their own. Slowly, I edged closer to the very end of the ledge, the shuffling of guards in armour just left of the courtyard proved oddly comforting, I wasn’t the only one alone in the dead of night. The wind whipped my hair around my face, momentarily distracting me from the thoughts that swamped my mind. I wanted to forget, gripping at the frame of the window, my gaze cast downwards once again. Hard and unforgiving there would be no coming back, once I step from this ledge I can never return home, I can never and will never see the faces of my loved ones, or my saviour. The patron with golden hair.

“Catalina, my lady, there has to be another way, come down from the ledge.” There was a voice, but whose? Craning my neck to get a glimpse, there he was -  Aristide. Stood tall, smug and mocking. I barely registered his words before his hands were around my throat, running a hand through my hair. No, please. Leave me! A small but noticeable lour made its way on to my tear stained face. What gave him the right to tease me so? Wasn’t it enough that he took the only thing that was positively mine? He too had to come and haunt my waking moments. Rage came to replace the numbness I had been feeling before. Who gave him the right to control me like this? Most importantly why? It would seem I was to find out as he spoke once more. “I watched you, Catalina. I watched you for weeks, so quick to dismiss any advancements made on you. Too priggish and upright. You got what you deserved, if only it had lasted longer…” Go away! Bastard. How dare he! Shaking free from his hold, the danger of the situation left me completely I wanted him to go. Either way, I would rid him forever. Whether it was because I slipped from the ledge or whether I denied his control further, I did not know. Sunsets used to be my favoured sequence of the day, though now as I stared out at the rising sun, the tears returned to my eyes, still I was transfixed and fascinated by their beauty, however, I could not let myself look upon them freely as I once had, they were no longer a siren of a new beginning, instead a constant ripple of angst. I didn’t want to be saved, I did not deserve to be. Dispelling the image of him from my mind completely, one thought remained steadfast. Would it hurt to die? Or will the impact kill me instantly? One would think that such a thought would have the power to upset, to cripple and squeeze a scream from the confines of my chest because no one deserved to die like this, peace would be absent; or would it? Perhaps, taking a hold of my emotions like this will trigger the release I need. The release I want. It would only take a second, a simple step forward no thought was needed. Just let my feet guide me. A single moment, a single fleeting moment of regret that would stay with me forever, with whispered apologies and a promise that I would forever remain in their hearts, I stepped from the ledge and began to plummet to the courtyard below. Time was limitless, there are limitless ways to live a life, I have lived mine and now it is time for me to expand with one as the universe. Souls do not drown here, the sea of self-freedom is boundless, seductive and absolutely serendipitous. Liberating was what it was, there was something about all of this that made it somewhat bearable, a strange comfort to be had. No matter what happens today, the sun will always rise again in the morning. I only hoped that someone would feel their beauty as I did. Amidst the chaos of my death, life will prevail and it shall never lose its natural splendour. As it is just that. Something that will always remain an unveiling miracle.    

Strange, I thought death would bring me the peace that I sought, carefree and allowing me to play amongst the sun – not living and breathing in the darkness and ice that I call my soul. You see, I chose to ran, never did I think I had the strength to control but as I fall, suspended in a cocoon of endless time. Time paused, I think and I regret. I did little to fight my madness, instead I accepted it and to accept insanity is the most foolish one can be. Cheerlessly, there are many that do not wake from their fears, whose hearts fail them and hereafter they suffer for an eternity. Nightmares follow you forever, they are the shadow that cast shade over your heart. Jerking awake suddenly, I gasp for air; greedily gulping in what my lungs may take at the excessive rate I pulled breaths in. There is little logic to be had from my nightmare, and as I glance around my chambers, my heart is then only buttered with pain. Lords knows I should not be ashamed of my tears, but it is not the tears that you see, it is the withering and wilt of a scarred identity. I will never be the same again. I am entwined, broken and thoroughly destroyed from the wrong that has corrupted me. Pulling my knees to my chest, my head bows to rest upon them; I am not what has been done to me, I am not the tears that I shed, but I am empty. A season that can only bloom once a year, never a field of flowers and light breeze in spring. The falling of leaves and desertion of colour as winter comes to take hold. I am deserted, utterly lost to this assiduous torture. Back to that one thing ‘life’, even life had come to forsake me. Could this be the punishment I deserved? To smoulder and cinder with burnt desire from the silence I keep in tow, is perhaps the greatest punishment of all.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Soledad

I’ve been watching you, I’ve been observing you. I know you think I don’t really observe or rather you think I don’t exist anymore, but I do. I see what you think I cannot, I hear what you would rather keep secret; to you, I am forgotten, a once cherished memory; a childhood song you only remember the chorus of but that’s okay, some things must be forgotten so that you can go on living, a thousand years is indeed a long time to mourn. Perhaps that is why it has been easier to pretend that I never existed in the first place, to build yourselves a world with endless mazes, so that I was never lost, but home. Back home where everything is much simpler, back where I belong - the Tenth Century. Back home in a world I understand. That’s just how it is for you, isn’t it? Every one of you. Forgetting is easier, thoughts and feelings tucked away like Butterflies in a glass jar. Contrary to belief death does not come with peace, instead with penitence and grief, it is hard to forget pain but it is even harder for me to forget the unprecedented heartbreak of the reality that I had to leave my family, I was never afraid of death, not initially, until the hour of separation came - when I no longer lingered in the land of the living but stood before myself, rooted eternally in the worlds looking glass; giving back every being the reflection of their own face, instead of mine. I did not understand, mother told me better things were waiting for me, Earth was only my temporary stop, I believed her, my own self-sufficient world was to come, for a more than minor life. The construction of a world made entirely of words, but she lied, there is absolutely nothing worse than dying, there is no hurt quite as imaginable and as my mother stared down at my lifeless body, her cries replaced the howls of beasts in the night. Those same beasts that had mauled me to death and that is when the need to live became desperate, my want, a need for air but it makes no difference, I am indifferent trapped in a world that only I can see. An exact carbon copy of the world I just left except this one is empty, almost as if it is the Other Side of life. When you’re neither living or truly dead. Looking at certain illuminations of cracks in morality and immortality, equally. Fragments of their world a small object reality to mine, yet, comprising of a physicality altogether different than my own, I have seen life, though not much and I have seen death. I cherished life and I abhorred death. I have never been explicitly lonely, not exactly, awful beyond all means but not lonely. Purely because nothing can cure what bothers me, so it has never been something that truly bothers. I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude from my own desires, so I watch them; stupid people mingling with stupid people to fill voids inside themselves that are incurable. These awful things are survivable because we are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be, they forget - my family, as they get old but never age, they have become scared of losing, of failing but that part of them is greater than the sum of them alone. As one we cannot die. We can only change size and manifestations, like energy itself. It cannot end so it cannot fail. 

At first it was a caterwaul of souls, a slight pitter patter of forthcoming elimination, some sense of insensibility when something is going wrong, when the glass of this ethereal mirror has shattered into a million pieces and the squall has dispersed them all over my world, it is cracking, unravelling and imploding within itself. Raining widespread destruction across what I know of as my world, devastating everything in its path, like April Showers laying waste to villages as rain turns into rivers. My mind is currently busy with all I have been through, life, death, limitless purgatory; for one fleeting moment I’m back in my own body, choking on my own blood and wishing that any single one of them can help me, save me. Life; it came as a whisper, as if my own mother was coming to me again, in a dream, I can feel other spirits from this vastly deep domain of surplus regret and torment in flames disappear. All I can hear now are the screams of undeniable death; those that stay do not get to live as they were, they are sucked in to oblivion. Disaster lay wherever my eyes found themselves, this world is falling apart; the ground below my feet trembles with the ferocious need to buckle. Desperation is the raw material of change, and I find that I am all too desperate for drastic change, all too desperate to leave this place and I must. The longer I wait, the more it falls around me, and I shall be stuck here forever. I must not think nor calculate what consequence may come of it, if I close my eyes then it has happened; surely that is how it works. Slowly, as if my feet do not move at all, I have passed through the barrier between the worlds, when the old magic that constructed this void crumbles around me, I turn haste with bated breath, it is the exact same except it is not, I do not stand where I passed over, instead I stand alone, coated by darkness in a place I do not recognise, filled with objects I do not know; my ears throb with the unrelenting pandemonium, noises I simply do not know and cannot conclude. In the unfamiliarity of life once again, I have found a small sense of security, but unfamiliarity remains. I may be living, but this world is not a world that I know, neither is it mine.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

War is Famine and Only the Strong Survive

Blood spilled like a map, across my chest, the world around us is colder but nobody seems to notice. I move forward, I can feel it, but not of my own accord; my body operates on autopilot. I am desperate and unforgiving in tainted love. I should be arguing vehemently, I should be forward in my attempts to remain upright and fight. This what I have signed up for, for man, for country. My words are choked by a waterfall of tears, I have not finished here. I do not like the idea of leaving unfinished, answers are definite but never quite complete; unable to turn the page on so many of my fallen brothers. They have seen the end of this war, perhaps they thought they were running at other young men but they were not. They were running at death. There are many causes of death but none are worth killing for. No matter how hard I try, I cannot detach myself from this, I have been fooled to think I could ever part from a cause such as this, yet, my heart dwells where my cowardly complex falls. I relax in to the dirtied ground, it's alright. It is one thing to fight but it is also another to know when it's time to give up on true purpose. Be it necessary, because I know it is time to rest. This is infantry and I am home - War. Blood pools and stains, I drown in a warmth now so unfamiliar in my cold world. It doesn't matter, none of it did. The stars are out blinding the darkness, and that is where I am going. I have learnt things, things from a bleeding heart, I have learnt that life is bargaining and I must plead with deceitful time. Stretching hours as they soar in to the dawn. But I no longer hear the melody of life from a timeless chime, it is soundless. I reach out, my fingers immediately searching for familiarity; a sign; a lifeline. But... Nothing. Only the squelch of sodden mud running thick with the crimson ichor of man, including my own. Mud, blood they all run the same in the end. A beginning of life and an ending. Mixing with nature once again. I am gone, and so is she. My body is warm, of course it is, Rudy, that means nothing. Silent and aching with dismay I am aware that this is only but the ghost of who I am. Now there is a different scent of familiarity. I have counted and numbered the she loves me's, but never did I count her intoxicating breaths, never did I preserve her nor imprint her to memory like I should. Because for me, spring has chilled and everything glistens in a sheet of ice. Except for you, never you Liesel. Where petals may wilt, and die in my wake, they settle like smoke; a dusting of colour to my lifeless body. It hurts, oh god does it hurt but it shall pass. At some point, it shall desert me. Though it will not leave a whole man, no, never again. For I am empty, I have no soul to carry with me, it has deserted me among the ruins of many men. I do not fear what comes for me next, it is only but an inconvenience to the war effort. What I fear is that when I die or should I say if I die? I shall take Liesel's heart with me and she will spend her eternity with a hole in her heart. A whole that cannot be filled as I once did.

We're all alone, always. It is the way I came in to this world and it shall be the way I leave. It is entirely selfish of me to pray that another should save me. Survival is key, so why should another risk his life to save the life of a man left to the kindness of fate? He should not. Simply. It would not be frowned upon if he were to think of himself, as I do now. I would not lie blame on any that wishes to survive yet another day in this patriotic hell. Certainly not. There are places you should not trespass, land unoccupied due to fear and uncertainty, we call it No Man's land. Heavily defended by artillery and rifle men from both sides. We set foot where devastation is rife, where the ground is riddled with wounded men and those who will never make it home from foreign land. We do not often experience a silence so deafening, you would think otherwise with the continuous bombardment from machine guns and bombs raining down upon us like April showers, but this silence is different, it isn't silence from the rudimentary conflict; it is the silence of my mind. It numbs my sorrows. This is where all hearts shattered from bent glass, turn all stone to glass. Everything is perishable, a sadness equates to nothing as it is only the fortunate that get to look into the light. That's just the darkness of life. Here one morning and gone the next, it is the realisation of our fragility that expresses our mortality. You will be here tomorrow. You know, I've never given much thought to what I may leave behind, my kindnesses will mean nothing; my efforts to please a girl, my girl, while I waded hip deep in icy water to chase a book floating down stream. I laugh, or maybe it is more of groan, it hurts. I cannot breathe but I make it a point anyway, I must. I was never supposed to die as a soldier, a broken man, unrecognisable by the atrocities I have faced and equally witnessed.

"Hang on in there, Solider. You're going to be okay." I was carried softly through the broken cries, the whispers of torment, I know they tried, that much is obvious. Though, it is hard to offer comfort in what seems like a limitless eternity of misery. Maybe that's why they stare dry eyed because what is the point in offering comfort when you cannot offer it yourself? My world is grey, never black. It can never be black, black is punishing and I do not wish for it. I do believe that I do not deserve repercussions from my sins. I am but a pawn in this big game of War. I'm still only but the boy who painted himself in charcoal to save the heart of my town. It is said on very few occasions, those who have escaped death often come to not talk about it because there is nothing worse than dying, there is no other hurt quite as measurable. I must confess dying in any other form apart from physical is the worst of all. You are still you. I still look like me, perhaps a little broken and scarred but I am me. Except I'm not. I died that day on the battlefield and I'm unsure if I'll ever truly live again. My heart beats in my chest, a soft and gentle thud, I'm living; not dead. However, my mind is full of base nightmarish conception, I sometimes wish that death may have been better suited. That's my only detriment, I wish I were dead and not living.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

You Get What You Pay For

Thou shall steal life because that is thine only purpose. My purpose, my only living purpose. I am a killer, quite simply - a life stealer. Carved from ice and stone. Life means little to me, it is inconsequential. To be inflicted is to inflict. Touch meant to kill, simple. The automatic need to kill from being touched was so ingrained it will never leave. I will never be free. There is something fundamentally wrong, it is freeing to obey a simplistic code. I have no freedom, no right to life, to a future. I eat when I am told to eat; sleep when I am told to sleep and kill when I am told to kill. I’m a machine. Years upon years of maiming from my handlers has ruined me for life. Since escaping, I have been able to break commands, but touching; touching has a special hold on me. It grips me, it is my first instinct. “You will obey, Operative Fox. Stab her.” It came out of nowhere, my cheek stung from the wallop of a cane. Flexing my fingers around the knife in my hand as I faced a girl, no more than 10, with green dungarees. I remember her vividly, I remember them all. Her eyes were hooded, fear had succumbed her to no more than a fading entity standing before me. They struck me again, this time it was instant. Blood was drawn and I stabbed her with all my strength, again and again and again until her bloodied corpse was a mess at my feet. Sweat ran thick across my forehead mixing with the blood of an innocent. Pain equalled pain. If I was to live I had to make a choice. My choice was her. Snow flurried around us from the hostile Russian winter, dusting her with a blanket of white. Erasing her altogether, writing out any consequence I was permitted to feel. I should never have run, I should have done what I was ordered. I should have believed them. “There is no going back, Operative Fox.” There are no guidelines, manuals, rules for me to follow, to live by or to break what they have relentlessly drilled in to me for twenty-two years. They didn’t create men nor soldiers, they created machines. Everything we once were ceased to exist. I’m no more than what I was created to be. I should have listened, I’m an idiot. One last order, like numerous before. Except this time, it wasn’t to kill another it was to kill me. A single pill of cyanide. Instantaneous death. There are certain things in life that make no sense and some that do, most of my life makes no sense, the ruthless conditioning, the coldness that imprisoned my life was proof of that. I don’t keep company, I’m unable to. I never asked for this life, I never asked to become a ghost. I learned from a young age that freedom is a mockery and choice a wicked fantasy. That’s irrelevant now, the past is the past. My actions, my punishment. I hoped it was fading, I hoped they were fading. That I could finally live without them, where I wouldn’t strangle someone to death if they touched me or slam their head against the ground. That’s when the cold sweats start, the fear of punishment from misbehaving, I wanted to scream they’re not here, nothing horrific will happen to me tonight. Not at their hand. Trembling, I closed my eyes; it was too strong, too demanding it hit me like a tonne truck. Kill, kill, kill.

Wrenching open the door to my haven, buried in the foundations of my house, I have an unyielding need to cause pain. It is my only option to rid them. Breathing in deeply my eyes were met with unfinished mouldings, I tried to wipe them from my memory. This is where I come to escape, shaping hard metals into sculptures relaxes me. “Do it, Operative Fox. Let us help you.” The voice inside me, inside my head promised pleasant relief. Splaying my hand on the work bench before me, I picked up the hammer slamming it onto my knuckles, my body shook with the comfort of familiarity – pain.  I stared at my hand, intertwining scars and misshapen bones; ancient wounds that tell stories. You’ll never be able to have contact, Fox. Dropping the hammer with a thud, I turned my palm over to glare at three distinct lines. III – Roman numerals. Filling me with a deep sense of hatred and a need to obey. Both my palms hold this sigil, only recognisable by fellow operatives. That is our only similarity. We are each given the opportunity to choose our code names. Machines don’t have emotions, we just are. That is why we must choose an animal of our liking, I chose a Fox, subtle but wild. Hidden in plain sight. Rolling out the tension in my shoulders, I reminded myself why I was down here, the real reason. I had needed to run from her, Hazel Hunter, the woman I had just bought for £100,000. What the hell was I doing? I couldn’t be trusted around her, I could barely restrain myself from squeezing the life out of her. Stupid. You’ll end up snapping her neck. Right now, I wish I had died in that dreaded pit I spent my life in. Who was she to demand I give her half? Shit, I’d rather pay her the whole sum to get her away from me. But I couldn’t. I stupidly had her sign a contract, that she – Hazel Hunter would be paid £50,000 upfront and another £50,000 at the end of one month. If she leaves without my permission during that one month, the contract is void. If either one of us breaks our signed terms, it would never stand in Court. This was my security. I know she needs the money, what for, I don’t care. That isn’t my problem, what is however my problem is, that she explicitly sticks to our agreed terms, Implicitly. I didn’t promise that I wouldn’t cause her any hurt or pain, because I will. It made my soul grow heavier with the knowledge of the inevitable.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Adorare

What is family? Is family the defined fundamental social group consisting of one or two parents and their children, or is it so much more? Are "families" cultural, social or even remotely economic? One may have more than one family in their lifetime, even at the same time they may have several "families" but no matter the many of social, ethnic or economical group your stance is with; blood remains blood. And that is family. You may wish otherwise. I had lost track of the many times I wished to be a part of another family, though no matter how hard I fought, how far I ran, I would and will always be a Hawk. But never so detestable as my eldest brother Jethro, he withered as Hawk born, but not in the ways I had hoped he would. Quickly so he became the very mirror image of our Father – Brain Hawk. Callous, cold and severely unforgiving. Alas, the lifestyle born in to can truly ruin a man. Do not displace my disappointment, nor emotions on this. I loved my brother. Perhaps a lot more than I once had thought. It was my mission, my sole existence on this earth to make sure Jethro was content in this family, in our family. Put on this earth as his guardian angel to make sure that no matter the circumstance, the outcome would always be the same. He would survive. Survive our father, survive himself. Save him from himself. You see, Jet... Jet lives with a condition, he was an empathetic. A very empathetic person. To you and me? It may seem normal; doesn't everyone feel empathy at one point in their life? But Jethro, he felt it a lot more than others. It crippled him, and it carved him daily, it broke him. Constantly. Surrounding himself in impenetrable ice was his way of coping, his way to survive father’s onslaught. I keep coming back to that word; survive. Like it's somewhat significant. Which in some respect it is, it's noteworthy. It is consequential to the effect we have on this earth as humans. The effect we have on others. And my effect, I liked to believe was, ensuring Jethro was protected in the ways that I could manage. Always. Until my last breath, until then, I will forever fight with him. Not once have I ever begrudged him, hated him for who and what he is, not once. Not until this very moment, I wished with all my heart that our roles were reversed. As I lay here, with my body cooling and skin turning ghostly white, I wished it was he. I fucking hated him for this. For her – Nila. For all the coatings of shit plastered on him by Cut. Hated him for being a pussy, hated him for not taking a stance earlier. I could still be breathing, laughing, I could be living. Not lying here, kept alive by machine after machine. Fuck! I know it is wrong, and I hate myself for even thinking this - but please, hear my reason. Without me, Jethro will disintegrate. He will fall, and he will crumble, his world will become disastrously unbalanced and without peace, he too will wish it was him instead of me. If our roles were reversed and it was me clutching at the very straws of my sanity, while his life hung in the balance. At least I would know, I would know within that when that blindfold finally slips in to place and you welcome the warm, murky darkness - peace will be his.

Did I regret the responsibility taken on myself? No. Do I regret?... My life was easy in comparison, I didn't walk a routine of acrobatics daily, yet, right now? I hated who he was. His condition. That fucking condition. Without disregarding the fact that I knew him, his trials, his improvements, his strengths and abilities, in actual fact, when it comes down to it. I don't hate him at all, I love him a fuck ton. It made me long he wasn't so damn damaged. That in another life he was able to get off scot-free.

It all started the night of the Third Debt, as part of the rituals Jethro had to surrender his stature as tormentor, owner of Nila Weaver and gift her to the remaining men of the family. Three men, three separate fucks. Three different places. Pussy, anus and mouth. As the clock chimed one a.m. the dreaded hour drew closer. I hadn't wanted to do this. I didn't want to have to rape her, it wasn't right. But I had no choice. Neither of us did. Cut had brought along his favoured gun, his 18th Century Ruger, later named the 'Blackhawk', silently threatening death if we disobeyed. The setting down of poker chips bellowed that the time had come, where night became a true nightmare and sin hid in every crevice. I couldn't bear to look at Nila, I knew what was to happen. What had to happen, I wouldn't lie to her. Wouldn't allow my eyes to reassure her that everything was going to be fine when it was so far from. Her night would knock mine out of the ballpark. Terror, fear, oh endless fear was to come for her. Her body relentlessly invaded and explored by three men who she had to force herself to consent to, taking their sweet sweet time with a body which they would never own. I would never feel how Nila did that night, how Jethro felt. How he was made to permit such animalistic acts to happen to the woman he loved. His skin was whiter than mine is now. Ridden by death and the early set in of rigor mortis. It wasn't easy for him. For her. For me. None of it was, but I can't help thinking that it is I who came off as the worst contender in this twisted game of life.

Was it supposed to go so terribly wrong? The idea and notion of fate coming in to play. What man deserves to live when he thought nothing more of taking what was rightfully his? It was wrong, I abhorred myself for even liking it, for liking Nila. For wanting to screw the debts, betray Jethro's trust and just fuck Nila like I'd wanted to. The plan, the scheme was supposed to play out without a hitch, without so much as a scuffle. It was his plan, meticulously thorough and thought out. When Jethro had first come to me about his plan, I knew that we should just leave it alone, grant it to happen; full disclosure, never to talk about it again. I had bared all, every deepest secret, even that I, myself was in love with his woman. Against my better judgement I agreed, I’d be the fool in his plan while he followed with this heart. There would and was to be no other alternative. Against every other instinct, every other better judgement we both came to the same conclusion, this was it. The only way, unfortunately. My world spun, my mind went blank and my body numb. I couldn’t fucking do it, but I had to. Slipping the blindfold over Nila’s eyes, her world too went black. Mine however, turned poisonous, venomous; twangs of wrongful melodies serenading the sick sense and broken notes – voices unheard.  My fingers were soft but firm, inserting plea for Jethro to return and tear his woman from my hold and in to his, but all that was delivered was a stinging silence. “It’s time for the Third Debt. Take her, Kes.” Gathering her in to my arms bridal style, my silence only prolonged her agony. I wouldn’t just be taking her body, but her soul too. I carried her for a short distance, closing the door with the back of my heel and sealing us off from the rest of the world. The sins, the actions that I was about to commit were sure to leave a profound hurt on my very being for the rest of my life, perhaps now, being in this lifeless state is the deliverance of kismet destiny. I didn’t speak, I barely even permitted, myself to breathe and nor did I attempt to remove her blindfold, I stalked closer the heat from my body dragging a wrangled sob from Nila; with fumbling hands my fingers untied the eyelets of the ridiculous gown she had been made to wear. “Please Nila, don’t, /please/. It is because I am a better man that I do this, please do not hate me. I’m sorry.” Better man? What kind of a man am I at all? Nothing but a coward. Biting back my own emotions that howled and hollowed my insides, I knelt to pull the coarse material from her hips, leaving her naked. Seeing her naked yanked desires from me that I never even knew about, dammit; she was marvellous, her perfectly round breasts; oh, that neatly trimmed cunt. How I wanted to float away, drown myself in the darkness and anonymity of catatonic. Backing her to the bed, my lips grazed her jaw, pinpricking and itching my skin. “Do as I say, and you’ll get through this. Don’t beg me Nila, please...” What else could I say except please? I was asking her to allow me to rape her, to give her body to a man, not a lover, a friend. A friend no more. She would never look at me, again. Shit! This was wrong, but god was my dick hard, harder than it had ever been since that night in the club with numerous night club bunnies bouncing on my dick like a carousel, I wanted to taste her like she was mine, but my love for Jethro commandeered all, I wouldn’t be the conductor to his ultimate destruction. How easy it would be to just split her arse cheeks and slip inside; her pussy was strictly off limits, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a taste somewhere else, right? Like I was expected to. However, as usual I was too honourable, I couldn’t, too well maintained in fidelity. Flipping her on to her stomach, I pulled the duvet around our bodies, shielding all but our backs from the cameras. Ducking my head to whisper in her ear, my hand brushed hair from her face, my tone dominating but gentle. “I’m going to pretend to thrust in to you. Scream, Nila. Make it believable.” Grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back, I groaned in to her. “I said do it! Or do you want to be fucked in every hole you own?” Rocking my hips harder against her, my balls ached for a release.  She was too pure, perfect for Jethro. This was for him and I only hoped she would realise what I was doing before it was too late and she blew the lid on our plan.

Was there anything this woman couldn’t do? She writhed and bawled beneath my touch like I was taking her with nothing barred, tears streamed down her face adding to our theatrics. She played along like a fellow actress reading her script word perfect. My hand clutched her hip, guiding her back against me with a harsh tug. I had to come. Collapsing against her back with a loud grown as my cock exploded reams of cum, straight through her thighs and on to bed linen beneath us. “You’re safe now...” I had done the saintly thing and protected his woman like promised, it was time to return her to the rightful owner. Scooping her up one last time and gathering my clothes from the floor, I marched to Jethro’s quarters and placed her in his bed, safe. Out of harms reach. “Forgive me Nila.”

In the 24 hours since, I hadn’t let myself within 4 feet of Nila, it was too raw. All of it. Betrayal, trust, a friendship destroyed. I hadn’t slept that night, I felt dreadful, she must have been so terrified. How could I have done that? When she first arrived at Hawksridge, I’d sworn to protect and in a matter of minutes I had turned in to one of the monsters she needed protection from. Ripping me from my thoughts, Daniel landed a fist to my face, my skin smarted and my jaw ached with a thousand unsaid words. Bastard. He’d always been in the back pocket of our Father, brainless fool. His fists rained down without fault, I never had a chance. Letting out an agonising cry, my body crumpled. “You think that bullshit video persuades us we each had our go with the Weaver whore?” He cackled, bounding my hands behind my back in an impenetrable vice. She didn’t pay The Debt that night, but I was sure she would now. Throwing me through the big double doors, I fell in a heap of limbs, a mismatch of ghostly white and streaming crimson – blood. I’m sorry Nila, we tried. At this point, we couldn’t do anything more. It was past reasoning, Cut was practically foaming at the mouth as his puce rage suffocated the air. I trembled, pushing myself to my feet in a bid to appear courageous in the madness that refused to cease. I was atrophied, truly unable to move, fear held me prisoner better than physical restraints could. I was going to die, the nuzzle of the gun pointed to the centre of my chest; a bullseye. Puffing out my chest and meeting my brother’s gaze with a silent apology, I welcomed death like a valiant soldier. The minute the reverberations from ignited gunpowder ricocheted around the room; the bullet leapt from the gun and straight in to my chest. Ripping, tearing and lacerating flesh and muscle surrounding my heart. Paroxysms of red appeared on my chest, staining my shirt leaving a map of my compassion and amity leading up to this moment, before I crashed to the floor, face white with disbelief.

Death is nothing at all, I have only moved in to the other room, I have not strayed, and I have not wandered far from a place that is my home. Your memories. My remembrance in your heart. Live as you would if I were there, do not wear your sorrow and formality as if my life was taken at an unfair cost, that is life, I will always remain as yours; do not speak in tones like life has also escaped you. I may be lifeless and as time ticks on my body cools further, just know I can hear you, feel you, I cannot touch you, but I know you are there. Grief threatened to wash me under, death was worse than I had first imagined, it was not a gentle transition between reality and the greying of life as your own dwindled before your eyes. Had I known it to be this painful, I would never have agreed in the first place because I wasn’t living but I wasn’t quite dead, or was I? Prolonged agony and eternal damnation didn’t offer the grace of time. It was a cold nothingness, but still I clung, dangling on the very brink. I didn’t know what hurt me more, the fact that the cries of anguish were for the brother I’d spent my life saving, or the rapid spread of fever and burning hole where the bullet was lodged; I was fading and fast. Every breath took more energy than I had, but every breath brought me closer to living once again, perhaps I would finally live the life I deserved. “K-Kes.. Speak to me.” Jethro? He couldn’t, no! What had I done? In this very moment, I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to let go. Please let it end, no more. I’d ran out of time, I don’t want to live in this deplorable existence. My dying lungs did their best to serve me with the oxygen I needed, but through dazed heaviness and lungs filling with blood, it was impossible. I was drowning in my own blood and there was nothing I could do.   Day after day I hoped I would wake, had it been hours or weeks? I lived, I breathed but not of my own accord. An incessant beep of a heart monitor and the small whoosh of air that filled my lungs kept me alive, it was an entirely new pain and suffering. Desperation clawed at me, my body was no longer mine – left to machinery. Although, life was inevitably left to me. Somehow, I had to grasp control over my body, I had to wake up. Me. The machines could only do so much. All was down to me but all I felt was bone-dead nothingness, no way of finding myself back in the land of the living. Cut had stolen more than my life that night, he had stolen /me/. I didn’t have hope and I didn’t have the courage to breathe again, I was as light as air, lost to a weeping heart, though not mine; no, a woman, a nurse I’m sure, she found herself at my bedside every night, her touch warm, soothing and becoming. She wanted nothing more than for me to pull through, each night she would pray for me, but she didn’t use my name, she didn’t know it, I wasn’t the man she was praying for, just the man she thought she knew. Hopelessness throbbed deep inside me, sleep infinitesimally keeping me caged, spidery laces of conscious chased away the welcoming warmth of slumber.  I had never stopped fighting it, there were others that needed me. My heart twisted upon the small impact of realisation that I, had regained some control over my body, mind and soul. However, insignificant a twitching of fingers was, it was my saviour. I have tasted death. Death takes like sadness, regret and despair. It leaves you empty and without place. Let it be spoken without fear and a shadow of my ghost upon it, life means what it always has; a continuation of your story. Death is as much a negligible accident as life. I was never gone, just waiting at an interval.  

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Colours

Death comes in colours; red, white and black. White being the sudden redemption you yearn for before all goes black; black being the eternal damnation and agony you feel for not making peace with the world while you were still in it and red; red is the anger. The anger at having to leave the world before you expected; before you were able to say the goodbyes, the farewells and promises that you would watch over your grieving family, never to leave them. Clinging on to a faith, a figment of hope that there is something after death and it’s not just that black eternal darkness everyone runs from, but can never escape. And if you’re lucky, you experience all; red, white and black, a murky brown. Not quite sure what anchors and unsettles you the greatest. It is a fact. You are going to die. However, uncheerful this may be, people find themselves hindered by the fear, the protestations when Death finally comes. When Death leans over you, you must be kind. It is fair. It gives you no favours so please do not ask for kindness, for forgiveness because it can offer you neither of those. You must find it within yourself to offer those to it. Then, once you do it blankets you with a dusting of white, silent wishes that you will find peace before it takes you. I feared for none, I prayed for none and I wished death to take me. Whispering it appealed to me, I had seen the colours. The changing of the day into night; it was not violent, it was not blustering, it was an ending; the final result. It arrived too early; I wasn’t quite ready to slip away yet. I would not be rushed nor pressured. In a single hour, I had passed a multitude of stages; denial, anguish and forgiveness. The thing I said I did not need. But I made it a point anyway. Death would suit me. Death came for me arms crossed, and tears frozen. Solemn in its standing it was the darkness before the dawn. Only twenty-nine years old and already my time was up. It was a beautiful thing in a way Death would finally become the saviour needed. Crashing into the fading sense of belonging in this world, I was struck with the same wooden club just previous, specifically designed for breaking bones. Gashes were made and bones were turned to fragments of a jigsaw puzzle, drawing a curdling scream from the confines of my chest. “Focus on me Jet! What are my thoughts? Tell me!” I didn’t know, I had no fucking clue. An arm hung out of its sockets and my ankle, I had no doubt was so unrecognisable I definitely wouldn’t be walking out of here, or at all. No more soaring for this metallic Kite. Passing of minutes echoed in my ears, there was no clock but I was sure I could hear a ticking. As each second passed my agony only heightened, coughing up the blood soaking my lungs, I croaked. I can’t, the pain. I- it’s too much; I had nothing left to give. I wanted to give up, to stop fighting and to allow Death to take my hand. My body was contorted in all ways imaginable, my muscles flexed and tore beneath my skin, my tendons rippled and snapped. I wanted to die. Thirty-six; thirty-four; thirty-two; Come on Jethro, die faster. This wasn’t the first time I’d been strapped to The Rack, its buckles already had my dried blood on and now my blood was repainting the ancient relics. I promised myself after that time, when I was sixteen I’d never visit here again. What happened that day because of me would never be permitted to happen again. Nobody else would be hurt because of me. I lay vertically drifting in and out of consciousness but for those times I saw clarity, he sat watching me. His white hair a beacon of the redemption I didn’t want, his musky leather jacket worn with years of hard excursions, it fucking reeked of memories and long long nights. “Oh stop your bitching Jethro. Focus on me for fucks sake.” I squirmed, wishing he’d just leave me alone to die. But that would be too much to ask. The lever cranked tightening leather bounds around my wrists and ankles, pain shot through every vein in my body stretching. Why couldn’t I pass out? Free myself from the suffering. The only way to stop this was to do what he said, but I couldn’t. I was riddled with misery; I couldn’t bring myself to think of anything but I had to try. Stab in the dark Jet. Like many times before. “Y-ou, you, think I’m an embarrassment, I- I’m a disappointment-” Anger drenched his voice, vibrating the walls and flooring until yet more of my joints popped and crack. “You. Are. My. Fucking. Son. You do not embarrass me, except you have, burying your fucking cock so deep in that Weaver whore. When will you learn, Jethro? They are disposable, we are not. But don’t mistake my blatant leniency for kindness. I will not hesitate to kill you. You think it’s only you to fall for a Weaver, only you to fuck one, must I say without protection; so willingly. Fuck. You’ve always been a pussy. You disgust me.” Nila…Nila. Nila was the life I needed, so vibrant, so full of love; she was the oxygen I needed to breathe, needed to survive, without her I would be nothing again. Sighing, I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the stars through the broken panel in the roof; the tips of my salt and pepper hair glistening in the moonlight shining through. Sweat that drenched my brow from the unthinkable affliction my body was relentlessly trialled through, glistening in the light from the moon, a twinkle of hope. It hadn’t left me yet. With Nila in my heart, I was safe; she wrapped me in a cocoon of security. Her forgiveness alone would mean I would die a peaceful man. The debts, the inheritance, my father, they didn’t matter.

I didn’t talk, nor move. I remained still, unmoving. I was weak. I was tired, so tired I wanted to sleep. If I slept, Death would come. It would place its hands either side of my sagging shoulders and lift me above the world where all I endured was splitting distress. No running, no fighting, it was all at my mercy. Patting my cheek, his gaze held mine. His emotions swirled in to mine and for the first time since he’d started this, I felt what he felt. He wasn’t terrified of the prospect of ending me, he was satisfied. At last he’d be free from the failure he had to raise. However, he didn’t enjoy it. He didn’t enjoy hurting his firstborn, he didn’t enjoy subjecting me to relenting hours of torture but he had to. Motherfucker. I hated him. I would make him pay. A sudden burst of life surged through my veins; I would feed off the hate, drink the vengeance and bask in the odium of reprisal. I shifted in the buckles, writhing as my mismatched bones jerked at the very movement giving way to another cry that whistled through the air; god how I wanted this over. I wanted Nila. I wanted to bury my head in her lap and forget about this, I wanted her touch to soothe every aching bone, every singing muscle and tendon. I didn’t care that my body was mangled and distorted in ways it should never be, I just wanted her. The side of the club delivered another remorseless blow to my gut, wrenching my body forward to bow against the restraints. “You know I love you Jethro. Just do as I ask and all this will be over.” Love? He wouldn’t know love if it hit him in the fucking face, he was a bastard, completely soulless. Choking on a laugh as blood filled my mouth, I spat. No. He doesn’t get to fucking ‘love me’. He doesn’t get to care. To rapture in adoration for his Son. My emotional rage penetrated, piercing the atmosphere striking Cut with an air of surprise. “Fuck you! You’re a bastard. I know you’d be satisfied if I fucking died, you wouldn’t have to raise your failure anymore. Fuck you.” I was right; he didn’t get to feel what he did. He didn’t deserve to. After all the wrong he’d done, that somehow he thought it justified enough to 'love’ his children. Cut stood, opening his mouth but no sound came out. Instead he smiled. A tsunami of wonderful glory eclipsed all I felt, he was proud. I had done what he wanted, what he asked and he couldn’t deny his overwhelming adoration at again “fixing” his son. That was his plan, it was never about me fucking Nila nor was it about the possibility that I would allow myself to fall in love with my toy, it was all about him creating the perfect monster, creating an heir that shrouded an air of mystery wherever he went. Yes, I would freeze and scorch the love I once felt, and once it becomes hard to distinguish the warm-skinned sensation - fire from the frost, my life shall have no future, just a past sealed away. There will become a vastness where only night will prevail and any light that rears its head will be snuffed out, because monsters do not get happy endings, they do not deserve the love of a woman, or in fact love in any form, for you see; monsters can never be a thing of beauty, no. Invisibility suits us best. It’s the first day in November, and today someone will die. As the sharp harsh wind howled against the barn doors, it gave reprieve to the sweltering fever ripping through my body. Gaining a slither of lucidity through the fog in my mind, everyone leaves something, someone it is a must when we die. I have thought of nothing more than the things I have not said, the things I now regret keeping to myself. It isn’t that I want to quit life, but indeed a need, and in doing so I will pretend that quitting laughter, loving, smiles and the soft beauty of falling ebony locks does not rip my heart from my chest and deposit it at my feet. Carve my name not on a tombstone but upon your heart, a legacy never lives etched on cold stone but in the minds of others. But what is a death if a man has no one to mourn him? It is the loneliest thing one can ever do, it doesn’t matter what has been done; good or bad. We all die the same. Utterly lost and alone, staring in to the black abyss and the black abyss stares back at you. Hope is above and never deep, it is what will visit you in the dreams when you sleep, so listen to me when I say, my love will be the compass through. Fear is old, poisonous, treacherous and it rises above all wrongs, but let one violation right all sins. Let my death be the righteous feat. Kes… Sometime at the eve of twelve, I promised it all to you; The Debts, the Inheritance, Hawksridge. Do not detest this like I have, do not wear it upon your shoulders like a burden. Grow with it, rise and mature. Become the man I can never, grieve in silent sorrow but never lose sight of the ending. Finish what I started, Kestrel. And if you feel you cannot because loyalty keeps you bound, do it for her. Let him kill me but not her, set her free. It is all I ask, for I know you’re far too honourable and maintained in fidelity. Honour me one last time. This is not goodbye, never a goodbye because saying so makes it forgettable. I am just fading, the corners of my consciousness blur further. A desperate murky line between living and once existing, if only I could reach out an arm, I would be touching it; it would engulf me and drown me like lapping sea waves. It is nothing like I imagined, had I been so foolish to think death would come for me peacefully? I am stuck, bound and weightless in a blackening void that only caterwauls my own misgiving penitence but alas, it is too late now to deny the kindness of offering. It was time, I had to step from hanging on the brink to accepting and embracing the perpetual slumber of lifeless torture. Stomping back in to view Cut roared; I couldn’t deny even though I hated him, I was glad he felt some kind of remorse. His gaze was frantic and his heartbeat sprinted across the dusty barn floor, a stark comparison to my own. Each rattling of a breath my heart slowed; each rise and fall of my chest my heart fought to pump the blood around my system. Good. Fucking good. Feel guilty you bastard. Summoned by some deep-rooted family bond, his fist slammed in to my chest, kick-starting a rhythm of normalcy to my heart. How long did it take for someone to die like this, minutes, hours, days? I did not care; I was in ecstasy and equally agony; possessed so by a coldness that I am in exile from myself and memories of her flood like tears like the ice through my veins.

[mephistophelianmusingsxo]

Simple Transactions

A payment is a payment. No matter the expense or order it is taken. Whether with material riches or the very vitality stolen from your victim. When remittance is required, remittance is acquired. So, you can imagine my elation upon finding out I was indebted to follow my family’s succession, upon finding out accordingly that I was to be gifted the first-born Weaver girl. Nila Weaver.

Procuring the girl was much too easy, I had stolen her right in front of her Father, her brother and all without the need for bloodshed and violence. There was no need for uncivilised threats, brawn or arguments. My power was absolute. Neither Weaver man could do a single thing to stop me from taking what was /mine/, what was /owed/ to me. She was now /mine/. Limitless power only graced the fair few, such as myself, it gave me the ability to appear noble, polite and downright courteous to those around me. It was pathetic at how easily this so called enemy Archibald Weaver handed over his only daughter to the man who would strip her bare not only physically but emotionally too. I would tear down every wall there was, she would become a shadow of herself, she would become my puppet. Eager to please. What could a man do with his balls held on a very short fucking string? He had no power. Oh, how he had wanted to kill me, how he wanted to rip my beating heart right from my chest, but he would fail. Just like he had failed to protect and conceal the apple of his eye - Nila. Nila Weaver. It had taken me a total of nothing for her to go from his to mine. It was pathetic. At first glance he had thought I was a man, a simple man there to appreciate the fine art the Weaver girl had created with a needle and thread, that all changed when I handed him the black card. “The time is nigh to pay your debts. Your past has found you.” How it fascinated and overjoyed me to watch his eyes go from gleeful to sheer terror shaking him to his very core. Watching him with a hardened gaze, I noticed a flash of rebellion strike across his gaze and his hand to slip into hers. Stupid, stupid man. He knew the consequences if he refused to hand her over. He knew we would not rest until she was ours. It was fate. Their fate. Leaning as if to whisper a kind word in his ear, my voice gruff and low I said “Do not make me slaughter what family you have left, Archibald. Hand her over.” Without hesitation or any such rebellion on his part, he handed his daughter over. He had no choice. I had offered him an ultimatum and he chose to the right decision. Her life was now in my hands, everything she did and would do would be dictated by me. Anything I wished, I would get. Never had I imagined this transaction to be so effortless and without flaw, I had envisioned her to make a fuss, to defy against me, to refuse to take my hand but instead she obeyed. She placed her hand in mine and glided next to me in a shroud of darkness. Observing her attire, I shook my head in disapproval, that would have to go. She was not to travel in such a conspicuous dress. That would bring unnecessary attention and that I certainly did not need. Not to mention the impossible task of getting her on my Harley Davidson, it’s black exterior a near match to the shade of black her dress was in. Letting go of her hand, I drifted behind her to take stock of the way her body curved, the way her hair fell to compliment her dress, of course with such an inordinate outfit, it was hard to fully appreciate the way her body was. Crossing the diminutive but beautiful street, with the crisp Milan air filling my lungs it was hard for me to conceal the jocular expression that claimed dark rugged features. Coming to a stop opposite my new purchase, casting it’s black menacing shadow against the pavement, my attention again returned to her. “Get on.” -“Excuse me?” Was she deaf or just plain stupid? “Get on the bike.” It was hard, so fucking hard to keep the natural balance between gentleman and beast. The rules my father had drilled into me repeated, hammering me, I had to control the anger, I needed to ignore it into submission. I should have known, it was far too fucking easy to have been true. “Ms. Weaver, get on. I will not ask again.” Kidnapping was the very last resort to obtain the debt owed, but so help me if she refused this time, I would have to take her by force. Thankfully, she did as she was told, but not without question. Bunching up her skirts to try and sit atop the luxurious seat, she inched closer. This would not do. Not only did the skirts hang over to drape across the tyre, they accumulated behind my back preventing me from pushing her inescapably close. Stroking the throttle of my bike, I tried to ignore the cluster sat at my back, it became unbearable. Anger at the inconvenience of this unfortunate attire clawed at the base of my throat, no longer could I take it.

Ripping the rich fabric from her slim figure as if it was nothing but a sheet of paper, gave release to the anger building within me. Feathers, beads, and organza’s fell the floor like a silken ribbon, turning her to pivot before me to scrutinize the fairness of exposure, I caught glimpses of tears rolling down her cheeks, and pleads alike to leave her dress as it may. Taking her chin within my grip, my eyes bored into hers. “Do you think this is a fucking game, Ms Weaver? It is not. I suggest you hush up, and stop complaining. It is your life for theirs.” What made it all the sadder was, she believed I was taking her for want of her. As if I, a man such as myself would be interested in a woman like her. Fair, meek and tedious. Never photographed with another man except her father or brother. It would come as no surprise to me, if under all this shelter, she was still a Virgin. The woman was still a babied child. Perhaps, this would make this transaction even more troublesome.

Milan airport, ah, a step closer to her fully becoming mine. A step closer until she learns her fucking place. The sooner she learnt this, the better. This isn’t just hard on her, no, I had only learnt of this a month ago, and expected to obtain the debt with little complications. I was heeding my instructions, so why couldn’t she? Twisting her writhing form adjacent to mine, the same trace of annoyance coming again. “As a civil act of kindness, I shan’t punish you yet, but if you continue to fight me on this, I will make you wish you had obeyed every order given. Got it?” Nodding, she again seemed to embrace her timidness, her weak-kneed will. Good; she ought to. How I wanted to punish her, how I wanted to teach her not to anger me. She would learn. Within due time. If not? A mirage of pain would come her way. And that? Would be entirely stupid on her part. Stupid girl. She was a toy, nothing more, nothing less. As if she thought a single tear or two could deter me from getting what I want. Had I need to remind her that her life was in my hands? Entirely.

Travelling was never a challenging task, nor a complicated matter. That was until I had been tasked with this, this excuse for a woman. A woman who could barely stand on her own two feet at the best of times, a woman whose olive toned skin would suddenly drain of all colour known to leave a monumental mask of white. Having learnt of her disadvantage - Vertigo. My patience had hit an all-time low. I hadn’t the time nor the patience to keep this girl upright because she failed to do so herself. It was like looking after a child, I was completely clueless. Another thing to add to the agenda was her unpredictable nature, if she weren’t to know what and how to react, how am I supposed to control that? It was practically impossible. What could I control about a situation that seemed to change all the time? For instance, her obedience. The initial situation was never to change. Since the dark ages the Weavers had been indebted to us- Hawks. Times may have gone, but the debts never do. Not even this one. She was to pay off a debt centuries old, one her ancestors forged for her. Clicking my tongue in indignation, I fought the collapsing veil between man and the beast festering within. She made it incredibly hard, she was such a fucking nuisance. Her loud cries, her pleas pounded into my ears and if I had to listen to any more of this, I would gladly slit her throat just to shut her up. She’d be the last ever Weaver girl to cross our household, I’d make that a promise.

Her fate was sealed. There would be no more Nila Weaver, and all in a night. One single night, it took me one night to destroy her life. For her idyllic life to come collapsing at her feet, to leave the life she had in shreds. The brainless moron thought someone would come to rescue her, to take her back to what she knows, to the life she had. She’s in for a sharp shock, and she’s sourly mistaken. There is no escape from this. Checking my watch, my personal driver was to arrive in a matter of minutes, and he couldn’t come quick enough. I could not stand this any longer, my head was going to explode with her idiotic questions, her bouts of unsteadiness and her downright audacity to defy me even in the slightest; I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t raging to teach her a lesson right here and now. To force her panties around her ankles, spread her legs and insert my fingers into her no doubt tight cunt.

Finally, Pierce had arrived, painfully slow at that, rolling to a stop opposite the curb I stood. Keeping composure of being a presentable gentleman, I processed to open the car door for her. “In, Ms. Weaver, now.” Not giving her chance, or leisure to climb in at her own pace, I surpassed her and yanked her down beside me. She reeked of desolation and pity. It was sickening me, what angered me more was her ‘discreet’ sobbing, and sad goodbye to the life she had. “Stop crying.” It was deplorable, I hated myself for this. The more she fought her tears, the more aroused I got. The more my cock twitched against the tightening fabric of my suit pants. The very air shimmered with looming violence, I was so close to choking her, bounding her, making her mine. One tear away and I will wrap my hand around her throat, make her know that it’s best to follow what I demand.

One might think to claim another as your own in such a way I plan to, you must have little to no compassion, I couldn’t deny that my compassion was scarce, but it was not all absent. Sliding my hand to rest it upon her thigh, I watched her, her immediate obedience to allow me to. A good little pet. She sat statuesque as my fingertips travelled further across her inner thigh, gliding my thumb over her hoods through her panties. -“Jethro, pl-please.” She begged. Hah, it was almost laughable. Begging would accomplish nothing. My nostrils flared, “Shut up. Don’t breathe another word.” Only if she had listened, if she’d followed my instruction I wouldn’t have to teach her this lesson. Unfortunately, her ignorance to do as I say caused this. It caused the punishment I was about to deliver. Pushing her panties aside, I smeared my thumb over her already throbbing clit. I had barely touched her, and she was ready to give herself to me, ready to come screaming out my name. My god would she scream. I’d reduce her to a shaking mess. Driving one finger deep inside her, I growled low in my chest. She was so fucking tight, oh how tight she was; it was unbelievably hard to pump a single finger in and out of her, it was as if her little world paused for the smallest of moments as my finger hit a spot sending her into undoubtable passion, my finger pulsated deep inside her; guilt at having to do this practically crippled me but she needed to be taught, she had to know her place before I got her home. Thrusting a second finger in her turned my passion into a fiery blaze, she was so fucking tight, it would appear she was virgin. The very hardness of my erection seared in my jeans, if I didn’t remove my fingers now I was sure to come in my trousers. Locking my gaze with the woman who was to die for the sins of her ancestors, I felt glacial to her allure. She was an inheritance. A simple transaction; nothing more.

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Raising Kittens

(via Valerija S. Vlasov)

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Someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. They can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. And whatever their reasons you must leave. Because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. You never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. There is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. And there is the love that will be ready.

Nayyirah Waheed (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

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Can you stop reblogging that hug already? It's been days since the previous episode. Like the previous anon said it's getting annoying :/

no

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Rebekah Mikaelson

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JethroxNila