[the horror of existence]

[L Y N X !]

The agony that rolled off of her body seemed completely impossible for her to handle as she strained, her broken body fighting unconsciousness. She would do anything for a moment of relief - anything. But no, her mind forced her to stay awake no matter how hard she tried. How did she deserve such suffering? Was this her early damnination from hell on Earth? Her lungs were on fire from breathing so hard, desperate for every bit of oxygen she go inhale as she heaved her body again, pushing against the life that stirred inside her, as if it knew it was close to breathing fresh air. If only it were that simple. Blood had stained the long grass that half sheltered the laboring mare, matting in her tail that was frayed out behind her. She wasn't ready for this. Why had the time been shortened? She had expected a few more months at least, but it had hit her so fast that she suddenly dropped to the ground when the labor pains came. She was too weak from her brutal beating those months ago, and she knewthe tear that demon had made inside her was reopened by the life that demanded to be free from her womb. The damn child was already a monster like it's sire, it would be a pleasure to crush the thing in her jaws. Bu it didn't seem she would make it through. Sweat trickled down her sides as she clenched her teeth, a banshee's scream rising from her throat for the third or fourth time in the past half hour. Crows and buzzards had already begun to gather inthe trees, watching, waiting, for the mare to meet her demise so they could feast on her and her young one's flesh without the protection of the mother. Funny - like she would protect it. Ashia's eyes rolled back, wide in fear, her body trembling with effort. She gave another pleading call, begging for sweet release. Where was Spyder, when he needed him? When we needed him to come after her once and for all? It was a perfect opportune to end this as it so seemed he craved, to see her slip away. Why couldn't he do it now? Her breath hissed out of her lungs once more as she gave a final heave, and a tiny form slipped from her body, gleaming with blood as it stirred slightly in it's birth sac. Ashia shuddered deeply but otherwise didn't move - maybe she would meet her demise if she allowed enough blood to drain from her body.

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[bg=#000000] A symphony. To settle across the open air with all the tenderness of a bird getting wrenched from its wings. The rising ache of his breath as the stallion listened to the music, sparking eyes so dancing in the hidden remains of the surroundings. An aroma of blood in warm embrace, the shocking of silence before the squealing of pain, something euphoric! Oh, he could just drown! If only he could make the mare make that sound. The edging of lips on the scarring of maw, the pulling back on the bearing in knowing that he had. He had brought forth on this day when he planted his seed deep within her cursed bodice. Each shudder of her life-plagued corpse was a convulsing fit and reminder, bringing the sweetness of laughter to his lips. Did she hear him now, in this deathly of hour? The most perfect of times for their prolonged reunion, this new revival! The buzzards were hissed through their beaks, shuffling toward him as he gazed. Hungry eyes searching for the scene that they sought. A squeal so tenderly parting the atmosphere, bathing in her own blood. Was she praying for his hoof pressing down on her neck, slicing the skin, plucking delicately at her tendons with his maw? A million fractured scars pulsing with the need for such a thing, making little shivers race like the spiders he sheltered within. Crawling from his mind and onto his skin. An hour in a minute, a day in a blink, the form of his Ashia so dull and so bleak. What a corpse she would make, now vacating his bed! Again and again she would be hauled back in! Without an escape the ladders are pulled, and here he is circling, silently, praying. Not for her sins. On the little broken body. Sputtering in the grass. He could taste her blood, and feel its heart. A smile was razored across his face at the thought. Circling through the shadows that parted in his wake, the shuffling of bodies as they moved from his hooves without the flight as they watched. Wolves in the bodies of birds cast down with the lust. He felt it, he knew it, and he stepped from his place, the smirk still so temptingly stuck on his face. A demon in horror, yet deadlier still as he walked those little steps to see this paradise. Picturesque view. Neither would dead, yet they wish they would be soon. Catching the eyes so blurred without meaning, beauty so thrashed with the edgings of his teeth. Ashia. Ashia! Never so perilously sweet. Tempting as he wanted to pour all her blood out himself. He did not touch, watching as he was. Her bodice was heaving. Her heart was in her throat. He wanted to rip it out. It belonged inside himself. Closer. Ginding of bones as he wished. Instead it was the cackle, the throwing back of his head. The annoucement to the world that the deed had been done. On this day, in this heat, with the devil's expectant teat. The babe lay mewling on a pillow of blood. A purr and a croon, he regarded his dearest, so frail and so broken with her sparks all missing. What should he say to comfort her? Drive the nails into her skull more or less. Open your rip cage and let me dive right inside. It is only the cycle beginning. A repeat. A rerun. Again. My dear. Click. Click. Scrape. Bang. Gone. 'Did you get what you deserved, little fly? Even I have not the mercy to let you die. Shame...oh shame...but I will not kill you from pity. If you were broken then, are you shattered now, little dove? Violated? Sated? Your prays have gone unanswered.' There was the breath that was held behind the pause, an intake with the smile and a little musical chuckle. So innocent and demure she could be seen with the playground eyes and the bedroom on her back. Lovely, so lovely, such a pretty little thing. Oh what damage there was left to be done. 'And here I am again.' The laughter to spring upon his flesh and his throat, the toneless droning as he inspected her still. Laying like a corpse or a spindle. Useless was she? Not useless for what he wished. The fire was there, shimmering under her skin, the most wonderful of poisons he could just Drown. In. The devil was peering, and there was that little foal. So sweetly alive, the day taking its toll. Spyder was smiling, Spyder was calm. Spyder was thinking. Spyder was wrong.

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[L Y N X !]

ashia

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Movement. At first the small creature at her hind had grown completely still, and she had the sliver of hope that it had not survived the ordeal, but then it raised its head against the birth sac that still encased its small, frail body. The world was cold, colder than the warmth of the wound spent so many months. Spyder's spawn. Ears swiveled feebly on her crest as the sound of demented laughter rose from the cover of the trees, sapphire eyes searching briefly before they rested on the towering stallion. She was too exhausted to even react, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she stared, frothing foam drying on her scarred muzzle and neck. His laughter sounded like bell tolls at a funeral, signalling the end. But he did not touch, as much as she knew he would like to. Rip her face from her skull so that she had none at all, gnaw on her bones like a rabid animal that she knew he was. Oh, lord have mercy on her sinned soul.

The young creature, barely seconds old, stirred within her encasing. Bubbling laughter, the harsh cries of ravenous birds in the trees, the sticky warmth of the pool of blood she lay in. Vision blurry, struggling, searching, for something. But what? A soft squeal, a demand to be set free. Hooves flailed to break the thin seal around her, flinching at the bright harshness of some strange light. What happened to the calm darkness? The gentle beating of a heart lulling her to sleep? Her hide was slick with blood, and as she peered around her, she could taste the harsh metallic liquid in her maw. A looming figure standing not too far away, making noise. It looked like her, four legs, long tail, but she still had the sudden fear of something strange. Mother, where was her mother? Right beside her, breathing slowly, but familiar all the same. An attempt. Mother was safety, must get closer. Another squeal, licking her maw as she scooted slightly closer to her. Why wasn't she moving? The little foal's legs buckled as she tried to rise like the other creature. Why wasn't her mother trying the same? She sat on the grass, eyes wide, apprehensive of the looming figure, giving a pitiful whuffle to it.

Ashia's mind swam as a chuckle rose in it that wasn't her own or Spyder's, taunting, amused at her suffering. She ignored the child's cries, allowing the sharp constant pains to slow into a beating ache. The crows were growing impatient in the trees, their calls demanding her death. How she wished she could just slip away, but there was no white horse beckoning to her, trying to tempt her away. There was just silence amongst the birds and the two other equine with her. Her breath quickened as she gathered the strength to raise her head, glancing over at the foal as it flopped back onto the ground. The same eyes she found in Spyder stared back at her, and she almost retched as she laid her head back onto the blood-soaked grass. "Prayers are wasted words, Spyder," she coughed, her lungs heaving with effort. "As I pray to die here, I still get refused that wish, even by the one that wishes it on me most. Now tell me, why don't you when the opportunity knocks hardest? Or, how about the child? Save its suffering, won't you?"

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[bg=#000000] The aching of his set of wire edged teeth, snapping on the edge and grinding so tightly! Such little pathetic noises a hushing lullaby singing straight to the ripped remains of what could be called a heartful whole. Inspection of such a thing, the tiny mewling creature, brought into the world has demon's spawn from his own loins. Demanding with the excess, yet the mare without the instinct. Survival depending on a head. Rest assured, then? Spreading of teeth, fangs tilted from use, stained so cleverly like wire. Just in case. Case? Reaching for the tattered skill as the mare chose to speak across her faulted tongue. Broken words, articulations clear as cellophane. Choke. The smell overwhelming, the need satisfying, as though these meanings in itself were already a prayer. Cage behold! The bird inside it lies. Twisted without meaning. So harsh now love? Tick goes the clock as though you deserve to die. Let me hold your teeth inside my spine. Click. Undeserving a fate we are meant to spy. I shall shoot you between the eyes. Stamp? Stomp? Heavens, presist! What a fit of illusion when the corpse is...it? Laughter like clocks, so happily then brought. Ringing contusions and revulsion of fits. The blood on his pelt was meant to stain both their hides. Yet with desperation there was a plea. A riddle to swim in dire need. Wall are built, broken and smashed. The urge to itch that annoying rash, rip her throat clean from her body, yet the laughter was the giggles expired. So true was it then, a help for a hand? Oh yes, he could so easily bend down and expire her- dead. Gone from this world without the pestilence or damnation that cannot be held from a torrential...salvation? The babe! The dame! The child of hellion- his spawn. Consideration a dance with the devil so sweet. Bitter the flames across this....meet? Neither a plague nor a deadly contrition. Spyder, what do words mean? My love, my life, my desire, my spite. A hatred to burn across her flesh. Wishing to die....consider her dead. No fun. No fun! 'What does this lack?' His voice was an inquiry, an asking of a question that was lathered so thickly like sweets. Sticking to the air with the purring of a croon, his head lowering slowly, tauntingly. Did his touch sear her skin and burn her hide? Scar inside. Tear. Laugh! 'So graceless of me. Me? Hatred is savory, love. Suffering makes us...' That razoring grin twisting his maw, contorting the expression as his lips so leisurely raced down across her cheek, running a path down her neck. 'Unique.' He did not bite, sink his teeth in. Never did he expire that so shifting a grin. Throwing his head back, laughing at the skies. Mad? Audacious? All in good time. Time, time, pleasure to be! Evaporating puddles as though it was...glee..The merriment was stopped with solemn expression, narrowing eyes like a glinting profession. Turning on heel to see Ashia and the little one. Should he just kill them? Without a conscious or one... Walking away was loosing its appeal, with the vapors rising on their corpses. Up high, up here, stringing them down low. A feasting. A wishing. As though it would be so. A brute or a hellion, an angel or saint. Saint? Spyder of course was without, all the same. Snap with a crack, his feet left the earth, a dire proclamation harnessing his girth. The time would be sated. The time in a stead. The hound of bedlam would have to keep watch of its head. 'Tell me Ashia. Yes, tell me quite well. Would you rather die and burn into a hell. Be rid of a wickedness. A wonder but a spite. Yet we both know you and I. We are a pair too grotesquely favored to die. Hush your pleas, your murmurs, wants and lies. I come for you soon. The foal? The little child that you so despise? Shall she be dead. What shall I do? Shall I break and then kill you too? No, my dear. There are fates much worth. The grave will me saved from your broken neck the moment my teeth again hit your flesh. Remember. Recall. So much worse it could be. Hate. Reprise. Look into my eyes. Are you so scared of rearing a bastard child, little fly? Will she kill you like you wish to die? Better be. Better be fast. Death is a treat that this path lacks. What do you wish? They are lost in this world. Save your tongue, your neck, and your health. Do you doubt that I will break you? Still that vile fire burns. You are too favored....to sweetly innocent...to die.' The birds took flight from their perches as though ash was snow falling to the earth as they go. Their feathers were reaching with the licking of flame, metaphorical, yet so real, spoken on his tongue. Spyder's eyes were burning, his throat thick with thirst. Yet he was waiting and watching for the newest of verse. Was there anything left to behold? Yet a frail little mare and her sweet little girl.

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[L Y N X !]

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[bg=#00000] It was naive of her to think, even just for a moment, that he would give her what she wanted. No, that would all be too simple. Her life was like a puppet in his crafty hands, and he used her for entertainment. It was all just a game, that she herself had put into play all that while ago. The moment she had stepped forward and accepted the challenge he presented, she had sealed her own fate. Had sealed this day. Despite everything he had done to her, she knew she had done this to herself in the end. Admittedly before, she had craved to dig into his flesh, to make fresh scars onto his pelting. Hers, and hers only. That sappy stallion lost to little Marie, forgotten. There was only Spyder. Now? She regretted every breath she breathed nexted to the brute. Killing the two starcrossed lovers seemed like the right choice, and she still didn't regret it to this day. That writhing hatred was what had condemned her. Oh, didn't you know that envy was some of the worst? A proud look, a lying tongue. A heart that devised wicked plots, hands that shed innocent blood. Would it never end? She mustered enough strength to turn her head, glooseflesh rising on her skin, his teeth so sharp down her neck. Though - she was not afraid. The least, not at this moment. He would not kill her, pity was an attribute he lacked. Pity? Ha! She hardly deserved it, there ain't no rest for the wicked. She forced her eyes to meet his, a deep pumpkin that seemed could spring hellfire from its depths. Her gaze wandered to the babe, the same colored gaze staring back at her. The eyes that looked back were softer, gentler, afraid. Thin nostrils flaring, watching, wondering of the noises that came out of the pair's mouths. A whuffle to the mare laying by her side, voicing her needs that she couldn't place herself. A gnawing hunger in her belly, the need for the sticky blood off of her sleek pelting. Perhaps once Ashia had had feelings other than hatred and pride, maybe during a time of innocence. Something of a feeling of caring. His words put a challenge to her, she would rear the child. Shame the poor thing had a mother like her. A quick glance to the looming stallion. The blood had lost its flow, sealing itself into the chambers of her body. Perhaps she had enough strength to rise, just enough, to feed the whelp at her feet, before she would give into the weakness that dampened her body. She did not speak another word to Spyder, glare at him as she may. What was there left to say?

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[bg=#000000] Silence abound like the idle cushioning of a welcomed darkness, settling on the skin like butane on the flame. Corrosive to the skin, bleeding about the edges like the pushing of an infected wound, hanging on the corners of every little expression as though each was the fate of a dark contemplation. Dire needs sent to the winds as the stallion took another step, he striding to stifle the need of the breaking of bones, the grinding of gears and the cogs of his machine. As though the movement would help in the aid, more like adding venom to the fangs. Jaw pressed firmly as orange eyes sparked, the squealing of the bastard child like musical box to his torn ears, fires lapping at his heels, cornering and twisting the edges of his ripped maw. A smile held together with the recesses of spite. Hatred breathing live to his tongue, though again the soundlessness lathered deeply, sweetly, enough to beckon forth the calling of breath, the wheezing fracture of new life before him, stuck clean with afterbirth. Life had been given, so easily could it be taken. With a lunge, a jump, a squeal, the measured striking of a hoof. Solid the blow to the head would end it all. Miserable poor souls, certainly when taken to this. Ear flickered at the hinting of audio, the fluttering of wing beats. Spyder did not care for this intrusion, for the time was his and his alone. No scavengers or murders aside. Himself? Matterless as the scars shining in the light. Nostrils flared as motions ceased, a pose now struck like a pin to the heart. Statuette of corpse as expression was fallen. The bird's beak parted, the red eye shimmering. Toxical. Poisoning. Not so lightly fluttering, challenging. A boiling sensation up to his throat, searing a path with every strike to the earth of its claw. Moving toward the foal, targeted in mind. Observing, the brute did not reaction for the time. Moments or seconds passing without action. Restrained. Jaw clicking, tail not swishing, flies not collecting, the air turning sour and stale without his breath. Hop, hop, went the vulture, spreading its wings to beat at the air. Testing. Tasting. Wanting. You have been found wanting. Muscles creaking into secluded messing, the spyder jumped at the fly. A bugle sliced through the air like a proclamation of war, crimson beading at his nostrils, dripping like rivers from his maw. Criss crossing scars battling as the sharp points of hooves made contact. Bash, tear, feathering flying to the four points of wind like shreds of skin on wolves teeth. Cocked where his legs, heightening the struggle, the cry brought from the forsaken's mouth, pity with the need for the dying. Sparking flare. Vengeful fires purging in his hear like a cage of captivity. The bird died like minions suffer, with limbs torn from rightful stages. Violently he had been sated with the slaying of that which could bring some harm. No harm done, save for the smearing of feathers on the barren hearth, the white noise resounding with the silence of air, the parade of blood down his legs. Splattering like abstract painting, ink blots of minor succession. The last will and testament of a beast with the burden of a lifestyle comes with fear. Uncaring was the hell's fire, undeceiving was the heaven's smile. Indifferent was the mask of fate, the spiteful circle of purgatory met. Meeting, greeting, and seeing through. Past the sinews and bones. Intentions more or less than pure. Tainted like the substance smeared across his face. The air to cradle a day such as this, rank with the blood of a hypocrite, the blood flowing more than through the child of his own tortured loins. Born of hatred this thing of his, like a gun filled with blanks and a bullet no less, pressed from the barrel to the head. Ending fit for a king. Again, those eyes of pumpkin dire turning his head to see the spit, the aroma of death on his breath as though he himself were the pale horse. Who was to say what this child of mayhem could be willed into existence by twisted relation, like the lines of its breathing were blurred. Veins to tear out when it realized the substance, the poison flowing, curling and coiling. A demon to be or a life without an end. Fateful conclusion. A hiss or a purr, unknowing of difference, drawing of closure as though in need. What would he do if the world were to crumble? Crashing down at his shadow, distorting into playful banter. No, something like this was more than final, a finale like fireworks melting the sky, shattering of glass as he saw a fate in the orange of the foal's scared eyes. Fear at the heart. Fear at the sight. Nature's intent and instinct mirrored in the shadows of her eyes. Her, his bonny fair thing, like her mother to which she was ripped and torn, from the womb to the gutters, to the land of the broken. What a life to be born to! Oh yes, quite the life this little thing could become. A whore or a beggar, even a murder or one. Sadistic was she to twist? Egostical or just plain sane? Lack of a better word of assurance. What. To. Know. Who shall I become? Are you more like me than you wish, or more like her than you care. Which? Choose, little mirror. Choose a fate so twisted right. Snapping back he cast a glance, lingering without the trance, at the mother of this hellish thing, this little monster so birthed to be. There might have been sadness or pity if chosen right, there could have been regret or constitution if needed. Might. The word lost on the fabric of his expression. Less than the bearing of his teeth or the smile of the sadist. No emotion to leak through the edges, as though sanity could be so freely given, like the accidental words shining through the pages. Lost like the burdening of corpse. Bearing the weight of a wonderless stupor. Spyder looked at the mare, looked her clean through. Without a fault. Without a need. As though he was holding the gun. Shot her dead. If he could choose. No words. Roulette. With my finger on this trigger, what is your luck?

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[L Y N X !]

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[bg=#00000] What a wonderous thought, suddenly, that the small creature at her heels was of her own. Created from her flesh and blood, but from a demon's loins. The daughter of a wench, the offspring of a bastard. A thing so innocent despite it's lineage. Very small and frail, despite its vocal demands she cried. She did not feel pity for the little creature; it was of her own fault she survived her injured womb when in most similar circumstances it would be impossible to concieve with such damage inflicted. The filly had been fighting even before she was born, for the chance to see the cruel world that had been just beyond her reach by inches of flesh for months. Ashia's muscles trembled at the effort to keep her head raised, to be aware of what was going on. She was mildly curious, observing the brute as he sauntered closer to the child, the itching need obviously crawling under his skin. Would he end the small thing's life? Ears went back on her skull as the vile bird landed with a flurry of feathers, smelling of rotting flesh from its last meal. Like a swift strike from a snake Spyder was upon it, Ashia merely only blinking as the creature's limbs were ripped from its body in a bath of blood that mixed with the pool already staining the grass. The small filly squealed in alarm, though she wasn't quite sure of what had happened. Nostrils flaring and eyes wide, she searched for her mother under the other horse's blood-spattered legs, giving another pleading cry for safety. Her orange eyes met with a same colored-pair, her breath coming in quick through her little lungs. What a world to be born to. Ashia remained unphased and observing as she looked over the babe and the brute, before his eyes found her. Her expression tightened, eyes narrowing as to display her distaste. The horse that had stormed his way into her life with a swing of a blow, look where they were now. She blinked, listening to the words left unspoken. Her eyes then moved to the child, sitting so perfectly sweet in her mother's blood slick on her pelting. Roulette, indeed. Her body strained as she finally made movement to get off of her side, leaving her huffing and puffing for breath, wariness surging through her veins. How she wished to sleep, but if she slept on the ground, the wolves would surely get her, and if not, Spyder would. She ignored his presence for the time being, ignored her shaking weakness as she gradually climbed to her feet, pain radiating from her core. Roulette's ears went forward as her mother rose, giving her motivation to stand. If her mother was doing it, so could she. Licking her muzzle with aprehension, she moved her long awkward legs to try and rise, and was sucessful for a few moments before tumbling again with a soft whuffle. A mare without much instinct watching as if it were a show, a bit amusing to find the bastard's child trying to rise. She offered no help except a half-hearted nicker, to encourage the creature to stand. If it learned to walk, she wouldn't atleast have to stay around here where scavengers would gather at the heavy stench of blood. After several tries the filly was on her feet, standing as if she couldn't believe she made it. She was curious of the large stallion in front of her, and cautiously gave his foreleg a lick, snorting at the strange metallic taste in her mouth. Definately not what she was looking for, a gnawing hunger in her belly. Perhaps her mother had what she needed? One hoof infront of the other, wavering but careful to keep her balance, testing the concept of walking.

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[bg=#000000] The sounding of the winning battles, the breaking of barriers left unprotected by the loser's repressed spite, as though trigger locked to the highest ends of a sheltered tomorrow. Broken. Beaten was even those who claimed to know a higher chain of command, a witless squire spitting out the names of the fallen as though they would poison his own tongue. A smear of crimson upon the ground, once beating with heart and breathing with fever, an inkblot to be given a whole other name as the day was to be churned and forever remembered. Orange hued eyes were but one of the many still attached to their keepers by chords, the melodic noises of whimpering whelp soon becoming a tiresome chore. Yet the spider lashed out no longer with hoof dare to not strike, suffering so optional given like opinions so freely until the night began to hunger. No, with the joint of the mind still burning like flame, he watched the crawling progression without a single thought to take wing or give name. A tired inspiration that was as nameless as dull, the watchful precession not taking full toll, the eyes seeking the other but not digging to rise. The wind had murmured a series of hurried and hushed goodbyes. Yet he did not wander, walk, or wait, keeping volly vigilance for the prey on its way. Rats would be crawling on hands and knees for a taste, birds circling, but here he would stay. Razor trap mouth and razor blade smile, unable to go nor stay any longer. Like a musical penance without the salvation of end, the wounds still pussing like a clock's cogs to spin. Down they went to the show of the wander, the demons prodding their corpses with sticks. And the world was spinning, but nothing was said as the Spyder watched Roulette with not an end. Pushing with memory and tottering over the edge, seeking for comfort and not a wits end. No, the world sighed with limitless patience, Ashia still watching with vigilant eyes on the waking. Break then to broken, as though to break her body whole. Yet it was no longer the tugging so restless as it had all at once began to grow. Was he to be warranted a reaction like a wheel spinning round, a vertigo spirit on the edge of a row. Moving so soundlessly away to keep trace of the skies and the cries of the vermin collecting in spade. The shadows collect, as though this place was a cemetery for them then to die, but the brute was not having any feast on these lives. As though laying claim, the paw of a leg, the crimson beading and seeking the flesh, tracing the ground in splendorless circle. Fighting for their own hides would make the ghosts sweeter. The haunting cries of shadowed wolves baying for a break to fast. He stood with an eye shimmering to the sky. He turned with an eye mindful to the forest. Watching the way the tide rolled and subsided, wondering if the submission of admission would make the preacher lie. Snorting and blowing with a belly full of calm, of a pot of patience brewing all the long. The sky so harshly lit like candles with hued and shaded jade, flames licking the sparks to hungrily blame. It was the laying of rails in the skeleton of shame, the screaming and the cries of a memory untamed. Yet he himself could be blamed for the present state of unusual and unearthly misery, if one could be persuaded to take the volley and the fall. Page for the burning, book for the kindling, words sent to the winds, and a tear for the payment. Smiles so sickening as though to heal instead of harm, another blind eye turned to protect as stitches for the torn. Patchwork had nothing to mean for himself. Tear me to pieces, I'll rip you to shreds. The bearing of teeth on the circling of edge. His mind was a place of euphoria bliss, his fangs were bore to the stage to the show, but his back was to the mare with the audios not to grow. What was this he may or may not take? Was there a way to clean the blade? He would cause more than a scar, more than a wound. Far. Far. Shimmering like clear waters on the highest of... Numb. Expression clouded over with the sharpest of things, the slowest of motions like the rims of the reels. A dance to be halted like breaking of bones, the laughter of silence ringing to hold. There was nothing but noise in the vast seas of white, the narrowing of tunnels to the singers of spite. Roulette. Ashia. Blending the mix, rushing the blood. Veins to burst. Hearts left to die. Pounding the. Music. Drums like a devil. Snap, creak, and cry. All left to wonder like shush. Hush. Beating of dreams against the skull. Quiet. Longer. Likely to make you. Stronger. Beauty in the eyes of the beholder so smeared with shame. Bastard child, sweet little angel. Fallen are you to the rank of these cages. The shadows are reaching to smother your last breath, push from your longs the ease of lament. Hush. I know. White is the horse, pale is the moon, demons on the rise. Spyder could see an untimely demise like a shiver under skin and a knife cupped in hand. Wandering like fabric not without trim. Again to be spoken, but not to be named. The turning of crimson, ashen, and brain. Mind sputtering with relentless attack. Turning of back. No going black. Back? Spyder moved again, to the side to face away once more with the heavy of moodness, the ailment of expression. Laughter on breath. Choking on tears. Breaking of throat. What was the emotion given to rise, with giggles and cries. Sheltered despise. Brilliant reprise. Replay. Repaid. Remind. Revive.

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OOC: .....
Music: ....

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