Death Has Chivalry (a mockery)
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
He comes when my shoulders are shaking, his scarf gasping between my hands.
I whirl to face him; he waits patiently with a smile.
“You think this is a game?” Betrayal is the acid in my gut as it froths into my throat: he is no longer birds and dreams, but a coyote leering behind the ribcage of a lamb, and I’m caught up in his teeth. “Here, take this back.” I throw the scarf at his feet. His perfect, pale, fair-boned feet.
He slowly stoops to pick it up. When he weaves it around his neck, it looks like he’s dancing.
He rests one hip against the kitchen’s island, pondering. “Now that’s not very nice. You took something from me,” His palm splays out beautifully across his chest, and his eyes find mine. There’s that smirk. “I’m not allowed to return the favor?”
“But you can’t give yours back!” The shriek sounds deranged as I smack my palm onto the table. There’s an earthquake beneath my fingernails that rocks me like a mother, and my lungs are balloons hooked to a faulty pump: inflate, deflate, deflate, deflate.
He watches with hawk eyes. His irises are the color of self-satisfaction. He extends an arm suddenly, a pomegranate nesting sweetly in his palm. “Want some?”
The mockery leaves my knees wobbly. I realize: he will always take, take, take. I realize: this one does not have an exit sign.
He leers like he knows those thoughts all too well. Suddenly, I’m choking on the sobs, trying to stuff them back inside of me.
He brings the fruit to his lips: red, flowing down his chin, cascading over his jugular. It bobs as he swallows. “I thought you’d appreciate the irony, here.”
“Shut up, shut up, just shut the fuck up!” The cool countertop gently kisses my forehead, the nails digging into my skull a harsh contrast. “Please.”
“Mm." He muses, "you’ll come to me eventually, you know.”
My knees go out like dominos. My veins are icepicks beneath my skin, chiseling away with my pulse. I pick a spot in the grout and try to imitate the stone. My lip trembles.
His toes find their way into my vision, then his jean-clad knees. He ruffles my hair; his breath feels too hot against my temple. “I just can’t let you get too comfortable, baby: none of this is real.”
I nod, because it feels like he wants me to.
He drapes the scarf back around my neck. I contemplate closing my eyes, if only to hide the fear.
When he wipes my tears, I smile, because it feels like he wants that, too.
I just realized death is one spoiled motherfuh and he gets everything in the end. Whoop for stupid epiphanies of seemingly-obvious things, and borrowed handfuls of time. I call these half-done expulsions heart vomit.
In other news: hiatus + me. Duration: either a few hours or a quite a bit.. depending if I want to write or not. Who knows!
Also: don't want to talk about it so ~ thanks! I don't want to have to invalidate and belittle things to cater to explanations. Posting just allows me closure, and a way to archive it for when I one day remember I wrote this.
