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It's not terribly bizarre or twisted or violent. Kind of angsty, though.
It's always the scent of roses that I remember first. There's the sweat-slick, the soft breathy gasps, the way her skin felt so hot and smooth beneath my hands, but that always comes later. First is the scent of roses.
Roses and her eyes. Her eyes are green and gold in my memory, warm and forgiving sunlight shining through a canopy of spring leaves. I have seen them since, and they're darker now, winter morning and evergreen. I wonder if anyone else notices the difference? No, I think not. Only I. They saw her change; I only saw the aftermath.
The day we met for the second first time. I was desperate, I admit that; drowning myself in the flesh of the living, having them brought to me, losing myself in them, using them up. Cries and screams and begging (pleasestopdon'tstopnomoremoremore) all blending together into a cacophony which was only barely enough to sate me. And then she was.
My toys melted away, taken away from me, as if I were a naughty child who couldn't be trusted with them, and I looked up into her face. "Your eyes have changed."
"Many things have changed, Andrealphus, and not for the better," she replied, settling herself down next to me, in the dirt and the sweat and fluids of meaningless sex. She sat as if on a blanket of her beloved flowers watching me with love and worry, and I hated her.
"You presume to judge me, Novalis?" I smirked and stretched, showing off my new Vessel. Filth and the wounds of lust covered it, and I exposed every inch to her eyes.
"Did I say that I did?"
"You have never needed to /say/," I snapped back. "You have only to /look/, with those weak cow-eyes and that pretty Cherub," the word was a curse to me and I spit it at her, "smile, and we're all supposed to repent of our so-called sins and come crawling back? Is that it?"
Her expression never changed. "I would never ask you to crawl, Andrealphus. Have I ever asked that of you? Surely, you must remember..."
"Lies!" I lunged for her throat. She could have moved; in that time and that place she was stronger than I, and we both knew it. But she did not move, and I bore her down to the defiled earth, my hands wrapped around her Vessel's throat. "I remember lies! You bitch, you said you loved me and you threw me away with all the rest. God said he loved us and he betrayed us! And for what? Meat! They're barely alive...just flesh and thoughtless lusts and hatred! For humans, he exiled us!" My hands tightened, but the skin turned to stone beneath my hands, and though I would have killed her then, I could not.
Her arms came up around me, and held me. I struggled and I fought and bit and kicked, but still she held me. Finally I cried. Wept in her arms, not out of sorrow--I regret nothing--but out of rage. And still she held me, until the tears passed and I moved my hips against hers, tearing at the fabric that covered her unsoiled flesh with my hands and kissing her, taking her, using her. Still she held me.
Afterwards, my skin smelled like roses. I looked at her, and she at me. "I hate you," I whispered gently.
"I know. I love you."
"I know."
I left her, and avoided her path for centuries afterwards. I took her Angels where I could, and sometimes I gave them back as pitiful, mewling things that could no longer think, only want and lust and take. Every time she had to destroy the unsalvageable wreck that was my lover's token to her, I smiled. When she came back to me despite it, always seeking a way to bring me 'back home', I laughed. Simple Novalis, a Cherub to her core. Fool. I use her, and she allows it. Nothing but foolishness can explain such a thing.
Nothing.
Why can I not forget the scent of roses?
It's always the scent of roses that I remember first. There's the sweat-slick, the soft breathy gasps, the way her skin felt so hot and smooth beneath my hands, but that always comes later. First is the scent of roses.
Roses and her eyes. Her eyes are green and gold in my memory, warm and forgiving sunlight shining through a canopy of spring leaves. I have seen them since, and they're darker now, winter morning and evergreen. I wonder if anyone else notices the difference? No, I think not. Only I. They saw her change; I only saw the aftermath.
The day we met for the second first time. I was desperate, I admit that; drowning myself in the flesh of the living, having them brought to me, losing myself in them, using them up. Cries and screams and begging (pleasestopdon'tstopnomoremoremore) all blending together into a cacophony which was only barely enough to sate me. And then she was.
My toys melted away, taken away from me, as if I were a naughty child who couldn't be trusted with them, and I looked up into her face. "Your eyes have changed."
"Many things have changed, Andrealphus, and not for the better," she replied, settling herself down next to me, in the dirt and the sweat and fluids of meaningless sex. She sat as if on a blanket of her beloved flowers watching me with love and worry, and I hated her.
"You presume to judge me, Novalis?" I smirked and stretched, showing off my new Vessel. Filth and the wounds of lust covered it, and I exposed every inch to her eyes.
"Did I say that I did?"
"You have never needed to /say/," I snapped back. "You have only to /look/, with those weak cow-eyes and that pretty Cherub," the word was a curse to me and I spit it at her, "smile, and we're all supposed to repent of our so-called sins and come crawling back? Is that it?"
Her expression never changed. "I would never ask you to crawl, Andrealphus. Have I ever asked that of you? Surely, you must remember..."
"Lies!" I lunged for her throat. She could have moved; in that time and that place she was stronger than I, and we both knew it. But she did not move, and I bore her down to the defiled earth, my hands wrapped around her Vessel's throat. "I remember lies! You bitch, you said you loved me and you threw me away with all the rest. God said he loved us and he betrayed us! And for what? Meat! They're barely alive...just flesh and thoughtless lusts and hatred! For humans, he exiled us!" My hands tightened, but the skin turned to stone beneath my hands, and though I would have killed her then, I could not.
Her arms came up around me, and held me. I struggled and I fought and bit and kicked, but still she held me. Finally I cried. Wept in her arms, not out of sorrow--I regret nothing--but out of rage. And still she held me, until the tears passed and I moved my hips against hers, tearing at the fabric that covered her unsoiled flesh with my hands and kissing her, taking her, using her. Still she held me.
Afterwards, my skin smelled like roses. I looked at her, and she at me. "I hate you," I whispered gently.
"I know. I love you."
"I know."
I left her, and avoided her path for centuries afterwards. I took her Angels where I could, and sometimes I gave them back as pitiful, mewling things that could no longer think, only want and lust and take. Every time she had to destroy the unsalvageable wreck that was my lover's token to her, I smiled. When she came back to me despite it, always seeking a way to bring me 'back home', I laughed. Simple Novalis, a Cherub to her core. Fool. I use her, and she allows it. Nothing but foolishness can explain such a thing.
Nothing.
Why can I not forget the scent of roses?
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Think of happy boobs?
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