[Penny] Dia del Muerte
Dia del Muerte.
The night is drenched in heat. The acrid scent of desert, almost overpowered by the putrid stench of the city. The noxious blend of garbage, car fumes, and the irritating stink of humanity.
I used to be human.
You're not anymore. A velvet whisper, caressing the recesses of her mind, slipping through her memories, slicing her sanity like a razorblade splits silk.
You made me inhuman. You made me something else.
Not me, my darling, you adapted. All of our servants adapt.
You did this.
No, Belle, You did.
The whiskey scorches her throat, burning down her esophogus and torching her belly. Her hand swipes across her mouth and the crash of glass shattering against a stone wall echoes through the silent room.
Forest thick around her, pineneedles and unidentifiable flowers perfume the night air. Her hounds bay in the darkness, hoofbeats resound through the trees, and the occasional shout of joy boils from the throats of the Masters on the hunt. She stands at the gates, regarding the gate tree with a silent shake of her head, she pats his trunklike legs, whispering quietly to him, even though he doesn't understand her anymore.
Sorrow worms it's way into her heart, anger burns hotly in her chest, and a longing, a quiet simple longing for what she had escaped roils in her mind.
Bottle after bottle slides down her throat, into that cast iron stomach.
Amounts that would kill anyone without her metabolism.
It takes a case of whiskey, delivered anonymously to her door every Samhain Eve to kill the memories.
Dia del Muerte.
The night is drenched in heat. The acrid scent of desert, almost overpowered by the putrid stench of the city. The noxious blend of garbage, car fumes, and the irritating stink of humanity.
I used to be human.
You're not anymore. A velvet whisper, caressing the recesses of her mind, slipping through her memories, slicing her sanity like a razorblade splits silk.
You made me inhuman. You made me something else.
Not me, my darling, you adapted. All of our servants adapt.
You did this.
No, Belle, You did.
The whiskey scorches her throat, burning down her esophogus and torching her belly. Her hand swipes across her mouth and the crash of glass shattering against a stone wall echoes through the silent room.
Forest thick around her, pineneedles and unidentifiable flowers perfume the night air. Her hounds bay in the darkness, hoofbeats resound through the trees, and the occasional shout of joy boils from the throats of the Masters on the hunt. She stands at the gates, regarding the gate tree with a silent shake of her head, she pats his trunklike legs, whispering quietly to him, even though he doesn't understand her anymore.
Sorrow worms it's way into her heart, anger burns hotly in her chest, and a longing, a quiet simple longing for what she had escaped roils in her mind.
Bottle after bottle slides down her throat, into that cast iron stomach.
Amounts that would kill anyone without her metabolism.
It takes a case of whiskey, delivered anonymously to her door every Samhain Eve to kill the memories.
Dia del Muerte.