(no subject)
[Series;] Saiyuki
[Title;] Twisted Fantasy
[Character/Pairing;] Yaone/Cho Hakkai
[Rating;] R15
[Genre/s + Theme/s] Horror/Supernatural + the Devil's Thrill
[Summary;] She dream of one reality, one morbid little fantasy.
[Author's Notes;] This was not what I expected, this was hastily done (since I wanted to push myself into producing one) but I'll get better, I promise. I think this would make more sense you read my first piece: Concatenation. This was cross-possted with 100_situations & hakkai_yaone
She looked so perfect, it sickened her.
Tear-stained cheeks and face contorted in heartache, everything was wrong. Nothing was placed in where it should be. The roses that were meant to give her joy were not adjourning the simple white vase he had bought. But instead, they were ripped off from their stems. The dark red liquid that made her whole being, was supposed to be stay housed in her human body. The liquid of life, her blood dripping off from her fingertips, it did not faze her one bit. Truth be told, she was feeling a sensation she had never felt before.
Indescribable silence wrapped her soul, her heart was ready to jump out from its place. It crawled up her spine. She did not notice, but it truly did. Seconds past, then a minute, she's still breathing. Alive, yes; but there is still that thrilling sensation. Overcoming her, she ignored the soothing voices and gave in to her darkness.
She looked down at her hands and began to tremble. She pressed her fingertips up to her lips, the aroma of blood flooded her nostrils. Eyes suddenly shut out from the world, she opened her mouth and tasted the blood.
I am the first.
A shadow at the end of the hallway.
I spin the carousel, the laughter recedes away.
My finger on your lips, I stole something precious.
She moves.
Her feet take her to foreign-familiars, the house was a palace in its own right. Beautiful whites everywhere: on the walls, the vases, the flowers, the drapes, the floor; but with death as her muse, she painted a masterpiece.
Broken shards of glass lay shimmering underneath the shine of the moon, not a moment ago, she had thrown her arms through every single window -breaking anything and everything she could lay her hands on. The white walls were shaded with the ghastly shade of red, printed from her palms. Her feet wrote endless symphonies of grim sorrow; she stained the pristine white floor.
Silence.
She stops.
Her mind trapped in a free-fall of thoughts, they never stopped. Her mind spins to a further pain, at the end of the great hallway, just above the light embers of the fireplace. She saw him, staring back at her with provocative eyes and that little gleam of mischief behind the genuine kindness of his heart. It was not the first time she had looked upon his portrait, in fact she had since it on numerous accounts. She may not have remembered how many times she had found her heart skip a beat and take on a quicker pace, but she remembered everything else that had to do with him.
His love.
His smile.
His lean body.
His soft and deep voice.
His green eyes.
His words.
His wisdom.
His everything.
Another tear escaped from her eye, it craved the fall and touch of the cheek. But the tears she expected did nothing but make her heart swell and make her eyes water; the next thing she had done was something anyone would not expect.
Day after day, after day, she refused to accept it both. She refused to believe that he was going to leave her for his wife. She refused to believe that she had taken the matter into own hands, enjoying the devil's thrill. It seeped into her system like a favourite poison, deadly and desired. It had haunted her for so many nights, awoke her from fitful dreams, and turned her into a paranoia of perfection. For twenty years, she never gave in to the great prince of deception until one day, she broke herself and gave in.
I am the second, alone in a faceless crowd.
A human caught in monochrome dreams.
I scream to wake up, my voice drowns deep underground.
Only the dead can hear me, see me...
Her mouth quirked into a smile, it turned into a grin and later on, widening with the richness of laughter. She laughed like a woman whose lost her sanity, like a maniac. Her voice echoed past the walls, waking the dead at night's witching hour.
I am the third.
A master, a sentinel of awakeness
I hold truth like a torch, shadows flicker before me.
Rapid eye follow the chain of thought, until the silence ends...
She remembered.
She remembered how she got here: bloodstained, panic-stricken, and overcome by so much love, no. She was overcome by obssession, something took over her and she let herself be manipulated into doing those things.
The fall on rain on her cheeks laid undisturbed, her feet were squish-squishing the ground she walked on bare. She opened the front door with the key in her pocket, and stripped off her clothes the minute she heard his voice.
He did not see her coming, quick as the lightning she struck him right after she whispered the last sweet words she will ever say to him, “I loved you.”
He fell flat on the floor. The smile disappeared with the heightened flow of adrenaline into her blood system, there was work to be done.
She grabbed him by the ends of his hair and dragged him to a wooden chair in the middle of the living room. Listening to what his voice told her to do, she pulled the wires stuck on cable and tied him down the chair hard. She went into the garage, it was the man's haven for wood and carpentry. She did not know how but she took the man's hammer and nails. Large and thick, she stared at the iron nail for a moment and considered what she was going to do.
A thought passed, she smiled.
Time passed and it went on, the agonizing pleas and the earsplitting screams made her cry with such utter happiness. She had killed them both with her own hands, a spontaenous act that fueled her dream.
Not a minute sooner, she had woken up. Her subconcious mind dreaming of killing the man she loved as well as the her beloved's wife. She planted herself on her bedroom floor, staring back at the empty wooden chair and its meaning. Replaying the scene of her dream over and over again, it did not terrify her. It made her smile, the devil's thrill raptured her bosom and it has only just begun.
[Title;] Twisted Fantasy
[Character/Pairing;] Yaone/Cho Hakkai
[Rating;] R15
[Genre/s + Theme/s] Horror/Supernatural + the Devil's Thrill
[Summary;] She dream of one reality, one morbid little fantasy.
[Author's Notes;] This was not what I expected, this was hastily done (since I wanted to push myself into producing one) but I'll get better, I promise. I think this would make more sense you read my first piece: Concatenation. This was cross-possted with 100_situations & hakkai_yaone
She looked so perfect, it sickened her.
Tear-stained cheeks and face contorted in heartache, everything was wrong. Nothing was placed in where it should be. The roses that were meant to give her joy were not adjourning the simple white vase he had bought. But instead, they were ripped off from their stems. The dark red liquid that made her whole being, was supposed to be stay housed in her human body. The liquid of life, her blood dripping off from her fingertips, it did not faze her one bit. Truth be told, she was feeling a sensation she had never felt before.
Indescribable silence wrapped her soul, her heart was ready to jump out from its place. It crawled up her spine. She did not notice, but it truly did. Seconds past, then a minute, she's still breathing. Alive, yes; but there is still that thrilling sensation. Overcoming her, she ignored the soothing voices and gave in to her darkness.
She looked down at her hands and began to tremble. She pressed her fingertips up to her lips, the aroma of blood flooded her nostrils. Eyes suddenly shut out from the world, she opened her mouth and tasted the blood.
I am the first.
A shadow at the end of the hallway.
I spin the carousel, the laughter recedes away.
My finger on your lips, I stole something precious.
She moves.
Her feet take her to foreign-familiars, the house was a palace in its own right. Beautiful whites everywhere: on the walls, the vases, the flowers, the drapes, the floor; but with death as her muse, she painted a masterpiece.
Broken shards of glass lay shimmering underneath the shine of the moon, not a moment ago, she had thrown her arms through every single window -breaking anything and everything she could lay her hands on. The white walls were shaded with the ghastly shade of red, printed from her palms. Her feet wrote endless symphonies of grim sorrow; she stained the pristine white floor.
Silence.
She stops.
Her mind trapped in a free-fall of thoughts, they never stopped. Her mind spins to a further pain, at the end of the great hallway, just above the light embers of the fireplace. She saw him, staring back at her with provocative eyes and that little gleam of mischief behind the genuine kindness of his heart. It was not the first time she had looked upon his portrait, in fact she had since it on numerous accounts. She may not have remembered how many times she had found her heart skip a beat and take on a quicker pace, but she remembered everything else that had to do with him.
His love.
His smile.
His lean body.
His soft and deep voice.
His green eyes.
His words.
His wisdom.
His everything.
Another tear escaped from her eye, it craved the fall and touch of the cheek. But the tears she expected did nothing but make her heart swell and make her eyes water; the next thing she had done was something anyone would not expect.
Day after day, after day, she refused to accept it both. She refused to believe that he was going to leave her for his wife. She refused to believe that she had taken the matter into own hands, enjoying the devil's thrill. It seeped into her system like a favourite poison, deadly and desired. It had haunted her for so many nights, awoke her from fitful dreams, and turned her into a paranoia of perfection. For twenty years, she never gave in to the great prince of deception until one day, she broke herself and gave in.
I am the second, alone in a faceless crowd.
A human caught in monochrome dreams.
I scream to wake up, my voice drowns deep underground.
Only the dead can hear me, see me...
Her mouth quirked into a smile, it turned into a grin and later on, widening with the richness of laughter. She laughed like a woman whose lost her sanity, like a maniac. Her voice echoed past the walls, waking the dead at night's witching hour.
I am the third.
A master, a sentinel of awakeness
I hold truth like a torch, shadows flicker before me.
Rapid eye follow the chain of thought, until the silence ends...
She remembered.
She remembered how she got here: bloodstained, panic-stricken, and overcome by so much love, no. She was overcome by obssession, something took over her and she let herself be manipulated into doing those things.
The fall on rain on her cheeks laid undisturbed, her feet were squish-squishing the ground she walked on bare. She opened the front door with the key in her pocket, and stripped off her clothes the minute she heard his voice.
He did not see her coming, quick as the lightning she struck him right after she whispered the last sweet words she will ever say to him, “I loved you.”
He fell flat on the floor. The smile disappeared with the heightened flow of adrenaline into her blood system, there was work to be done.
She grabbed him by the ends of his hair and dragged him to a wooden chair in the middle of the living room. Listening to what his voice told her to do, she pulled the wires stuck on cable and tied him down the chair hard. She went into the garage, it was the man's haven for wood and carpentry. She did not know how but she took the man's hammer and nails. Large and thick, she stared at the iron nail for a moment and considered what she was going to do.
A thought passed, she smiled.
Time passed and it went on, the agonizing pleas and the earsplitting screams made her cry with such utter happiness. She had killed them both with her own hands, a spontaenous act that fueled her dream.
Not a minute sooner, she had woken up. Her subconcious mind dreaming of killing the man she loved as well as the her beloved's wife. She planted herself on her bedroom floor, staring back at the empty wooden chair and its meaning. Replaying the scene of her dream over and over again, it did not terrify her. It made her smile, the devil's thrill raptured her bosom and it has only just begun.