A nightmare rises behind John in awful angles. Someone's voice curdles into a nail on chalk shriek. Someone slumps over a hand that sinks into a chest that suckles at the fingers that splay over the heart. Someone opens corpse-clouded eyes to stare blind into the absence of stars. Someone opens the mouths below their eyes, twin grinning crescents full of teeth like broken seed pearls that hug the arch of someone else's skull.
"Listen to her," this someone pants, a slouching beast run out under the sun, "Listen to you...I want, I want. Nowhere you can go. It kills me. I can't, without you. Mercy."
The precipice, the fall, the revelation. Her teeth (all of them) chatter as she drags herself up, up, one more time, fingers a great, greedy rake in the sodden cloth of his shirt as she brings her mouth (her first one) to drool pale ichor onto his shoulder. The butterfly on John's throat peels away, drifts to touch her lips, their slick-sticky interior, the tip of her tongue.
"Liar," she says, in a slur of teeth and blood and fragmenting wings, and she flings herself apart.
It's almost lovely how she unfolds. Layers of her unravel in shivering waves, fluttering like pennants as they peel away from John. Her organs spiral into translucent fistfuls of gauze and float upward untethered, her bones soften and flow like glass. They coalesce in the air before him, winding around a spindle of paled light to form a slowed whirlwind, a quickened tower, and as they spin the mist begins to draw towards it, then the gore, all the mess that Mercy made of the street undone for the construction of this glistening monument. Even the residue of her left behind on John comes away, leaving him clean.
The thing that was Mercymorn unfolds its own wings, thin as breath, and a storm of them fling themselves towards God. They are as nearly butterflies as the Omen behind him is nearly a wasp.
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"Listen to her," this someone pants, a slouching beast run out under the sun, "Listen to you...I want, I want. Nowhere you can go. It kills me. I can't, without you. Mercy."
The precipice, the fall, the revelation. Her teeth (all of them) chatter as she drags herself up, up, one more time, fingers a great, greedy rake in the sodden cloth of his shirt as she brings her mouth (her first one) to drool pale ichor onto his shoulder. The butterfly on John's throat peels away, drifts to touch her lips, their slick-sticky interior, the tip of her tongue.
"Liar," she says, in a slur of teeth and blood and fragmenting wings, and she flings herself apart.
It's almost lovely how she unfolds. Layers of her unravel in shivering waves, fluttering like pennants as they peel away from John. Her organs spiral into translucent fistfuls of gauze and float upward untethered, her bones soften and flow like glass. They coalesce in the air before him, winding around a spindle of paled light to form a slowed whirlwind, a quickened tower, and as they spin the mist begins to draw towards it, then the gore, all the mess that Mercy made of the street undone for the construction of this glistening monument. Even the residue of her left behind on John comes away, leaving him clean.
The thing that was Mercymorn unfolds its own wings, thin as breath, and a storm of them fling themselves towards God. They are as nearly butterflies as the Omen behind him is nearly a wasp.