Writings » Vessel Act 1: Turtle Doves pt. 1

Vessel Act 1: Turtle Doves pt. 1

By Shitwincer at 2007-10-19 | Suspense | Printable version

    With one eye open he held the pistol firmly between her shoulder blades; he had most certainly caught her off guard with a flush of surprise.  He hadn't expected this intervention this early in timeline, and even less likely in the means that brought them together.  This time, he had delivered silk pillows to her penthouse suite of the Wyndmere towers, mooring a city where the haystack was high and the needles small.  Immediately he had felt that rush, like many times before, like the dance of a single tambourine inside his skull, but the glance of notice was not shared on this night.  He had found her early in the crawl, either she hadn't awake yet, or the bitch had truly grown over-confident in this bail of years.  Regardless, she had let him in with an insecure smile, easily turning her back without the slightest breech of character.  Not even goose bumps ran along her form, another trait they didn't share at the moment, though he was sure his husk was littered brail even in atmospheric light.  He gazed at her backside as they fell into the darkness down the hall, moving to where she crept into slumber nightly. This life had given her blessings of power and what this age referred to as "hotness," in character, true celebrity skin.  Alas, as with drive-in theatres, the bigger picture differed in what would become of her; he combed the hatred for the hag that festered inside her, somewhere, under her lip-gloss mystique.

 "Can you adjust that a little please, you're hurting me," she said without missing octaves.

He altered nothing at her request, for deep down, the narcissism pleased him, feeding the savory taste of on-going vengeance.  How sweet it was, in a nihilistic sort of way. Characters of the obelus and oroboros at the same scheme; how she quivered in the frigid air, and he cared not, as compassion would bring the usual stalemate.  Her tone did prove the aching questions though.

 He was convinced it was her in thread without margin, even with this poor instrument of death buried in the concave of her hourglass, she had exhibited little fear.  Her composure was all the credit he'd give, heartless she would be in time, and her calm femininity ushered a sense of the justice that would come soon.  He grabbed her arm, and proceeded to flush her out into the cold city swirling anon.  This metropolis had grown since he'd been here last, and gangs and thugs weren't as prudent as they once were.  Apparently the city had washed itself clean, or the puppetry had dyed it so well that the strings were easy to miss.  It was a creature, just as the cask he held in front of him. 

 They stepped with military pace, ducking into caverns and crevices of brick, steel, and filth, closer to the heart of ugliness the city tried so hard to hide.  He wanted a perfect death for her this time, in the game between the two; she had come up with the more picturesque places for him to lay rest.  She had always been more creative then he, this Augusta, or by whatever handle hid her true force.  To think they were once mirrors of the same appetite, stars crossed lovers, a union brandished by nothing more then the greatest admiration for another being.  Yet like all things, it would rot with time, fancy with its facsimile. Both real and farce at once, and all are married to it gravitation, its barring superstition.  How he hated the Claddagh of the clock hands, so much it dredged his taste for all things considered refreshing.  How he wished to make a bed and slumber afar from both aspects.  He wondered if it would be different if eons weren't a factor, but wishful thinking would never stop the cycle of on & on.  They were but locks in a locket.

 "What did I ever do to you, all I did was order some comfort!" she said with a lurching disdain, eager and wrestling to free his grasp at any measure.  It was true, just blind luck to find her here of all places, and he aimed to weigh the scales just as they always did.  Unfortunately, they were bound by it.  Her eyes met his in this struggle, and for a second, he saw why he had loved her all those millennia ago; the pure overgrowth of soul and gesture.  The fire was just behind her irises, slowly unclogging from its tired and rusty clasps.  Before the night was over, he would speak to her again. 

 He did and didn't want to deal with the true voice, and his pits jerked like there awkward dance as lumbering through alleyscapes.  In these times he knew why she always won, he was only capable of appearing cold, but she, she could bath in the artic palpations.  All the nudges unclotted his own internal wounds, made him recall everything instead of nothing in a moment begging for focus.  Her subconscious teasing for his beveled torture, like the rack or the iron maiden, forecasted that this was a mousetrap for two.  She began to grow in strength, not enough that he couldn't maintain, but her aura took to a bluish glow.  The surge of the true voice was coming, and if he didn't act quickly she would open her eyes; toppling all the ground he had gained in ambush.  He forced her onward, belittling her steps with centripedal force, fake and egged on in confused rushes.

 He cocked the gun in command, and put her in a place that he thought would prolong the second coming.  To his surprise she flickered in quick torrential cap, speaking to his face with her unbridled phalanges.  It was a small quake, but enough to break free of his grasp, as he disoriented with the necessity of tear-ducts.  Her head began to sear as she stumbled back with feverish flares, and the light grew stronger.  It was time, she was coming.  Yet in this hailing vertigo of never ending lights, the only volume he could comprehend was the aerials in his stomach, relaying something strange.  Something different, something new...