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To my teenage self. The one who didn’t think she was going to make it … I’m so happy that you chose to fight instead. Because look at us now.
The only pain in pleasure is the pleasure of pain. ANNE RICE
The first death I ever experienced was my own. Ripped out of my mother’s womb by sterile gloved hands and forced to take my first breath into this vile, repulsive world. I’ve been dying ever since.
Damn, that's deep.
Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end?
No one ever sees it...
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We sure don't.
I wonder if he felt the air shift, the swish of life’s pendulum taking its last majestic swing before my dagger found its home between his ribs.
This sounds poetic. Great writing.
I’d keep jars full of all the dying breaths I’ve ever had the pleasure to bear witness to.
I’m certain they would create a morbidly beautiful symphony, like seeking the sounds of t...
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my eye snags on the flickering candlelight reflecting on the dead man’s signet ring.
The sigil engraved
A hand, palm facing down, with strings tied and hanging from the ...
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I’d kill every Pravitian to cross my path if it meant I could seek out a single moment of peace in this damnable city.
Wednesday Addams vibes, but as an adult. She is sick of EVERYONE!
When I’m at a close enough distance, I pull out the severed finger that I’ve carelessly shoved into my purse and whip it at his face, hitting him square between the eyes.
Lmao! Gives zero fucks!
He looks ridiculous as he sputters like a dying fish,
LMFAO!!!
Peering at his family sigil clearly carved on the signet ring, he shrugs and throws the finger over his shoulder. It lands with a thunk against the back wall.
ZERO FUCKS! He said "nope, not today!"
The rage that engulfs me feels like tapping into an ancient bottomless well.
noticing his robe draped over a chair nearby.
quickly wrenching the satin belt out of its loops and twisting it around my hands.
Right as he cracks an eye to see what I’m up to, I wrap the sash around his neck from behind, and jam one of my heels between his s...
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His choked gasp is almost as delicious as the sound o...
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“I pray when death beckons you home, I am there to witness it,”
“I will be the first to dance on your grave.”
“Mercy.”
Oh, how I wish I could just kill her—collect her blood in vials, trickle it into the bath water like an expensive oil, and soak in it.
Lifetimes of tradition bind us together.
I didn’t want to admit it openly to Mercy, but the signet ring piqued my interest.
Everything about me is eye-catching. Delightful even. It reminds me of my own excellence. The magnificence of Wolfgang Vainglory.
When I hear the haunting notes bounce off the windows and walls, vaulting straight back into my ears, I open my eyes and gaze directly into the mirror. It’s a powerful experience to gaze at one’s divinity.
Reality bleeds into the imaginary,
My reflection begins to feel like something wholly apart from myself. Maybe I’m the one stuck inside a mirror.
But then I close my eyes. And the heart beating wildly inside my chest, the lungs supplying sweet oxygen to my blood, they remind me who I am.
What I’m worth.
Then I begin to lose myself in the music all over again. The restlessness turns into something a lot closer to life, the notes seeping into my skin, and charging me, enlive...
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I let the drum of bass travel through me, the music some kind of ethereal electronica, enveloping the space within a dreamy, gothic atmosphere.
“I was feeling … restless,”
“Oh? Did you want to book a private room?” she asks with a slight raise of her brows, then her face turns mischievous. “It’s been a while.”
-Oop! Okay, Mercy! Aha! 👀
“Touch me again, and I’ll sever your head and use it as a lawn ornament,”
My favorite painting has always been the one near the north-facing window. It’s of a naked figure gazing into a handheld ornate mirror. It reminds me of myself. Just like these frescoes, I provide beauty to a drab Pravitia.
“How do they describe me?”
‘divinely flawless’
‘magnetically intoxicating’.”
“That wil...
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It would be an easy matter if only my most trusted wore the Vainglory sigil.
But the ring is worn by everyone employed at Vainglory Media,
“Does it matter?” Marcus asks with a laugh,
My glare slides to him,
Shocked murmurs ripple across the room but Marcu...
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In truth, I understand why he dared to ask such a question: Why would I be bothered by anything to do with Mercy? I’m not.
But it’s the way he undermined me by saying those words out loud.
I detect the exact moment when he realizes his error. He practically shrinks in his poorly tailored suit.
