As she passes, I catch the scent and my entrails coil and knot like a ball of newly born snakes. My sister reeks of her despicable habits. No matter how thoroughly she bathes, I can smell it: the stench of peasant seed. All the baths in Persia, all the perfume in Venice cannot cover the stink of her base carnality.
Don’t let her delicacy fool you: her oil-soft skin, her gleaming hair, her dainty hands. She sits in her tower with her small foot poised just so, allowing for a glimpse of her well-turned ankle. And they come. They claw their way up the walls like musk-crazed dogs, panting, salivating. Jaws set, eyes on fire for a taste of her perfection.
And instead of maintaining her position and keeping to her own kind, she’s gratified by them. She smiles serenely until she has them behind closed doors, and then she lets them at her. All the while feigning disinterest, until their calloused hands are on her immaculate skin and their filthy fingers dig into the flesh of her porcelain hips. She whimpers like a bitch in heat while they drool over her elegant back and disgorge their tainted seed into her womb. And where is her shame?
No matter that she sees them off after she’d sated. No matter that she gives her heart to none of them. No matter their bodies lie, bleeding and broken like so much discarded meat, at the bottom of her tower.
I know. I always know when she’s let her mask slip and raised her skirt.
It seeps out her pores, even now, as she takes her seat beside me, as the banquet begins, and the musicians start to play. She’ll leave their wretched spend smeared on the flagstones as she dances with better men.
Still, in the candlelight, I can see the quiet creep of time. Her eyes, once sharp and bright, grow muted. There are creases being born in the velvet skin at the edges of them. Her full lips seem, with each day, just a little less plump.
One day, they’ll stop climbing the walls of the tower, Sister. One day, the bodies at the base will be nothing but white, meatless bones. They’ll rattle in the winter gusts and make homes for sheltering squirrels.
With your appetite devouring you from the inside, and no one begging to sate it, then, perhaps, you won’t cringe quite so visibly when I reach for you.
(This was inspired by a piece by Sadistic Excess – not yet blogged. Set me off down interesting pathways.)
This is right up my street! love it.
Ubi sunt? Incredible, provocative, disturbing twist on the tradition.
Interesting that this would have been a great title for the last piece I posted too!
Yes–an interesting theme going there, Rgrl!
Very disturbing, and a bit incest-like for a ‘traditionalist’ like myself.
As for the carnality that she supposedly wears so staunchly…perhaps she is really just an average girl, living amongst a being(s) that is so bent upon searching her very blood, for failure…that she has been misinterpreted.The ‘woman’ being depicted, is thankfully not at all like me. She is another woman that the being(s) watch/lie in wait to devour. Her name is….well then I guess you know it already. Sh…Y
Excuse my license, I just thought I would lend another element..
Oh, there is most definitely the implication of incest. And it shouldn’t be a comfortable story. And you’re absolutely right – we really don’t know who she is at all. We are only seeing her through the eyes of someone else. I guess that was the point of the exercise – to really explore the fact that… the narrator’s vision says very little about the object of his regard, and much more about him. I think that’s true for a lot of intimate portraiture. It tells you very little about the person being described and a lot about the describer.
“It tells you very little about the person being described and a lot about the describer.”
I think that’s the reason that this reminded me of “My Last Duchess”.
RG,
Very good, I’m curious about the teller in this one. Leaves much to the imagination.
Thank you,
-TFP
Very Interesting and intense in those few lines. One also wonders what type of beings the brother and sister are…
Thanks, for the reply RG.
As always you stretch my imagination.
tantalize my soul, and feed my dark-side.
Not sure the latter is good.
Mem’s
Everything he says seems to me to be the self-flagellating, speculative imagining of a bitter mind. He even looks forward to the fading of the beauty that he is obsessed with. He may be resentful and cynical but he’s, oh, so believably human.
Thank you, I’m really glad it read that way for you.
Ravishingly good. I don’t care who they are. I decided she was me & so was the teller. If I stop to think what that might say about me I won’t post this!!!
Warriors striving for a goal obtaining and finding it is nothing but an illusion.
Wonderful storytelling. For me, the best part is the number of characters who might tell a different story. It leaves the possiblity open for more!
Aw, I saw that twist coming a mile away
And I adored it anyway. His obsession and infatuation and vicious passion is so totally obvi from like, the first line. I love, love, LOVED it. So much so that I decided to get off my lazy arse and comment, instead of staying silent, as if ashamed of enjoying your awesomeness! That was brilliant, as always…
Dark, edgy & needy…
Always leaves me wanting more
murr. Thank you!