World of Sin
Note | 1 Comment · 1 Loves It | 4 months ago
I sit on the sill, watching the snowdrift outside. It's cold, and white sticks to the frosted glass of the window.
From where I sit I can see the worn down path that stops at the gate. Thousands must have walked it before I was here. And when I leave, there may be thousands more. I'll never know.
Curious thoughts play in my mind tonight.
I wear my dark hair loose so it drifts down over my white skinned frame in a strikingly contrasting waterfall, a wave of dark curls.
I inhale deeply and close my eyes. Long lashes lower over the thin flesh that shields my dark irises from the dangers of everyday life.
As I breathe in, I taste the cold on the air. I feel the shapes of miniature ice fragments come to rest on my tongue, tasting of icy water and the breeze outside. I draw my tongue in and open my dark orbs again, revealing circlets of deep green, ocean pools.
A smile touches my lips, the colour of dying rose petals. A rich red, but not overly so. Burgundy, even.
Outside, the breeze grows to something more than what causes a stray tree branch to tap idly against the glass. This, this is a soft wind. A soothing one at that, one that could lull me into sleep should I decide to allow it, and more often than usual, I have done lately.
Though, instead of pulling me into that forever dream like state that we humans call sleep - I raise my head from its resting place on the windowpane. I take my hand from the cold surface of the tiles that make up the windowsill, and curl my fingers around the metallic, cool surface of the thing in my palm.
I feel a cold cut across my flesh, and for once, it isn't the cold that is outside. It is not the cold that drifts through under my doorway at night, nor is it the cold that causes me to shiver and delve myself deeper into my bed sheets.
This, This is the cold of steel, of the knife.
My lids flutter shut again as I pull myself slowly off balance, so that I come to rest in the corner of the sill. My simple gown of white silk cascades down my paper white thighs, I shudder at the feeling.
I pull my leg up from where it had dangled off the edge, and position it so my knee is just underneath my chin. A firm hold, to stop me from slipping off the sill, off balance, and off target.
I have to open my eyes a second or third time to look at what I'm
doing, but the growing wind outside is making things difficult.
It's causing my heart to throb faster than it usually would. It
races as I bring the silver edge up to rest against the creamy
flesh of my thigh.
My other hand moves and tugs up the nightgown, a soft, yet sheer material making it easy to move out of the way. I don't know why I don't just take it off.
The silver edge moves across my skin all too quickly and an esperated gasp leaves my parted lips - unable to help myself I groan softly and bite my lip to quiet myself.
I watch crimson bubble up in rich beads of red on a starch white surface; like paint on canvas.
The silver piece lands on the carpeted floor without a sound - burying its ruby tainted surface in layers of soft fabrics for me to find stained tomorrow.
My finger lowers, dips into the river of red, and raises to my lips. My tongue flicks out tasting sweet copper.
Crimson drips down to my ankle and trails its way over the tiles like melting wax. I watch it in fascination, breathing rapid, almost uncontrollable.
All too soon I feel my strings pulled, my eyes flutter shut as I lower onto the sill, laying upon it.
My head spins, my fingers tremble, and then become loose once more.
I look like a ghost in the shade of white, the only contrast, the flash of silver on the carpet, the scarlet on my skin.
And before I know it I'm slipping away into mysterious bliss, a world of sin.