‘This truth is like a sea that has no shore;
That you should once have been, and are no more.’
Truer words were never spoken -- or written, then typed, to be specific. And as the sea of listless blue roamed over the words scrawled upon that faded paper, yellowed with age, a deep, once forgotten sadness overwhelmed her being. Her heart, no matter how black and merciless it was presumed to be, ached with the longing that had been hidden in her subconscious for an unimaginable amount of time. Memories of her once thriving existence made the sadness all the more unbearable. She could almost feel that child in her arms, that man at her side, both of whom names caused far too much pain to even reminisce about. It would be difficult to imagine that this dark, emotionless girl would have once called herself ‘happy’. The word seemed so unreachable while she wallowed in her own misery.
This girl, now hunched over an ornately carved desk of the most beautiful aspen, growled as the memory of her past life sent a wave of fury striking through her softened heart. The walls that had kept so many out, that had crumbled while she recalled her previous life, now rebuilt themselves instantaneously, though she purposely added another thick layer of the hardest stone to shield it from further pain. Finished with composing herself, she heaved herself off the worn leather armchair she had been sitting on. The springs gave off a soft, haunting squeal, but she had grown so accustomed to the sound it was as shock-inducing as the wind itself.
A quick glance in the mirror opposite her in the dark room silently informed her that her own cascades of onyx tresses were a tangled mass around her angular, catlike features. ‘ I look grotesque ’ she thought bitterly, slowly raising one slender hand to tug at a wild curl tumbling down the side of her face. She stood watching herself for several minutes, before she let out a long sigh and spun away from her own reflection. Her own selfish vanity had finally gotten the better of her pride, and thus she rummaged through a desk drawer to resurface a long forgotten ivory comb. Yanking the comb recklessly through her hair, a minority of strands wove themselves through the bristles and tore away from her scalp painfully. It was painful, but nothing like she had already experienced.
The comb itself felt like she was scraping it over Velcro, and after the dreadful encounter it had had with her hair, she began carefully plucking the strands from between the bristles. Minutes later, a pile of her own hair lay strewn casually across the face of the desk, later accompanied by the comb itself. Now, at least, her hair hung it sleek ringlets down her back, stopping as they pooled on her own lap. “ Hmm . . . It’s grown so long since I last noticed it. . . “ she murmured softly, her dull voice piercing the darkness that enveloped her slender form. The abrupt darkness was cause by a dark storm cloud blanketing the moon. This upset her. Her most favourite pastime was marvelling her own milky white skin in the bleaching moonlight. Vain girl, thy name is Many. This was what she referred to herself as. With each new life came a new name. If she recalled properly her full name ought to be something along the lines of ‘ Spencer Maxine Roxanne Arabella Maryanne Valentine Laroque - Charmaine’. What a mouthful.
Her new name was to be Spencer. She enjoyed how the English boys said it ‘ Spen- saahhh ’. But, it was always the last name they ever said. Her name was the center of her pride. The more unique a name, the more proud she was to tell anyone what it was. But it was somewhat useless; no one had ever lived to speak it again. She had often wondered what it would be like if she merely left one single person alive, whom would be old enough to tell others of what they had seen. To tell others of Her, of Spencer, of the Angel of Death.
You might be asking : ‘ How did she get this name? ’ Simple. By slowly tearing away every bone from one’s skeleton. Even the smallest of bones would be detached, and placed exactly as it should have been beside the other bones it had been attached to. On rare occasions, certain people would not notice the victim was dead until they tried to move them, when all the joints would fall away from the whole. A gruesome and very, very painful death. Something she deemed fitting for humanity.
That you should once have been, and are no more.’
Truer words were never spoken -- or written, then typed, to be specific. And as the sea of listless blue roamed over the words scrawled upon that faded paper, yellowed with age, a deep, once forgotten sadness overwhelmed her being. Her heart, no matter how black and merciless it was presumed to be, ached with the longing that had been hidden in her subconscious for an unimaginable amount of time. Memories of her once thriving existence made the sadness all the more unbearable. She could almost feel that child in her arms, that man at her side, both of whom names caused far too much pain to even reminisce about. It would be difficult to imagine that this dark, emotionless girl would have once called herself ‘happy’. The word seemed so unreachable while she wallowed in her own misery.
This girl, now hunched over an ornately carved desk of the most beautiful aspen, growled as the memory of her past life sent a wave of fury striking through her softened heart. The walls that had kept so many out, that had crumbled while she recalled her previous life, now rebuilt themselves instantaneously, though she purposely added another thick layer of the hardest stone to shield it from further pain. Finished with composing herself, she heaved herself off the worn leather armchair she had been sitting on. The springs gave off a soft, haunting squeal, but she had grown so accustomed to the sound it was as shock-inducing as the wind itself.
A quick glance in the mirror opposite her in the dark room silently informed her that her own cascades of onyx tresses were a tangled mass around her angular, catlike features. ‘ I look grotesque ’ she thought bitterly, slowly raising one slender hand to tug at a wild curl tumbling down the side of her face. She stood watching herself for several minutes, before she let out a long sigh and spun away from her own reflection. Her own selfish vanity had finally gotten the better of her pride, and thus she rummaged through a desk drawer to resurface a long forgotten ivory comb. Yanking the comb recklessly through her hair, a minority of strands wove themselves through the bristles and tore away from her scalp painfully. It was painful, but nothing like she had already experienced.
The comb itself felt like she was scraping it over Velcro, and after the dreadful encounter it had had with her hair, she began carefully plucking the strands from between the bristles. Minutes later, a pile of her own hair lay strewn casually across the face of the desk, later accompanied by the comb itself. Now, at least, her hair hung it sleek ringlets down her back, stopping as they pooled on her own lap. “ Hmm . . . It’s grown so long since I last noticed it. . . “ she murmured softly, her dull voice piercing the darkness that enveloped her slender form. The abrupt darkness was cause by a dark storm cloud blanketing the moon. This upset her. Her most favourite pastime was marvelling her own milky white skin in the bleaching moonlight. Vain girl, thy name is Many. This was what she referred to herself as. With each new life came a new name. If she recalled properly her full name ought to be something along the lines of ‘ Spencer Maxine Roxanne Arabella Maryanne Valentine Laroque - Charmaine’. What a mouthful.
Her new name was to be Spencer. She enjoyed how the English boys said it ‘ Spen- saahhh ’. But, it was always the last name they ever said. Her name was the center of her pride. The more unique a name, the more proud she was to tell anyone what it was. But it was somewhat useless; no one had ever lived to speak it again. She had often wondered what it would be like if she merely left one single person alive, whom would be old enough to tell others of what they had seen. To tell others of Her, of Spencer, of the Angel of Death.
You might be asking : ‘ How did she get this name? ’ Simple. By slowly tearing away every bone from one’s skeleton. Even the smallest of bones would be detached, and placed exactly as it should have been beside the other bones it had been attached to. On rare occasions, certain people would not notice the victim was dead until they tried to move them, when all the joints would fall away from the whole. A gruesome and very, very painful death. Something she deemed fitting for humanity.
