He must be in control of himself and his desires. Sucking deep breaths in through his nostrils, he collects his thoughts-he mustn’t rush. In spite of his impatience to start the ritual, he waits. A wolfish grin grows across his face at the thought of Star on her knees, begging him to take her back. After this is over he will make her love him again. Her face holds his thoughts for a moment: pale, perfect and framed by a mass of ebony curls. Some are intact but most are torn or defaced. On his pillow, dozens of photographs lie like fallen leaves. His jewellery jingles like tiny bells as he lets it fall, scattering like distant stars across the midnight duvet. Pushin g back his shoulder-length hair, he removes the hoops from his left ear, and finally the silver stud from his sharply pointed nose. The tips of his fingers prickle with energy. It expands around him, a web of ancient knowledge. His fragile-looking, angular body is lost in the forest of writing. Realising this feels like losing her all over again. There is no trace of her scent on his body. After tossing the garment on to his bed, he unzips his jeans, and forces the denim over his legs and to the floor. He unbuttons his shirt, swearing as he leaves fingerprints on the cotton. Even his wardrobe and door are covered in intricate black sigils. Markings cover every surface: the bare floorboards, ceiling and walls. His fingers and the lace cuffs of his shirt are stained from the charcoal he uses to scribble symbols. Satori stands in the centre of his bedroom.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |