May. 21st, 2008

professeurdeloi: (The Ghosts of my Life)
The night sky is visible in an oblong above, a hand silhouetted against the moon.

Fingers open, he can see it, he can feel the soil falling over his head.

He can't move, he can't speak.

"I'll bury you with my bare hands."

I'm not dead.

I'm not dead.

Faint laughter - deep, musical and baritone.

"Of course you're dead, Miles. I killed you."

The rustle of silk and wool, the passing scent of lavender.

"Don't you remember?"

Hands around his throat, manicured thumbs pressed hard to his windpipe.

"Don't you remember the dying of the light?"

Fingertips soft as silk against his skin and goosebumps blossoming where they touch.

He remembers, now.

Fingers long and boney, nails digging in to his flesh.

Tightening fractionally, inexorably, after every breath - each one becoming harder, shallower, more desperate.

It's a slow death. Agonising. He knows it will take days, weeks, months, years.

And yet he does nothing but kneel and bare his throat.

"You gave yourself to me freely, Miles. You always did."

He doesn't even close his eyes, or try to beg for mercy.

He remembers the dying of the light.

He remembers the dimming of his vision, the narrowing of his focus.

He remembers the slowing of his heart, the feel of his pulse fluttering,

He remembers the loss of hope, the gradual erosion of his consciousness.

And finally his hands on those hands, wordlessly begging for it to be over, to please kill him, to stop the pain.

And that laugh again.

"It will never be over, Miles. You'll always be mine."


professeurdeloi: (Default)

June 2013


Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 23rd, 2017 02:14 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios