Fuck, my own writing always makes me nervous.
Even In Death
I was running.
My feet pounded against the ground. Such swollen feet, dry and blistered from hammering the pavement, still hot even after midnight. I felt the blood pulsing through those feet, up my legs. The rhythmic thub-dub, thub-dub of a laboring heart overtook my hearing. I shook my head to clear the sound. As I shook, sweat spread and spit flew. I pushed the heavy locks off of my face and wiped my forehead. The back of my hand was covered with sweat and dirt, a mixture my body was coated in.
I took a ragged breath and ploughed forward, the effort of which put strain on my near-bare legs. Tattered cotton shorts clung to the skin, and a thin camisole clung to my torso, getting sheerer and sheerer as I sweat more and more.
I came to a sign declaring this as a dead end road, but I did not falter, I couldn't turn back.
I flew down the street, past the perfect lawns. Lot after gigantic lot of perpetually pruned bushes and pristine pathways. The grand houses with their French double doors and twin staircases, winding down to where the B.M.W.'s, Porches, Corvettes, and Rolls Royce's all came to mingle. They congregated around the central focus, a stone statue or sparkling fountain. Poor rich people, in their rich houses, all exuding the stench of happiness.
I crushed my eyelids together and spat at the gates of the nearest mansion, a particularly grand one, with a red velvet carpet cascading down each hand carved marble step. How I despised them. This hate pushed me to run faster, encouraging me to escape those suburbs.
As I came to the end of the street I saw a tall, pad-locked, iron rod fence. I allowed myself a mere second of hesitation before vaulting myself up the gate. I snatched at the top bar and stuck my feet into the spectacularly spun rods. My toes gripped the little curls and knobs of the hard metal, which was rough and cold. I pulled myself upwards, arms straining, and teetered on the edge before tilting over to the other side. I was a spider clinging to this web, one leg still hanging onto the top bar. I tugged on my leg, finding it stuck on an oddly angled piece of gate, my own web turning on me. A twist of the leg and a hard tug found my limb freed, yet not without the reward of a sharp pain shooting up my calf. I looked down at it, surprised with the deep gash that was delivering a steady fountain of hemoglobin to the emerald lawn below me.
I glanced back through the gate, realizing there was no time for pain. I dropped and began running again, picking up speed though my leg burned.
Over the gate, the scenery was slightly different; there were still many, many lots, and acres of green grass, but the marble houses there didn't protect the young and rich. I flew through the crumbling headstones and wilted flowers of paid respects. Nowhere, this was leading me nowhere. I whipped my head around searching for an escape route in the dark. How could I come so far, only to fail here? I saw no way of running further, so I took to hiding.
Such a shame so much nice property was taken up by the dead. Why waste living space on those whose only activity was to rot? I'm sure a nice big mansion would be there in time. Those very spots where I hid, ducking behind the stony evidence of lost lives, those spots would be the pool. Of course, they would have to dig up the pitiful bones, probably grind them into the concrete of the deck, no less. I dashed to the next row of graves, those slightly less demolished, and more crowded, as if they suddenly realized they had more dead bodies than they could compensate for. This large flat area, this would be the dining hall. Feast upon feast fed to the wealthy and glamorous, who would barely touch the food anyways, looking more similar to the rotten skeletons than they took to believe.
I continued through the future manor, and I could hear a second pair of footsteps now. A heartbeat in themselves, the thub-dub, thub-dub, thub-dub of the uneven footfalls barely reached my ears. I felt my own heartbeat increase, fueled by my adrenaline. I no longer felt the pain in my leg, and instead concentrated on the softest breeze which flirted with my skin, coaxing the surface to rise like the cover of a basketball.
I came to crouch behind a significantly large resting place, double-wide, if you would. Forget the Mona Lisa, the awe striking headstone which towered over the grave belonged in a museum. This would one day be the center piece of the courtyard. Its polished marble surface reflected the light from the moon, and seemed to flex with the power of it.
I was facing the back of the statue, and what a back it was. From the shoulder blades, two plumed wings burst through the flawless skin, each and every feather etched with countless hours of perfection and care. I couldn't help but reach out and touch the bottom tips of the wings which hung parallel to the feet. Those perfect feet were flexed up on the balls, the raw muscles running up the calves, reminding me of my own slashed and ruined leg. His knees were both bent slightly, and the thighs had the inward curve of definition. I ducked around to the front of him.
The angel was completely nude; the powerful form a celebration of heaven itself. I saw the tapered hips, where nothing was hidden, yet it was completely natural, as if clothing this angel would have been the sin. I saw the muscular torso and the massive chest which was high above me. The arms which were pulled back seemed strong enough to rip open the sky itself. The face, ever so slightly turned upwards; it made my heart ache. The hard line of the jaw contrasted sweetly with the delicate lips.
The strong nose and defined cheekbones would have given the angel a hard and inhumane look, if they hadn't been opposed by the eyes; the eyes in which I could see the world. The world as God saw it, bright and exuberant, full of life and love, and the world as the devil saw it, dark and tempting, full of seduction and death. The whole body, the great figure, all the muscles taught, seemed as if he could fly off at any moment taking the soul of whoever lay at his feet with him.
With this thought I looked at the inscription and gasped, stumbling back. Instead of ground, my foot found only empty air, and I tumbled backward, thrown into a deeper darkness than I had ever known to exist. I hit the sharp spines with a sickening thud, and cried out in pain.
I looked up, the long six foot look, and I saw him. Standing beneath the angel, he was framed by the wings as if they were his own; only from below, the wings merely blotted out the stars, leaving the shapes torn through the sky. He was my dark prince, my fallen angel. He stood above me in his terrible beauty, a wicked smile on his face that hurt me more than the knives which I laid on. I knew he had planned this, had waited for this moment and it pleased him. I saw his wounded leg and it wrenched me back in time.
We were so happy. I kissed him goodnight, and he had grabbed me, thrown me against the wall and told me he loved me. Begged me to come to bed with him, but I was scared. I refused, managed to rip away from his grasp, only to find myself slammed against the floor, his strong body pressing tightly on top of mine. It was then he took out his knife. And I knew he meant to kill me, so I agreed to go with him. He led me away to the bedroom. When he turned, I grabbed the knife, plunged it deep into his thigh, and then I was running.
"Goodnight Tasha." He spat, as the first load from his shovel landed in my grave.
I knew I was going to die, and even as I thought it, I could only see the angel, his flight eternally postponed. As I would soon be anchored to the grave, he was anchored to the stone mass, which read;
With this thought I looked at the inscription and gasped, stumbling back. Instead of ground, my foot found only empty air, and I tumbled backward, thrown into a deeper darkness than I had ever known to exist. I hit the sharp spines with a sickening thud, and cried out in pain.
I looked up, the long six foot look, and I saw him. Standing beneath the angel, he was framed by the wings as if they were his own; only from below, the wings merely blotted out the stars, leaving the shapes torn through the sky. He was my dark prince, my fallen angel. He stood above me in his terrible beauty, a wicked smile on his face that hurt me more than the knives which I laid on. I knew he had planned this, had waited for this moment and it pleased him. I saw his wounded leg and it wrenched me back in time.
We were so happy. I kissed him goodnight, and he had grabbed me, thrown me against the wall and told me he loved me. Begged me to come to bed with him, but I was scared. I refused, managed to rip away from his grasp, only to find myself slammed against the floor, his strong body pressing tightly on top of mine. It was then he took out his knife. And I knew he meant to kill me, so I agreed to go with him. He led me away to the bedroom. When he turned, I grabbed the knife, plunged it deep into his thigh, and then I was running.
"Goodnight Tasha." He spat, as the first load from his shovel landed in my grave.
I knew I was going to die, and even as I thought it, I could only see the angel, his flight eternally postponed. As I would soon be anchored to the grave, he was anchored to the stone mass, which read;
"Natasha Nicole Maine, An angel even in death."
