Death Maiden and The Harlequin

Copyright ©Melanie McCurdie 2015/01/28

How I came to be here I know not, only that I woke from my slumber not in my dwelling but curled in a nest of poisonous greenery that covered me as a blanket, near a small stream. The air was fragrant with rot and quiet desperation, the delicious scent drifting to me from the broken down town just in the distance. Yowling sounds carry on the wind to my ears, making them want to bleed, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I would like to end the misery of whatever poor creature was being forced to vocalize its joy.

The stream is a constantly growing tendril of crimson, sparkling in the dying light, and I crouch to capture some in my hand. It tastes of Prey and steam, tingling on my tongue. There is no lifeblood here, but for the cleverly flowing stream, no animals scatter in my wake.

Scythe rest against the closest tired and withered tree, Her blade dull and unhappy in the thick dusty air. She shivers in the heat, Her stalk growing a feathery covering of grime. I drift to Her, a smile of pleasure upon my lips at finding My Beautiful Destroyer so close at hand. She sings softly to me as my hand grasps Her stalk, brushing away the feathery covering She has inherited as a grimy welcome gift.

The shadows are deeper along the ruts in the ground that had been created by wheeled carts, the trees on either side looming over us as we drift in the gloaming, Scythe and I dim in the darker twilight. The yowling has ceased, perhaps another black soul had fed upon its owner’s essence, and is replaced by the tinkling tones of a music box. I find this odd to my mind, and creep up upon the town, my unnatural blues taking in the decrepit and worn buildings.

From the windows, stubby candles flicker and glow, as lovers lighting the way home. I find it distasteful to my eyes and lift my lip in contempt. Humans are strange creatures, I muse as I stalk closer, mine eyes devouring each and every movement. Here and there shadows flick and flitter, the windows reflecting ghastly beauty as eyes follow my progression.

Human women posture and pose in the windows of the tavern, their voices screeching as they call to the men below, exposing their lackluster breasts and legs in an effort to find a warm body to share their diseased beds. The Tainted Rose the poorly painted sign screams in muted tones, that causes my black heart to pound. From inside the yowling has begun once again, with hard tones attempting to soften the horrid warbling coming from the airtube of some wanton strumpet.

On the edge of town, a building seems to glow a sickly green, its luminescence eye watering in the desiccated dust of this town. It is as a beacon in the gloom, a deathly lighthouse, and causes that despicable bubbling sound to explode from my gut. I am most displeased by this, and snarl as Scythe screams in my ear. Male voices, jovial and reeking of solicitous intent sound behind me, close enough for one to stroke my midnight shot ember strands. I whirl about, swinging Scythe low and dragging her upwards to slice the offending hand from the one who dares touch me. He screams and falls, his fellow beasts surrounding him and looking at me with reproach. Scythe drools blood from her beautiful blade, the crimson as rouge on the most lovely bone cover, as she drinks in her first taste.

The beasts gather the fallen and hurry him away from me, looking back over their shoulders as they flee, and I return my gaze curiously once again to the house just beyond. As I draw closer, I see many plants that resemble the toxic greenery in which I returned to consciousness in. The yard of this small stone dwelling is full of lush plants and trees, the scent of the poison flora heavy in my sinuses. I could smell the bitterness of hemlock, the rabid venin of belladonna and the shining and somehow prickly fragrance of poison ivy, twisted around each other in a venomous and deadly concoction.

Within the yard of malicious vegetation dances a most puzzling creature, her hat of brightly colored fabric topped with bells of sickeningly sweet timbre, that bounced and rang with every movement she made. I creep closer, Scythe close at my side, her voice a croon to my ears as I take in the flashy and somehow conflicting patterns that cause my unnatural blues to deny their existence, the metallic heliotrope intertwining with midnight, straight lines with chevrons ghastly in their existence.

I am most confused by this creature, and find that displeasing sound threatening to explode from my chest yet again when she turned her head, a somehow respectful yet evil grin upon her lovely face.

A Matt Farnsworth Film The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Full Fathom 5 Studios
A Matt Farnsworth Film
The Orphan Killer 2
Bound x Blood
Full Fathom 5 Studios
“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC All Rights Reserved

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