for my queen.

     ❛ I killed my children, drank them until they ran dry. ❜

              Her voice lacks all emphasis ( the booming chest voice that gives her the authority she deserves. ) It’s monotone like the colours she sees, they’re all made of the one same grey mass && merge together to create a vast nothingness that expands inside the cavity of chest. Fingers squeeze glass tighter until it shatters in hand. It draws blood, but she doesn’t feel the dizziness that is supposed to follow. Entering her bloodstream are microscopic fragments of glass— alien to the immune system. Hand remains as was, still as if still holding a drink in hand. && That is the cue for her voice to shatter, become meek && all but apathetic. 

               ❛ They were so brave — Their fingers held onto me so tight I thought I’d bruise. ❜

                     ❛   Oh, darling.   ❜  

              She’s fragile, & admittedly--there’s a strange fondness in that. She’s a wounded dove, alabaster draped in crimson, ( the rubies drape so crisp against wan tones, no wonder she had a penchant for diamonds & pearls, the former had flaunted its strength & the latter arose, kissed by sea foam, abode  to Botticelli's  Venus.  )   she was an art form ! There is beauty in her pain, she endures as much as she endears. if he could empathize, he would. He is a man of infatuation, incapable of bona fide sentiments & The Countess is well aware. There’s a subtle rise as glass destructs within her palms. He almost hails Evers, but recalls a certain conundrum. 

            ❛  Allow me to help. I know how much those little towheads meant to you, Elizabeth.   ❜  so he rises, takes a curt stride & quickly brushes all that’s scattered before her view. There’s blood on her hands. He’s always liked her best with blood on her hands. Now it’s different--the huntress holds no prey. She’s devoured herself.  

         ❝ You set a dread in that woman’s spine. She ain’t             coming back with her little crew —  doesn’t really             bother me, psychics taste like fraud. ❞

Darling.

SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLE

There is a long silence as she stares at him with mild disgust before her black lips part & speaks in an abyssal baritone, dark & cold like a great machine. She humors him, perhaps she’ll find some enjoyment shattering his ghostly sanity.

❝ … I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. ❞

    ❛ I’m not one to doubt the ability of otherworldly figures -- my, the notion itself is erroneous &  utterly vain.  I would kill the woman who even attempted to parallel The Countess’ ethereal concept -- she is not to be replicated, not even by the grace of God.  ❜ a differentiating aura, an unfamiliar orifice, words that are riddled with alien disgust. He’s brought it upon himself to memorize her demeanor, worship at the feet of his goddess & practice her tirade like choir hymns.