#bardolctry

“ How come aunt Ginny has a bunch of babies but you don’t have any at all? ”

how do u have so few drafted posts….

Cyclical pacing could all but burrow holes into marble flooring, soles scuffing against the well-worn stone time and again as fingers tread through a scarlet scalp, each step resonating with another fall of her heel. Lithe figure is emulsioned in blatant misgiving as her eyes narrate a story of azure-riddled unease. There is a delicacy and a caution taken in their ISOLATION ––– a secure berth of distance riving the two as she patrolled the length of the allocated room and he, sitting on the edge of a metal chair, dug his elbows into his thighs. She feels the bristles of her scalp give way with each tug, a habit seemingly forgotten in youth reprising upon the cusp of peaked discontent as her nails punctured against alabaster skin. Memories which echo within her mind are unwelcome, STOWED away for the protection of her own sanity as the tumult and grief of recent occurrences take foothold, weighting at her conscience for the revelation of truth behind the distinct purpose of barbaric testing administered against a body which, against all odds of recollection, stirred with nothing short of Grecian thew.

A hand placed firmly against her mouth quiets the unmitigated moans of baritone agony which threaten to over-brim the barricade of downturned lips. His voice serves nothing to CONSOLE, the lesions which mare his countenance unbearable to glance upon as his words pierce through the clangor of her pacing with a blade whetted by exhaustion evident in the uncharacteristically droll cadence of his voice. Pirouetting upon her heel to face him, her eyes are rimmed in red as a hand clutches at her abdomen.  “ No. ”  Her head shakes for a beat, curls of russet thread falling about her shoulders. “ You wouldn’t know the first thing about innocence. Don’t talk to me about innocence. You are a MONSTER._ ”_ Thoughts construe in decisive eccentricity ––– mind divested of the capability to coherently string thoughts for the tempest which rages within and shifts cogitation from left to right. Yet in the eye of the storm, thoughts encompass but one thing, and ferment from there : what he DID. Where she would die for her own sister and had yet failed, he would place his own before himself. Eyes alight and redolent as he watched her return to whichever SCULPTOR one such as himself could lay credence to. The gaggle of all-too-willing investigators, doctors, and scientists which assured her of his malevolent capability had shouldered the brunt of his interrogation and yet she had picked up enough from the intercom to forge interpretation of his supreme transgressions. They had all, too, cautioned her against him ––– and yet her tears were spilled for the blood he had shed alone.

_“ _No. You might be worse than a monster. You’re a tragedy. _”_

SHORT STORIES ( @cryoconquer** )**

                                                                    MONSTER.   it was a word that had been repeated within his mind with such unyielding fervour for years upon years that he had thought the syllables had lost all meaning until he heard them articulated from her tongue,  trembling vowels crumbling in heartbreak and agony,  fear and fury a  MAELSTROM  he could sense within her.  he only hoped that such a tempest beneath her breast would damage only that for which she felt her rage  ( that being himself_ )  _and did not stay buried beneath bone,  wreaking havoc upon the body within which it had been catalyzed.   shoulders stayed hunched,  head falling downwards,  his gaze averting to the floor,  noticing a smear of  RUSSET  upon eggshell tiling,  where their efforts to present an image of cleanliness and kindness were shown to perhaps be foolishly hasty.   dmitri knew that the narrative that ambrosia was receiving was entirely  FRAGMENTED,  but he knew she owed him no forgiveness,  nor did she owe him a chance for reconciliation and explanation.  he had lied,  he had kept his poison a secret,  if only because he had wished not to let it spill out from the cracks in his iron flesh,  lest she too retain his  CORRUPTION.   and he knew that she was undoubtedly told that he was being unreasonable,  uncooperative,  that any damage inflicted upon him was his own fault.  that he was being fed,  allowed to sleep,  treated fairly for the behaviour he exhibited.  he did not wish to conflict her anymore,  nor make her feel  REMORSE  for him,  as he was wholly undeserving of it.   though he had lied to her enough,  the prospect of further dishonesty for her sake left him conflicted. 

                                                                     ❝   you’re right.  i’m  ––––––  sorry.   ❞   his voice was  FRACTURED,  baritone rumbling in uneven timbre,  the attempts to keep the agony from his tone making it difficult to sound whole,  his head throbbing from where he had received blows with fists and batons,  his slumped positioning as much a result of his despondency and resignation as it was of the anguish that shot through his spine,  his abdomen trembling from  EXHAUSTION  and pain,  glad that she could not see the mottled pattern of maroon and vermillion that spanned his torso,  given before he had a chance to respond to questions he would have no way of knowing the answer to.  details of his father’s research,  his connections,  who he had worked for in detail with lists of names  were all required of him,  and when he insisted that as a child he had not been privy to such information,  he was beaten until the interrogator’s  BOREDOM  swept in as dmitri’s heroic saviour.     

❛ what, exactly,   classifies me as one of these... fuckboy people ? and how do i wipe the word from your vocabulary                        AND   MINE ?   i’d rather be called something nicer. something less   VULGAR.   are there any less-insulting titles you can bestow upon me, o great and powerful ambrosia ? ❜

                  “LOOK -- I know you mean well, but it’s WAY too early for this. Coffee first, then complaints, alright?”