#steeples hands

the girls and the gays

for twenty eight years he had endured. It had never seemed like a grueling task, not one that would scour abrasions into his forbearance until he was all exposed nerves and tumultuous ire. the thing was, when one was so acquainted with death, with killing, it no longer held its harrowing ramifications. It was disconcerting how comparable the crushing of bone sounded, like thick carapace splintering, how the pulp of brain matter and shards of skull could look monstrous if one let their vision fade into amorphous rage. his strength was an asset to the people, one they neglected to recognise as violence when it was harnessed for protection, not destruction. the air felt heavy, the stagnant calm before a fierce storm. that is how he had felt, how cathartic it was to irrevocably yield to that seething rancor. his father’s voice had droned on and on, an ever present second heart - beat, derisive and inordinate. it was rapturous, the silence as he gurgled on mouthfuls of blood, the shuddering heaves of a chest caved in. the crater from the impact of his fist over and over again, a purging of burgeoning resentment that gathered at the ridges of his knuckles, extending across tenuous bone as rib after rib shattered violently, imbedding in vital organs and soft, sanguine tissue. it had started as a trivial conversation, matrimony for the sake of the family, his elder sister too incompetent to even be considered a prospect. he wondered, in that euphoric aftermath, surging through him, his breath ragged, if that was all it too to break, finally. he had weathered their father’s animosity for decades - he was not going to allow it authority over his sister’s lives. gepard laid back, flush to the old, lacquered table where they had eaten dinner numerous times, the velvet cloth draped over it incriminating - saturated. his father’s crumpled body had slumped out of the gilded, imperious chair that sat at the head of the table, toppled over now, confining his mangled arms, stretching out in a blind terror, at all wrong angles. his sightless eyes were wide, horrified, his mouth an everlasting cavern of frantic screams. he sighs, it was like the breath he had been holding for years had finally been released.  he would have to get rid of the body. he closes his eyes for a long moment, considering his options, there were few, this had not been a plotted slaughter - it was impulsive. he had never once considered himself as his father’s killer yet there he was, an abhorrent rendition of carnage, his face pallid, his eyes dark and merciless, fists dripping with his father’s blood, cruor smeared across the back of his hands. he tilts his head back, gazing at the chandelier above, the tiny, ornate crystals seemed to shimmer eerily now, adjudicating him for his crimes. it was unsettling how facile the matter felt, how towing his father’s limp body out of the dining room, leaving a long, sinuous smear of blood, was entirely natural. he was unperturbed by the unpleasantness of it, but also recognised, with cold rationale, that he could not forsake his father to that room, in that house, lest a servant or one of his sister’s should stumble upon it. he had not bothered to clean himself of blood, there was so much he doubted it would be worth the effort expended. rather, with a spade clasped in one hand and his father’s collar viced in the other he walked the cobblestone path into the gardens, his father’s polished, black shoes disturbing the soft dirt, his immaculate clothes sullied with mud, slick with blood. cast in the ambient glow of the moon, the early hours of belobog’s dawn too cold to receive the sleepless, gepard landau buried his father in a shallow grave, the mire and grass shoveled ontop of it marked it not as the work of an amateur but as someone who no longer felt subjected to things such as discretion - or charity. 

a cute ruby to match the new banner.

pokemon verse ???? !!! 

divisive opinion: rare steak is the only valid kind of steak.