whedonist

Part II - Into the Fire

Looking over my current canvas, I soak in the colors that dance before me. The spectrum astounds. It goes from a pale yellow and flows into greens, blues and ruddy purples. Monet would be weeping at the site before me.

Another soft, wet crack fills my workroom. I grin at the scream accompanying the new colors that appear on my portrait. I close my eyes and inhale, soaking in the smell that permeates this space. The pleading from the corner adds bass to the sonics of my room but it really will not get either of them anywhere.

I lovingly run a hand along my work of art. She hangs from the ceiling, bare, bruised and broken. Unable to resist the urge, I lick a trail of blood that seeped from one of the cuts.

Purring, I cherish the fact that she tastes better than those whimpering children do. It has been so lovely hearing them cry, hearing them scream. It’s given me purpose. It feels as if I wasn’t alive until I saw him. Then everything made sense. I became focused and driven.

I stand before him offering everything that I have and he weeps. His tears an elixir that infuse me with joy and contentment.

He looks away from me. A rejection. Worse than any before as his eyes lock on her.

I give a slight nod to the creature in the corner and beam as she finally cries out in anguish.

After too brief a time, she falls silent.

I think it just broke my toy.

Pouting, I tell it, “Dump her.” It unchains her and drags her from my room.

Turning back to him, I trace a finger down his cheek and say, “Pity that our toys break so easily.” I sit on his lap and wrap my hands around his neck. I nuzzle his neck and purr into his ear, “At least we have another that won’t break so easily.”

His whimper tells me everything that I need to know.