The room is tangibly cold. It makes me uncomfortable, and I keep swinging my tail as if to keep ice from collecting along it, even though I know it won't. To me, everything has a filter of gray, except the girl. Except, Elizabeth. She slumps against her bed, unmoving, a letter opener held loose between her fingers. The enameled handle appears to be a deep red wood with a black grain, and has clear crystals set around the base of the blade. There is no sweet scent of blood, and the blade is clean, though tarnished.
All beings have a light. Devils and angels can see it without trying, and sometimes mortals can as well. It sends pulses through the air, crawling along the skin of devils, angels, and mortals alike. Mortals' lights are weak, barely a match stick. They bleed together into a dull hum of sensation, in comparison beings such as myself send out a charge that allow mortals to feel hope or dread when we just step into their plane.
I can't see hers, I can't feel it, but she's not dead. Her entire body expands and contracts with the labor of her breathing, as if all her muscles are too weak to resist her lungs. Her head rocks, hair swings but continues to cover her face. She seems to be absorbing the rules of existence, like a black star. It unnerves me.
No comments:
Post a Comment