The Phoenix

Optional Playlist:

Stellar Corpses: Steel Butterfly

Shiny Toy Guns: We Are Pilots

He precariously arranged me, sprawled across the basement floor, angelic hair spread like soft sun rays. He looked at me with those sad, blinking eyes. The creases in his freckled face sank like quicksand. The quivering lines in his lips moved like breaking waves. He licked the salt from the corners.

He bent to his knees. He rocked on the tips of his toes. His fingers, soft as rose petals, traced the contours of a forearm. A sticking heat crept down the back of his neck. His warm fingernails scraped at cold scabs. They scattered like broken icicles across blue glaciers.

The floorboards, above, coughed. Dust sprayed down. It glowed in the soft light that beamed from the half-window. He shivered at my cold. His warm blood quaked. He trembled. I withered. He knew they were growing closer. He knew they would find us.

He chipped the edges of his nails with jagged, front teeth. The tip of his tongue sucked the peppermint from his bruised lips. The smell of dead flowers and old perfume slithered down the back of his throat. The bitter taste twisted, and raked.

Something young and imperfect flashed along the black, backs of his eyelids. He stood. The cold, hard of the concrete shot up his spine. A dark oozing crept from my shattered limbs. It pooled at the edges of his shoes.

He swallowed hard. His palm rustled freshly chopped, asymmetrical hair. He scraped the damp edges from his cheek.

He gritted his teeth. His memory conjured my manicured nails. They dug deep into his thighs. My stained dress wound serpentine, suffocating his rippled body.

The basement door screeched open.

Thump. 

Heavy steps crushed down like my cloying voice. It rang in the backs of his ears.

Thump. 

He replayed my frantic knocks on a wooden door. He felt my curls scraped the hollow in his shoulders.

Thump.

Beaded blood pooled across the top of his tongue.  It swirled in the back of his mouth. His palms pressed deeply into his temples.

Thump.

Their hollow footsteps hit the cement floor. Their gate was devastating, and filled with intent.

They clawed at his body. They slammed him against the cold wall.

Their lips curled in mocking snarls.

Their steps crunched. They drug the slivers of glass, a reflection he had so precariously arranged.

“What did you do with her?”

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