Akin to the way the autumn chill had seeped into the summer night, a kind of tenderness has overcome the city; where its walls once were snared with the tangles of rotted vines grew a bud that has now blossomed; hung above from a luring branch, wet, ripe and heavy it bore the fruit of a peace that they had yearned for a seeming eternity, hands clasped, forever pleading. The words that fell from holy mouths have been cast aside, Genesis rewritten: the serpent slain for his sins, man and woman side by side, their knees buried into the earth, teeth sinking into the flesh of what had once been the first act of sin. Walking through the city streets, she now understands why God had forbidden a single bite into the apple’s core.
Nestled into the warmth of a human neck and tucked under barren wrists, this sweet perfume that clings to your body like a dream, and everyone but them are under its spell: flushed skin, eyes glazed, hot breath, voices quivering in hushed desire — sedated. A kind of drowsiness where every step taken has become more loose and leisurely and everything moves with a lucid ease. The lanterns have reached a dull glow, the candles flickering — any need to burn brighter for those prayers once whispered before being lit aflame long gone, for now hope burned bright in their eyes, and even brighter in their hearts.
Ahyoung takes it otherwise. For she can smell the poison in the crimson that lingered on their tongues, leaving them drunk and driven in a poison thriving paradise — a nauseating sweetness that has taken hold of the senses, killing them softly. Any remnants of reason forever lost in the recesses of their intoxication. She doesn’t hear the light laughter, the soft chime of festival music in the distance. She can only see an old house, coated with dust, the mold making home in its corners, the taxidermied head on the doorway, the stained carpet; her father at the center, reeking of cheap booze and decay. Worst of all, his mouth twisted in a stretched grin, his eyes empty like the deer nailed over his rotting body. She closes her eyes from the memory.
( This was not peace. This was a kind of madness, a disease. )
The woman beside her doesn’t take it any better: Mother Snake, with black venom in her fangs, frame cut from ivory forever cold to the touch, blonde tresses touched with ashes ( ashes, ashes — all the remains from the fires that had scorched their skin, her empire left crumbling among the roses where they all fell down, down, down. )
Digging into her pocket, the driver pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. Her voice is soft, quiet.
