(Sanguis non est Grata)
By Goshi V.G. Daily, contributing writer
Puto flores hodie florent, et pulchra sunt. Dum florent et vis, nec possum nec florere. Iustum non invenio, crescere et florere vis. Solem attingere volo digitis cadaveribus meis.
The young Reaper, sitting in his room, a quaint room of not much. Onyx hair that many would envy (had they seen his corpse that night) spilled over his moonlight skin, like the deep ichor of Death itself.
“Vita tam pulchra est, sed tam caduca…et tamen mors sempiterna est. Tristes hi amethystae sinunt me paucas lacrimas fundere?”
Often, the young raven would ponder this, often, over a never-opened box made of pure necrosis.
[They say “STRANGE FASCINATION”]
But today, the box would be opened. Pop, did the lid softly sound. Pop, did the mouth of a boy softly sound.
Corax. Corax Obsideo. The contents spilled from the box and leached into his skin, leaving behind a sickly stain of inky black. When was the last time the little man got to embrace someone? When was the last time he felt the warmth of an embrace? When was the last time he got to 🕱VIXIT🕱?
Perhaps, it was all that bad. After all, Corax had his source of comfort in the unfeeling, cold jingling in his pockets.
“Gradus, duo, tres, quattuor! Sali, duo, tres, quattuor! Spina, duo, tria, quattuor!”
The merry jingling of coins and child-like innocence merged together in the dull room, lighting it up like misery had never tainted Corax’s soul.
“Saltare parvum Corax, te duce gaudium!”
The merry jingling of coins and child-like innocence paused, a dainty spin frozen in time as amethysts locked onto obsidian, and then onto the hands.
“Ita, Mors! Chorus gaudeamus! Saltare simul! Animi nostri rhythmum dirigant!”
A rhythmic dance around the small room ensues, but soon enough, steps of light come around….and Mors is gone. The door creaks open, and the steps grow closer. Oh, how he knew who it was immediately. Oh, how his ears perked up in delight. Oh, how that pallid face gleamed unnaturally as it turned to face the cruel sun. A bony arm raises at his side, waggling back and forth as frighteningly white teeth emerge, giving the countenance of joy.
Omnia ex me tulisti. Cum hoc fecistis, ipsam animam meam de pelle mea tulisti. Mea culpa non est. Aliquam vel elit nulla. Scis, scis, scis. Tu scis, cotidie scis. Nihil mali feci. Nam et odio enim. Cur non potuisti mihi gavisus esse?
The waving continues, as he sounds out a mirthful greeting, “Heus, Lue!”
Uncomfortably, the sunshine responded with the joy of a fog, “Salve, Corax! Quomodo – quid agis?”
Corax spins around, inky-bloody-hair swishing about, darker than the shadows themselves as he responds with the youthfulness of a flower that never blossomed, snipped in the bud, “Bene! Saltabat cum Domino Mors!”
Oh, noverat, noverat. Iuvenis erat, sed intelligens. Ferrum acrior quam illius vita capit. Sed cur non illa me in choro unquam coniunxit? Satis belle sonante!
He always wanted to dance with her, or to braid her hair and go for long walks. Like a sister, like a brother. And yet…her citrine eyes gleamed with hardened contempt. But he didn’t notice, and he began to dance again, humming and popping his mouth as he did so.
Jingle, jingle, pop! Pop! Pop! Hmmmhmmmhmmmm! Jingle, pop! Pop, jingle, jangle!
“Coniunge cum voles, soror!”
But then…his dance was cut short. In an instant, he was on the floor and felt that lovely, thick, dark ichor flow. But he still stayed conscious, just…not in the body. Even now, he still danced, invisible to Lue for the time being. But then, he tried something new–he ran a delicate hand through her hair and began to braid it, silent.
“Vivensne unquam, soror? Puto cor meum numquam verberavit…”
And finally, sobs escaped his mouth as he collapsed to his knees, shoving and hitting at Lue. She’d never feel it, never notice. He wailed pitifully: “Cur oblitus fui? Cur me occidisti? ODI TE!” He threw his head back as he proclaimed, “VITAM HABERE POTUI! POSSEM CRESCERE! POSSEM HABERE AMICOS! SED TU! VOS! TE A ME ABSTULISTI! HIC ME POSUISTI!”
Hateful cry after hateful cry fell from his lips, growing louder as she began to tenderly clean Corax’s body. Why did she only care for him once he died? He watched helplessly as she played with his hair.