Speak Of the Devil

The girl's tiny hands are trembling. She is pale, her blue eyes wide, red silk cascading past her shoulder. So very delicate and breakable, she is. But there is a little spirit left in her yet - she tries not to blink, opens her eyes so wide that it hurts, and fumbles for a knife in her pocket.

Her hands shake so badly that she cannot grasp a thing. So she reaches for the bottom of the pocket with her fingertips, holding it and tugging the entire pocket out with two porcelain-like fingers, the soft skin unmarked and smooth. A few things tumble to the floor. The small knife, gleaming like starlight, a quill, and a photo. She hides the picture quickly with jittery fingers, forgetting that this is the chamber of her own mind, and that nothing will stay hidden for long.

She lifts the knife to her delicate wrist, but there is a second's hesitation before she cuts, and that is all it takes.

Another hand, this one with silvery, spider-like fingers reaches out from the shadows. This one is a pianist's hand, long fingered and graceful. The fingers wrap themselves around her right wrist, gently, oh so carefully.

*Oh, no, my little marionette, not now.* The soft whisper echoes along the walls, and the girl fancies that she can see the statues shivering.

The boy steps up behind her, quietly, like a shadow. The little girl shudders, not from the cold night air drifting through stained glass windows. She does not look back. The hand clutching the photo tightens, the veins in the pale hand painting vivid green streaks of serpent poison on porcelain.

The young man shifts his grip slightly, coaxing the knife out of her suddenly boneless right hand. It drops toward the ground, silently; moonlight reflecting off the sharp edges into the girl's unblinking eyes. One arm moves to turn her around, facing him, her eyes rooted to the floor. Elegant fingers tip her chin up and force her eyes to meet his. Cold emeralds, their gaze passing through her like a Siberian storm. Her eyelids began to droop, and finally, a tear falls. She collapses in the boy's arms, her punches and hits landing lighter than a kitten's. He holds her tenderly, like petting a distressed animal.

*Let me go, your bastard, let me go!* Her voice cracks at the end, and the girl sobs, her tears hitting the floor audibly, like a string of pearls.

*Shh, Ginny, sleep now.* You shall not wake again. He runs his hand through her blood-coloured hair and smiles as she drops off to sleep, her hand still grasping her single anchor to awareness. Green eyes hidden behind round spectacles and a scar like lightning. Our Savior. My Savior.

The boy glanced up, eyes full of amusement. *Sleep now, my doll, and have pleasant dreams.* About green seas of pain and power and falling forever. About what is not the answer, but merely the other half of his Riddle, and what is not the key to his enigma, but merely another cloudy veil.

Soft laughter echoed throughout her mind, but she was no longer there to hear it.

And the sky is blood like red silk, the rain tastes bitter like salty tears, so the Devil smiles at his Bride.