elektra sinn / d2 / (fin)

You, with your premonitions and Greek tragedies.

Your beauty has a sharp edge to it, like a jagged slab of marble, and your eyes make others dream of cities devoured by the sea. There is a destructive, perilous allure to you as if you are Helen of Troy and about to brew a war so disastrous, it would torch down ancient civilizations. 

Silver-bathed armor for skin and obsidian-molded bones, resilience has always ran deep down your aching marrows. Specters around the skull, they whisper about how the grandiosity you wield - phantoms of the raging narcissism you've been crowned with since birth.

Little delusions of grandeur never hurt; they brood this glided dynasty. A dark empire and you're one of the bejeweled heirs, prowling about in ink-laden shadows, waiting for that throne of creaking bones and blood-soaked iron. You're patient, calculated, and ecliptic, a shadow that's ravenous yet leashed down by a short fable: slow, and steady, and violent, wins this race.

Elektra — four syllables, thick on tongue, sibilant and ancient when uttered, as if it was an incantation plucked from a phantasmagorical language, long forgotten, only found in the quiet susurrus of moon-lit woods and prairies at dusk. You make others spellbound, externally a marble princess whose nails rip out egos and internally, a witching girl with a corn-husk heart.

At, least those were the vowels your father braided onto your locks whilst a maid dyed them the color of expensive ivory. You'd paid for this pigment fluid, with a plethora of blood and sweat during your vigorous training but never tears.  

“You're your father's favorite for this month, Elektra.” It's a sweet symphony towards your confidence. You'd always carried a resemblance to him: iron-toothed, steel fist.

The hue of your hair is garish ivory because your father's is. He'd approved of the change. And, it's also an act of rebellion against your simpler mother, who squanders her days on grooming that heavy lump sewed to your throat:

“Carmen Sinn. I have no fucking idea how we're twins because I hate her guts and she hates my everything.”

Carbon-copies of each other, her face is splattered across a mirror or a reflective surface, such as a blade, every twelfth time you gawk at it, yet, you two are very contrasting personas — you act like she doesn't exist and tells her to mimic your actions. 

She's your equal at a race, pink-plump heels desperate to outrun each other and the celestials above, but father says she doesn't hold the darkness needed for ultra-violence. You look at how she gives alms, you believe it. And perchance, that very belief corrupted your stars and kingdom of spirits. 

Seven Devils in the house*, you're about three of them: avaricious, haughty, tight with wrath. Cardinal sins know a mean foxtrot; you always dance alongside them. Seven Devils all around you*, each one shares an intricate tale with you. Since ten, you learnt about how his world functions through corruption and broken bones and sacrifices.

That's how old your marrow-whites, fresh cellulite, were when the web of crime devoured you whole. It didn't ruin your world, instead, enchanted it, sheared the mundane fleece you were smoldered by. 

It taught you lessons, dark crafts, sepulchral myths, the legerdemain of hands and soft fingers, espionage. Soon, Elektra Sinn metamorphosed to an augury of danger, femme fatale in both nature and posture, a walking shadow. You stared at the abyss and it reached out, generously. 

Seventeen and you've already reached fruition, standing at the zenith sewed together by crimson and bones. A reputation is attached to your name: Elektra, devoid of reluctance, lilac knuckles and fangs to skew. You've made your impressions and now, whenever your stilettos gallop down a hallway, their teeth chatter from dread as they mouth the cognomen:

Black widow.

  
Blood upon your hands, blood across your ledger; the arachnid woman: adorned by gossamer, dreaded by men, weaving falsehoods and deceptions onto virgin ears like diaphanous fabric. They never escape the broad reach of your enunciated limbs, each one as wicked as the other. 

Love is shattered asunder beneath the bone of your heel, a sentiment you'd never learnt to confide in. There were faces of course — blurred-out, red-crossed, gibbous contours, dark crowns of hair, fiery egos: boys you'd eclipsed. They bow at your feet, expecting to blind the guards and sentinels. Perhaps, that's why you increase security around that useless, cobwebbed heart of yours, whose sole function is to help you survive. 

Sin; it courses vehemently under your skin. This is a trademark you entranced this world with: a plethora of sins, lies, tricks under sleeve. There was a choice you'd had make: vice or virtue; it's obvious which one you heartily chose. 

A slewed mirror out front, and this time, you force to see past Carmen's gawk and admire the beauty splattered across it. Jabbed slab of marble, freckled with scars: you are no princess, only a harbinger.