no grave to hold | all that you love } { ama oneshot

in this world
we live -

You once set your throne of bones and flesh upon a sacred mountain frosted over with greed. It was there the midnight sun kissed your porcelain skin, sun burning it with desires unwritten in your very own blood as it drips in hues of crimson doused golden beads. You lived your life wrapped in black and white faux fur coats, those that were of no dent in costs to you or Beretta, only worth the amount of a simple, "Daddy, can I have...", and your worth was only estimated through the solid cold cash that was fixed between your perfectly manicured finger tips.


At some point in life you whispered and conjured up numbers of stories made from your own about a life lived, though now there is no others to read. Your fortunes were read by each crevice in your clammy palms as you grew nervous for the truth to be revealed, though your composure was held only because your daddy had taught you better. Secrets were held behind like silvers in your fangs, and your lips became a toll booth for secrets and a hidden meaning beneath a facade of lies. You charged millions and limbs for them to escape, but in return you'd kept the little things received, hoarded, and it all only added to the collections of bones and flesh of the one's you'd taken from to build your rotting empire.


Choosing your choices very wisely you look at the playing cards dealt from the deck your daddy had shuffled for both you and Beretta. You'd learned to play his games your own way, even from such a tender age ( when other girls played with dolls and make up, you'd been figuring ways to win over your parents affection, jealous of the gifts Beretta'd always received- you were blind to the love your parents gave to you. ) Looking over her side while her painted eyes fixed on daddy's new fresh suit, a wicked grin revealing true intentions, you caught a glimpse of her future's cards. Coins. Devil. Knife. Skull. Mirror. Light. Skull. The remaining cards didn't mean much to you then, though now as you watch Beretta receive a stab towards her arm, as the blade of a halberd slices towards her head through empty air, it all comes together.

"I don't hate you too-"

Black matte nails that matched the coffin picked for death, you scratched and etched new marks in the crevices of your palms. Blood flowed from the open wounds made by your razor sharp nails, a signature manicure of the Corléon kittens, a new story was created as the previous was tampered ( "each thing you do had it's own effects." ) A cigarette escaped the grip of your fangs, and rested between the points of your fingers, it'd marked hours since the canon of Beretta had justified her return to home, and you'd been waiting for weeks to come. A present rested at the surface of your hell bound throne, a bloody crimson kiss that dried up over time, and upon it read:

Beretta Corléon
- Love Amaryllia

( "This is the only story I'll be able to tell." ) Lies. You whisper lies through the cracks of your teeth, and the serpent of a tongue you hold only knows how to hiss. You've only learned to lie and lie and lie, though perhaps there may be some truth. All your life you've crafted magnificent fantasies of your own rotting kingdom placed at the end of a checkered board. Ones that told endings of you being the favorite child, the prized possession, "daddy's little girl", but the truth is the meanings that lie hidden beneath each and every story- chapter- paragraph- sentence- word- that has released its grip to the outside world. A slap on the wrist and a scolding wouldn't cut it for you, your parents told you to stop writing of such tales, and it was always followed by a "Daddy, I didn't know!" Lies.


Grabbing your inkwell and quill you begin to form loops upon parchment paper, those that evolved to words upon words of spilling secrets upon canvas, because they're too much to speak. "I would have written you myself earlier-" Lies, you write lies and fallacies into a life where they hold no meaning, you're numb to consequence. "but I simply couldn't put down everything I wished to tell you in ink." Truth. You learned to tell the truth as the years passed on, though if anyone in their right mind knew you- a Corléon daughter- they'd know not to trust you, for fear is the only thing they've familiarized with the name. "So I'll leave it at best, short and sweet- I don't hate you either, Beretta." Words made of memories and a waved hand of dismissal. "- Love, Amaryllia" Signed off and stuffed into an envelope for safe keeping, you stamp it with hot wax for when Beretta could read it.


What will remain when the game is over? A kingdom of corpses. Names too heavy upon even a wicked tongue. Shadows. Regret. You sent your troops into the arena, one by one they'd all been shot down, unsuccessful in filling the unknown vengeance you held to heart- the one mission was to bring Beretta home, though destroying her kingdom in the process. Days upon days moved along impatiently, consuming those who were worthy of the crown and leaving those who hadn't been. Day Eight struck at the first release of sunlight, and a long day it was. Your eyes were glued to the television, and wails were filling the air, tears streamed from the pain of open wounds upon your palms, and finally Beretta had been struck down at the hands of Someith and Heather. ( "Wasn't this everything you'd asked for?" ) You shake your head in denial, and choke on your breaths, it had been everything you've ever wanted- though, your one wish was for Beretta to come home again. A confusing girl you are, Amaryllia.


Setting envelope away in your wooden desk, you crawl to your throne, and place the crown on your head. The Queen of Bones. You smile and cross your legs, taking brush in hand that'd been sitting upon your seat and brush the hair of a doll that holds familiarity. Humming along, you sit pretty in your throne of flesh and bones, crown sculpted from the remains, and you grab another lock of hair in the palms of your slit hands. Fang biting into lip gently, you whisper into the ear of the doll itself- "I don't hate you either, Beretta."

there are no mourners
there are no funerals