Let me worship thy flesh [Asha/Desi]
Oct 5, 2016 16:29:48 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Oct 5, 2016 16:29:48 GMT -5
I came here so I would no longer be numb to my own heartbeat.
Clutched in the palm of my hand, the piece of paper sits weightless in the palm of my hand and I'm faced with an endless crossroad under the weight of my beating heart. I've always hated the concept of decision, the idea of weighing up the pros and cons, the rational and the irrational to make a sound judgement. Everyone who knows me knows I cannot come to stable judgement, I am not rational and I should never be allowed to make decisions. I can safely say, at this moment, I am very much feeling my own beating heart.
Who would've thought something could feel like this? Making decisions.
Meet me on the rooftop at ten, I'll bring the tequila.
For all my flaws, even I was never mad enough to pour poison down my own gullet. Whenever there was an occasion for champagne, my father would usher me to my room and tell me to not dare come out. When there was some sort of party, I was never the magnet for invitations at my doorstep. I was always just stagnate, I was always just nothing. I never buckled to the alluring call of the liquor and I never dared hold the neck of a bottle in the palm of my hand.
Four years of rationale slurring before my eyes and not once was it from the double edged sword of liquor. It was a redeeming quality I could wear like armor against the scowls of pure disgust, shock or anger (I've forgotten which is which) because I was a career and I will always be a career.
Under the weight of my still beating heart, I feel suffocated in the face of daring to make a decision.
('Point sixty six: the lower districts are trash, try to kill them early.')
There's also the underlining issue of who its from. Desimae Warble is a walking juxtaposition and even my muddled mind does not dare to make sense of her start and end points. She hails from a peasant land, trash from Eleven is what every strategic list that was shoved into my hands would call her.
My eyes trace her handwriting and my fist instantly clenched around the note. I am Asha Lumiere, I told myself I was far above playing games or pretend and watching people dance a fool's dance in the name of lust. It was a language foreign to me and everyone who I laid eyes on was only ever a vessel. A vessel to maim, an enemy to conquer, a fly to crush under my boot. They're all actors and puppets in the grand scheme of pretend just so they can wear a poisoned crown of thorns.
People disgust me, red is the only lover I lust for.
But as much as I hate to admit it, I just couldn't tear my eyes off her peculiar colored hair and when she walked away I found myself watching; I don't know what that's even supposed to mean.
My eye spots the clock, each hand is its own form of mockery tick-tock, tick-tock. Each tick brings me a second closer to the ten o'clock but I don't make decisions. Under the shadow of the night and the stillness of my own beating heart, I am suffocating. I don't make decision, I just can't.
I don't associate myself with 'lower district trash'. I am Asha Lumiere, after all.
"Oh, fuck it."
The clock strikes ten and my body moves on its own.
It's not hard to sneak through the suite without waking up Pillar or my mentors, years of stealth training has made it effortless. Beneath my beating heart, a twinge, and I feel like I am using my skills for the wrong purpose. I learned stealth to introduce tragedy; red is all I need. Not this.
But fuck it, I am mad after all.
Time blurs together with the hallway and I'm gliding down the noise. Slurs of ('lower district trash') quickly fade into background noise the moment I find her waiting on that rooftop bathed in the same darkness I pondered in for hours. "Found you." I announce, smirking.
I am Asha Lumiere and I do whatever the fuck I want. That's my decision.