Blood, without Forme.
rating: +15+x

In the infinite time that she had spent painting the cosmos, she was still alone.


The taste of liquid iron on the tip of her tongue forced her to retch. Only, she couldn't. She tried to force herself. Again, again, and again. But nothing came from the pit of her stomach.

It was everywhere. Her tongue curled loosely and danced across a thousand stars, tracing a slick path of scarlet ichor across a black canvas.

She could taste every meager droplet of red ink that ran its course like a raging river cutting through the Void between the stars themselves. But then, she realised a sudden shocking truth that wounded her like she had wounded them.

In the infinite time that she had spent painting the cosmos, she was still alone. The loneliness was tactile and the silence was deafening. A million stars twinkled below her tongue and head, and yet all she had was the silence and the blood. Oh, the blood.

The blood was the sweetest symphony, a cacaphony of bliss, euphoria, release. And everything bled.

She swooped her body around, drinking in the sights, and sounds of the tumbling marbles beneath her gaze. Those belonged to her. She could taste them. She could smell them.

Her body was wreathed in layers upon layers of silken robes: pinks and oranges, greens and blues, purples and reds. But her skin was pale and smooth as porcelain, a mask that she could retreat behind.

Delicately, she gathered her skirts and robes, swiftly moving away to gaze upon another shining rock. The rocks were her favourite to observe, and to toy with. She would only have to gesture with her elongated, delicate fingers and the blood, the sweet rapturous blood, would pour fourth and desecrate the rock.

Its ugly mismatched hues and rough-hewed surfaces would become awash with her sweet ambrosia. And it would no longer be ugly but rather, beautiful.

Down and down she span, spreading her arms out wide and running her fingertips against the Void between the stars and the heavens. And with a gentle caress, she discovered her design, and her purpose.

The blood was her single purpose. It was the only thing she could feel, taste or see other than the ugly rocks, and the stars that twinkled and danced amongst the Void.

But then it struck again, the feeling of emptiness. She was alone in a canvas covered in black tar. Her design was the only illustration upon the page.

She would solve that. She would have a companion beside her.

And so, she caressed and brutalised the very matter surrounding her until it was given shape and form. She began to mould and guide the matter into a figure. Another entity bathed in the sea of black that permeated all around her. But then her fingers fell and the red figure collapsed back into the Void.

Fury overtook her as she punched, clawed and shrieked at the degenerating figure, cursing it for ever having been, or ever having not been. She could feel herself falling, collapsing into the same Void that her creation had. And she cried, and cried.

Then, she was awake and Mary realised that her grandmother's stories had been true all along.

Part 1: Blood, without Forme.| Part 2: As of yet, unwritten.

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