What Lies Beneath: Surrender

[Bvie 1754]

 

“I won’t!”

 

Loose rubble is thrown at the figure in the window’s reflection.

 

The glass shatters into a million small fragments.

 

“Come now….you know deep down what I say is true….”

 

The figure reappears in the adjacent window, it’s eyes burning brilliantly.

 

A hand reaches down, trying to grab another stone. But the figure smirks.

 

The fingers of her hand wretch backwards, becoming stiff as stone.

 

“Enough of that.”

 

Her hand grasps the wrist covered in the dirty cloth with the crimson stain.

 

“Why…...this is wrong! This isn’t the way!”

 

Her eyes follow the figure in her reflection walks between the mirrors, coming to settle closer towards her.

 

“Even the most skilled artist knows when a piece of work is too far gone and hopes of salvaging it are wasted….when they can begin anew….upon a blank canvas….perfect….untouched…..pure.”

 

Her head shakes at the words, her dry throat swallowing painfully. Her eyes look to the portraits and paintings of those of the city.

 

“They can change…...they have the ability to become better...to save this world from itself.”

 

The figure cackles. “You can’t even say that without forcing the lies from your own lips. You know very well that they do not understand what is at stake. You….you are doing them a service by ending it swiftly than letting them suffer...suffer like you have.”

 

Her head dips in defeat. Her hands stop struggling as she hobbles over towards the destroyed portraits, a single one’s frame only slightly burned.

 

Her hands run over the frame and the backing while her eyes remain fixated on the onyx hair and blue eyes staring back at her.

 

The smallest smile spreading on her cracked and bleeding dry lips.

 

“Now…” The figure’s voice whispering in her ear. “Shall we continue? Or do I need to hurt that one too to show you how serious I truly am?”

Her hand raises near the frame, golden flames burning in her palm, growing dangerously close to the image.

 

She places the frame down upon the burnt dresser. “No…” Her voice weak and broken. “I’ll come….just don’t hurt him….”

 

Her hands fall down to her sides, her head dips, and her body becomes stiff.

 

The figure fades from the window, like leaves in the wind.

 

 

Her head rises slowly, eyes burning with brilliant white lights that seemed to burn everything around it with its brilliance.

 

The gaze moves towards the frame for a moment before she picks up a satchel containing old tomes and ritualistic instruments and exits.

[Slothtastic 761]

((Great post. BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!))