She was still the same, essentially, and she supposed with some dull regret that she felt that way. Had it been a death, really, was she altogether gone, was there no September left' There was, there was.
For what mythology had bestown her on dreary, rainy nights back home by a Nanny or Father, none of it had been true and September was bitterly disappointed. She was no fantasy. She was a wretched entity. She had not withered, she had suffered instead some peculiar strain, and while certainly not alive in that lovely, wholesome sense, with beating heart and warmed flesh, she was very certainly far from deceased. Still she roamed the night and days, paler and with a darkness haunting the edges of her eyes, and the turn of a sleeve as delicate fingers brushed to a scar, which would be opened come dusk, and she would feed upon herself.
September was stirred, but distantly from before, in that she was less sullen and confused within her situation, and while not entirely forgiving, she at least now could bear it.
Watching the sun rise was still a favourite past time, and as it crept over the clouds she imagined her first love by her side, and then Gaul, Gaul instead of all she had known before, and ever with icy breaths at the base of her neck, underneath her hair. Her body was a strange map of decay, of truths swallowed up in consequence. Temperance had been shuffled forth and foremost. She disguised her brittle mind beneath it, smiling, waving at those she interacted with daily, but brooding when her eyes averted the day and she took to the narrow streets that promised oblivion, in many kinds.
For what mythology had bestown her on dreary, rainy nights back home by a Nanny or Father, none of it had been true and September was bitterly disappointed. She was no fantasy. She was a wretched entity. She had not withered, she had suffered instead some peculiar strain, and while certainly not alive in that lovely, wholesome sense, with beating heart and warmed flesh, she was very certainly far from deceased. Still she roamed the night and days, paler and with a darkness haunting the edges of her eyes, and the turn of a sleeve as delicate fingers brushed to a scar, which would be opened come dusk, and she would feed upon herself.
September was stirred, but distantly from before, in that she was less sullen and confused within her situation, and while not entirely forgiving, she at least now could bear it.
Watching the sun rise was still a favourite past time, and as it crept over the clouds she imagined her first love by her side, and then Gaul, Gaul instead of all she had known before, and ever with icy breaths at the base of her neck, underneath her hair. Her body was a strange map of decay, of truths swallowed up in consequence. Temperance had been shuffled forth and foremost. She disguised her brittle mind beneath it, smiling, waving at those she interacted with daily, but brooding when her eyes averted the day and she took to the narrow streets that promised oblivion, in many kinds.