L
Lilynette sans Giltine
Guest
[WARNING: SELF HARM]
“I prayed to the lord, hoping you would stand by my side one day.”
. . .
“I prayed to the lord, hoping you would stand by my side one day.”
. . .
Sometimes, voices roam across her mind. Uninvited, they resonate in moments of solitude; she does not know where they originate from, nor why they manifest. They feel distant, yet so close all at once, as though fragments of something long lost. As her blues open up amid vantablack, she has come to the realization that attempting to solve these riddles is as helpless as grasping the air bubbles floating away. Peering down upon her own hands, she floats across a bottomless wonderwell.
Is she feeling pain?
—She cannot tell.
Is she feeling cold?
—She cannot tell.
It’s always like this. Instead of enjoying the world for what it is, she is pulled back to the confines of her own mind by none other than herself. Her supply of oxygen has long since dwindled, yet she feels none of the pain supposedly related to drowning. She cannot feel the pain, yet involuntary shudders roam across a temple sculpted out of desires long lost. She shouldn’t waste precious lifeforce to indulge in a state of near-death… yet, this sensation, devoid of all touch, feels exquisite—it cleanses the mind, and it is the closest thing to pain within her reach.
It’s her own hell of meditation.
Her blues close, and with the mere shift of her body, Lilynette emerges from within a pool of ink-black water. Her eyes open again, allowing the grace of light to paint the world in monotonous colors. She bathes at the center of an ostentatious room, where sits a large circular soaking tub crafted by the combined efforts of umbral bones polished by the might of magic. Yet, despite all the dark colors painting the vicinity, a myriad of valuables dot the scenery, serving as stars and decorations to an otherwise colorless room.
They follow no aesthetic of any kind, instead picturing a scene akin to a dragon’s hoard abandoned by its owner.
Her hand reaches for a glass of wine on the edge of the massive tub. She displays slow and unconscious grace in handling the object, allowing the liquid to flow at crawling speeds until it disappears into her lips. She rests the glass on the border of the tub again, still lost in her personal hell of pondering, while her digits dance near the border of the glass. They meander, longing, until they grasp like the sudden bite of a viper. Before long, the glass shatters under the might of her hand, drawing blood in the process.
Is there pain?
—Yes. Her flowing blood tells her so.
Is there cold?
—Yes. Her trembling body tells her so.
Such is the conundrum of Lilynette sans Giltine; she knows, but cannot feel. She grasps the broken glass and flips it before raising it high in the air…
“I prayed to the lord, hoping you would stand—”
… Before unleashing the rage of an executioner upon her own body. The relentless assault begins with her left breast; the second, above the navel, and the third, at her right thigh; any subsequent numbers eventually blurs as sharp glass tears away at supple flesh with reckless abandon. She stabs and twists, slicing past skin and shredding muscle and sinew as though crafting some macabre piece of art. As flesh is rendered apart under the might of improvised blades, her blood pools down into the black liquid, disappearing in the splashing water.
She may not feel the pain, but she knows it disperses the pointlessness of these meandering, fragmented thoughts. She stands up, stepping out of the lavish tub while ignoring the self-inflicted wounds.
“𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖝.” she says, gazing at a large mirror before her. In response, the strange liquid within the tub comes to life, ignoring the grasp of gravity and jumping towards the priestess. As she watches her own reflection, her gaze shies away in defeat, a moment before everything goes black.
. . .
Lilynette needs no one standing by her side.
Lilynette needs no one standing by her side.
[none]