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Walk down a hall, through a door, into a well lit room. There, sitting at the vanity and mirror like a diva from the opera, sits who appears to be a lady with silvery hair. Her age is undiscernable, her back of to you garbed in white silk and trimmed with white lace. The cascade is grey, but uniformly so. It is almost uncanny how the myriad of fine threads catch the artificial light to distort it into an illusion of white.
Slowly, as if there is nothing more to do with Time than let itself wash over her like a calm lake current, she raises one delicately gloved hand to caress the rigid locks with a lover's gentleness. They are covered in fine kid skin gloves, bleached to match the dress she wears so innocently, the fine wrists as white as the hand covers above them. So skinny and beautiful, they might have been only but the frail bones benethe skin.
Those hands, those seemingly fine and spindley articles, grasp at the twilight waterfall like a bat would a frog twisting it mercilessly into a flawless bun to be stabbed by the pin she jousts through it. Nary a stray hair escaped her frenzy, no bump or ununiform curve could be discerned in the bright light and no glint was emitted to betray such a forgiveless mistake. Her skill was precision and precision was without error. Perfection.
No ears were seen now, though the style she wore atop her head would have uncovered them otherwise, and the mirror she faced showed no likeness in its depths. The light reflected from it awkwardly so that only a gold sheen could be seen by any onlooker.
Upon the immaculate top of the vanity sat no make-up, no covering minerals to mask fatal flaws. She needed none of them so pristine was her perfection. Although, laid lovingly on a white velvet pillow in a diamond bottle, sat one lonely flask of perfume.
The kid-adorned hands reached tenderly for the clear liquid. They handled the bottle as if it were a sacred artifact not deserving of their humble touch and one fumble, one falter in its lifting would cause it to shatter in their clutches beyond the wildest hope of repair. Delicatly, softly the left hand caressed the small pump attatched to the silver engraved neck of the perfume bottle.
It squeezed the bladder tentively, but with resolute care. So gentle was the spray and so iridescent the sheen that nothing would have portrayed the fact that she had used it save the scent the wafted in a haze from her person. She inhaled the mist deeply, puffing up to cause the silk dress to conform with her tiny figure resting upon the stool.
It smelled of trees it smelled of water it smelled of ash it smelled of spring. The reek of the city and stink of the country, the smell of space the smell of earth. It made one recall the worst... recall the best. To weep, to laugh, to celebrate, to mourn. The macabre olfaction of joy as it seeps away into the pit of time. Terror layed in its recollection, and like the sophia it held happy memories. It smelled of everything, and nothing...
Those hands replaced the bottle with a caress as if quieting a restless babe in its cradle. Upon the dustless top sat a minute dresser, a jewelry box. Inside its teak doors were two items and only two: A delicate silver band and a miniature chainlink string on which hung the platinum semblance of an ancient Roman coin. The leather covered fingers deftly slipped the ring onto the middle diget of the left hand prior to hooking the necklace around the slender neck. Stopping for a moment to admire the duet of silver on her person, the lady tittered and turned her torso to allow the jewelry to glint off the yellow light in a white spray of stars.
Without pause in her admiration, she flicked open a secret hideaway in the minature wooden cabinet, now empty of its contents, to withdraw a white satin ribbon. Strung on the length were a line of dried white roses. They hung in a fragrantless tupor as if they were merely paralyzed, not plucked entirely from their stem. Around her hidden brow she ties the crown of crisp petals to rest as a mark like thorns on her forehead. The fingers tie the bare ends of the string of rose buds in a simple bow under the round bun her silver hair is pinned into. No one could lable her anything less than enthralling.
The arms laid the hands and wrists contentedly on the hand carved edge of the vanity table. Diaphram seeming to have taken in a deep breath, her rigid body relaxed as it let out an audible sigh of pleasure. Her appearence pleased her and apparently, there was nothing left to do. The white dress was in use, matching gloves covering her spindly finger bones, starlit hair in a bun apt as to be the model of such a style in perfect alignment and form, signature scent applied duly and sparingly, lastly, the pair of silver relics added the finished inlay to the godess-like appearance of this seeming Aphrodite.
Standing without warning in a terse posture characteristic of one with much class and breeding, she smoothed her front and turned to where to door stood awaiting her passage. The face of the nameless lady merits a gasp, a freeze, or a convulsion. The eyes are hollow, black gaps in her head with the darkness swirling like oblivian. Those two holes inspire such terror of the mind one might find one's self cowering in the shadows, reduced to a bawling lamb in the light of the white woman.
The face, that white face so awe inspiring that it may bring even the kings of the worlds weeping to their knees, showed no emotion, no sense of change, no ackowledgement of existance in the faintest sense. Every tooth was pulled up in a moribund smile, each peice of ivory a seperate entity all its own. The front gleamed immaculate in the light and the eye teeth seemed to grin with a malevolent purpose as the molars behind them clinked unmovingly in the locked jaw.
Her rigid gait, that unshakable stride, held confidence in every movement of the bones and swirl of the silk as it passed about her unyeildingly as she stepped for the outlet at the Northern wall of the room.
Stopping, only for a breath in time, the cephalus turns to look at something before she disappears into the darkness that lays beyond the door. In the brief pause, one comes to terms that this once sensuous seeming thing is nothing but a terror: something to feared, revered, and loathed. The etheral being's tall stature belies none of the tenderness her repose had suggested. Such streamlined strength that lay in the svelte body could only be seen as the epitome of power, such that no creature large or small can avoid succumbing to.
Like a geist she resumes her pallid march uncaringly and without emotion. Death has just passed you by in all its silvery splendor.
Smilodon-Fatalis · Wed Aug 09, 2006 @ 05:36am · 1 Comments |
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