Post by Lirriel on Oct 19, 2017 12:28:53 GMT -5
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je m’enivre de ce poison
Once, when Marie was younger, there had been a great storm. It had howled and thrashed, and within her tiny cavern atop her lonely mountain, Marie had been forced to stay and watch, praying the storm wouldn’t call down rocks to bury her, snow to drown her. And when it had, she had been trapped in that tiny hellhole, for days that felt like weeks.
Her stomach had threatened to tear itself apart, greedily clawing apart its own skin in an effort to sate both their appetites. And her brain had greedily refused to allow itself to be compromised and had instead stripped the swell of her muscles. She had survived, because her body had begun to eat itself.
So when she first stepped out into the fresh air, she did not cry in joy nor did she dance in praise – instead, she nearly fell, in her haste to rush down the path that led from her cave (her prison). She had scrambled with a desperate longing, spittle flecked with foam running down her jaw, as she raced to a flash of red. It had resolved itself into cherries, hanging from a young tree that had likewise suffered in the storm – it bent down upon itself, and already many of its bounty were beginning to die off.
But Marie was so ravenous that her mouth fell open, and she gorged herself upon them. The acidity of them flayed the flesh from her tongue, but the only thought in her mind was sustenance. And she ate and she ate, until her mouth ran red, and she could no longer separate the stains of pulp from her own bubbling blood.
Perhaps something changed in her that day.
Perhaps that terrifying near-death experience is why she now curls upon the ground.
Bearberries – no taste, she thinks, right before her stomach revolts and she gags again. She rolls over onto her belly, half-lifts herself so that her head hangs between her forelegs and her spine bends as her gut violently expels its contents – stomach acid and copious amounts of saliva.
What berries she had eaten have long since been expunged, but her body is wrapped in the throes of a low-grade fever and nausea makes her feel as if her insides are doing backflips.
The imagery sends a tinkling string of laughter from her lips, crystallized pleasantry in the face of strife.
She just has to wait for the spasms to stop, for the cramps to crawl away, for her intestines to unwind. Already she is salivating for an entirely different reason – she has seen the trout that glimmer in the great lake, flashing fetchingly toward her. While she has tasted trout before, she must consider that the location can sometimes affect the taste – this she has discovered as truth in her time traveling. And on an empty stomach, even the most mundane taste can transform to divine.
Divine, deity – the voice rings in her head, a carillon, and her eyes slide to the sky, as she ponders the words.
How often has she eyed that which she could not have longingly? Hemlock, yew, nightshade, baneberry – and those are only plants. Those flamboyantly-cast frogs in the tropics, the rattlers that flash hooked fangs. Anticipation threads through her, and she swallows around her rebelling stomach, struggling to quell it. That which does not desire to be eaten – but what if she could? What wondrous flavors would she find, hiding beneath that toxic defense?
Lady Chaos, she thinks – because her throat is rubbed raw, her tongue swollen – I have a request, if you would hear it.
It is my wish to partake in the most poisonous, the most deadly, to devour that which one of my kind has never tasted – without the consequence of death. And she giggles, an airy laugh at odds with the stench of illness that hangs over her like a raincloud.
Forget the pretty words. I just want the ability to eat everything!
Her stomach had threatened to tear itself apart, greedily clawing apart its own skin in an effort to sate both their appetites. And her brain had greedily refused to allow itself to be compromised and had instead stripped the swell of her muscles. She had survived, because her body had begun to eat itself.
So when she first stepped out into the fresh air, she did not cry in joy nor did she dance in praise – instead, she nearly fell, in her haste to rush down the path that led from her cave (her prison). She had scrambled with a desperate longing, spittle flecked with foam running down her jaw, as she raced to a flash of red. It had resolved itself into cherries, hanging from a young tree that had likewise suffered in the storm – it bent down upon itself, and already many of its bounty were beginning to die off.
But Marie was so ravenous that her mouth fell open, and she gorged herself upon them. The acidity of them flayed the flesh from her tongue, but the only thought in her mind was sustenance. And she ate and she ate, until her mouth ran red, and she could no longer separate the stains of pulp from her own bubbling blood.
Perhaps something changed in her that day.
Perhaps that terrifying near-death experience is why she now curls upon the ground.
Bearberries – no taste, she thinks, right before her stomach revolts and she gags again. She rolls over onto her belly, half-lifts herself so that her head hangs between her forelegs and her spine bends as her gut violently expels its contents – stomach acid and copious amounts of saliva.
What berries she had eaten have long since been expunged, but her body is wrapped in the throes of a low-grade fever and nausea makes her feel as if her insides are doing backflips.
The imagery sends a tinkling string of laughter from her lips, crystallized pleasantry in the face of strife.
She just has to wait for the spasms to stop, for the cramps to crawl away, for her intestines to unwind. Already she is salivating for an entirely different reason – she has seen the trout that glimmer in the great lake, flashing fetchingly toward her. While she has tasted trout before, she must consider that the location can sometimes affect the taste – this she has discovered as truth in her time traveling. And on an empty stomach, even the most mundane taste can transform to divine.
Divine, deity – the voice rings in her head, a carillon, and her eyes slide to the sky, as she ponders the words.
How often has she eyed that which she could not have longingly? Hemlock, yew, nightshade, baneberry – and those are only plants. Those flamboyantly-cast frogs in the tropics, the rattlers that flash hooked fangs. Anticipation threads through her, and she swallows around her rebelling stomach, struggling to quell it. That which does not desire to be eaten – but what if she could? What wondrous flavors would she find, hiding beneath that toxic defense?
Lady Chaos, she thinks – because her throat is rubbed raw, her tongue swollen – I have a request, if you would hear it.
It is my wish to partake in the most poisonous, the most deadly, to devour that which one of my kind has never tasted – without the consequence of death. And she giggles, an airy laugh at odds with the stench of illness that hangs over her like a raincloud.
Forget the pretty words. I just want the ability to eat everything!
à en perdre la raison.
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