Temptation

He is strikingly handsome, with smooth alabaster skin that emits a soft glow from its pale translucence and covers a lean but strong body whose posture betrays a certain cruelty. He has long, thin fingers attached to elegant hands and thin wrists that underestimate his vicious control, and with these fingers he grasps anger and sorrow and bends then to his will.

 

His eyes are Lucifer red.

 

He has dark hair with a smooth, sleek texture and it looks beautiful--the darkest shade of blue imaginable--when the moonlight reflects off of its surface--but the moonlight is all that his black waves ever see, for he does not reveal his delicate, translucent skin to the sun.

 

In the cover of the moonlight, it is harder to see that his eyes are Lucifer red.

 

He has strong, high cheekbones on an elfin face that ends in a slightly pointed chin over a long, pale, elegant neck. It is not a vulnerable neck, however. It is the others who are vulnerable. The ones he prays on. The ones who don’t notice--or simply choose to ignore--that his eyes are Lucifer red.

 

He has a voice like sweet honey, like gentle raindrops sliding smoothly down your window pane in the hot summer, that never trembles or falters, and it lures you in. You draw closer, closer, and only when you are far too close, when it is hardest to pull away, do you notice that his eyes are Lucifer red.

 

And he smiles a cruel but beautiful smile as he leads the gleaming, silver knife in a cutter’s hand to penetrate marred skin once again, and he feeds on the rivulets of blood, on the streams of physical and spiritual pain, that follow. And he grins mercilessly as the trembling fingers of the pale, hollowed shell of a being reach for more pills, more powder, more needles that only cause more hollowness, more trembling. And red eyes shine a little bit brighter when a tired, boneless hand reaches for another useless trinket callously shoved into a front pocket at the store, or when it grabs another bottle to wash away the cruel reality that makes the boy glow, or when it grips another table edge as blood boils over and deep breathing means nothing compared to vivid, senseless fury that consumes the soul.

 

And the beautiful, hideous boy grows stronger and more restless as tired hands pale, weaken, hit, and scar. And his own delicate fingers continue to grip morbidity. He continues to feed on blood, grime, and tears--his lifeline.

 

The boy, you see, is not real.

 

But the temptation? The one he so thoroughly represents? Oh, it’s the realest thing of all.

Reviews

[Tenebrousoul]

I am impressed, especially the way you use such vivid descriptions. I like how you are able to actually evoke the mental image of the character. Great work! Keep it up! :)