I would go ahead and issue a "there be necrophilia" warning here, but it doesn't really count if the whole body isn't involved, right?


Here we go, then:

Beautiful Minds

By Some Mad Person

She's always there in the things you say. When you speak I think of the sky and how we never slept under the same one. Your lips are chapped and edged with stubble, and you mumble like a soothsayer in pain. Right now you touch the tips of your fingers together like a puppet who has lost his strings, and I'd almost say you look cute, except you don't. You're a dirty, rancid mess and I want to hate you so fucking much, goddamit.

I wanted to speak your language, and by gods, I've learnt it well. You've tamed me with your secrets, the ones that crawl from your throat when nobody's looking, that pillage the hearts of young Cetras like fustian goblins. What can I offer you, except my skin and soul and shuddering wet, it's nothing like you've dreamed of and more. I'm seven years too late.

Just look at yourself, you're filthy and laced with sick, and I never understand what the fuck you're saying. I'm looking at you, and you're clutching her hand like it would save her, but you can't even save yourself. You're a broken piece of nothing, and I hate myself for not being the one to break you. I couldn't even break your fall. It was just your heart, then, but we all know that's worth nothing but a cheap childhood promise and a ride through garish gold lights.

I wish you drank. I wish you just shot up on mako and lived happily ever after in your head, but you think beer is sad, and you're too much of a coward to carve out a piece of your mind for a peace of mind. So instead you hold her hand, even though it looks more like a downtrodden soap bar, yellow and mottled and missing a finger and a thumb. I hope you scratch your eyes out with it. You'd love it, won't you? You wish you were blind, with eyes as pale as poison. Then you wouldn't see the aching ghosts that curl and cry around us, nor a universe choked with light. You wouldn't see me, fettering myself to you like the whore I am, covered in your words and hurt and seed.

I haven't washed myself the last time we fucked. I said to call me Gainsborough and you did.

I wish you never found her hand. I wish the fishes ate her fucking body so it'd never have dismantled and bespangled the lake like fetid stars. You were always the romantic, never a soldier. You could see the veins in that thing, swarming across her pallid skin like the lifestream she became. You could see the shit and filth that came with it, but I watched as you cradled it like a newborn and said that it was the promised land.

I'll give you the goddamned promised land, Cloud.

I'm here for you, like you weren't there for me on the day Nibelheim burned. But I'm a ghost to you, next to an appendage of the girl you never saved. You suckle her fingers like it would give her life, you're so gentle with it, even when you cup your palm over hers and drag it slowly, fondly, past the hollow of your throat, down the rabbit hole as your drown in her silent song. You know all too well how it is to drown; you've practised in the lifestream, in my fears and the stolen dreams of a black-haired, blue-eyed soldier who paid a price for loving the flower girl first.

And my price? It's here, by your side, watching as your trousers bunch down all too eagerly, as you bring her hand past your belly and slide it between the juncture of your quivering thighs. She takes you in death, and you twist and buckle in your chair like a burning horse.

You come silently in her palm and I drop to my knees, eating all your kings and queens, all your sex and your diamonds. You moan, as do I, my head in the reek of your thighs; her flesh on my chin, your eyes on my teeth. Look at me. Look at me in your one-winged triumph, your falling laurels, look at me through your nine year old heart, through the half parted fingers of her stinking hand and tell me oh Tifa yes Tifa you are so goddamned beautiful.

Once upon a time, you loved me.

This story will always be inspired by David Usher's Black Black Heart.