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It isn’t the cold, dismal temper that worries her, but of the stiff and eccentric personality that is readily displayed like a nihilistic propaganda poster screaming out warnings in bold, messy font: look but don’t touch. She shudders at the thought of witnessing the dark and translucent glint in her pastel-hued eyes as they cross paths, blue irises fading into a more muted tone with each passing.
Bleak, hardened eyes truly fit for a creature of many instabilities and mental collapses.
A being who contains her feelings in a wall of cinder block and thorns. They always tread gently around her, as if afraid to disturb her mindless ramblings and faux associations of being completely fine, a lie that always sounds rampant and disturbingly off-key.
Her heart is like a clockwork balance in her hands, one that must be held carefully within the confines of gloves to prevent the fragility to take hold, and permeate the mechanical thorn-infested organ.
To her, Pearl was nothing more than a master-less pawn patiently awaiting the day their rightful owner returns to reclaim the throne in a wave of cheap promises; that master, however, was never to make such a grand re-entrance. All that was left of their passing was a hopeless legacy and an everlasting assortment of candy-coated, poison-laced memories.
The recollections of a being too influential to forget.
Her master who had been a tragedy from the start, a pliant romance that meant nothing yet everything to Pearl at the same time. The final curtains had descended all too soon, concealing a figure whose light had been snuffed out like a candle. And even if they failed to be, their lingering presence was not so easily extinguished.
That is why Amethyst knows she will never truly love her.
The only reason why she thinks Pearl is full of thorns and pink roses, a superficial garden hosting the mass of parasitic weeds as if they were a lifeline, when in reality, they were only killing her faster. Often times, she wondered that, if she were to procure a sharp knife and gut her in the most brutalist of manners, would an orchard of roses and barbs hang out of her like bleeding ropes of human organs that had once rested so lovingly in her abdominal cavity?
Truthfully, they were nothing more than dark, sick cravings that needed to be pushed away and abandoned, but she had been tempted before; to tear her rib cage apart like a hollow birdcage and search for her heart would bring nothing but relief to finally deduce the fact that the beating organ truly was tangled up in vines and thorns. Despite how much she desired to know the truth, however, she wasn’t ready to conclude that Pearl’s heart really belonged to her first, and last, master.
Amethyst should have known better than to trust her, to fully pour whatever remaining hope she had into loving her; that love, however, was nothing more than a pleasant curse, and a bitter blessing.
A toxic dedication she would have to see through to the very end.