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When, before your very eyes, a dagger plunges straight between the brows of yet another assistant, you find yourself mildly curious: is it truly such an astonishing trick, merely hyper-realistic mannequins at work — or should you finally face the truth? In reality, whichever of the two is correct hardly matters; you do not linger on the fate of the woman with the shattered skull for more than a fleeting moment. The audience around you erupts into thunderous applause, and you cannot help but join in — for if one forgets the final note of the act (and you already have), Pierrot’s show once again brings you pleasure.
You come to watch him time and time again, and no performance ever mirrors the last — every dance, every movement upon the stage is singular. The arcs of sharp daggers are like exquisite music: the mind-chilling sound of air being cleaved makes the hair stir at the nape of your neck, and when the blade reaches its mark…no, you harbour no sadistic craving to witness flesh split and scatter from the bodies of the “brave” assistants dressed in pink. You are merely curious.
The show ends, and you habitually leave the tent as early as possible, unwilling to linger in the crush of the crowd — fully expecting that the gaudy performer will seek you out himself. And, as if on cue, scarcely five minutes pass before Pierrot is already pulling you away from the bustle between the tents, into a quieter corner, looking visibly agitated. You know well that he will not squander a single free moment, will not let you slip away without devoting all of his attention to you — and you never leave the circus without first exchanging at least a few dozen tender words with him.
You do not know what expression now rests upon your own face, nor how some ordinary girl might behave after witnessing such a bloody spectacle for the hundredth time. What you do know is that there is no need to disguise your true emotions as anything else.
“Your performances amaze me again and again,” you say before Pierrot can even open his mouth — and he is already blushing. “You truly are a master of throwing knives!”
You carelessly exclaim all manner of praising nonsense, catching him by the hand and tugging him down to your height without waiting for him to bend — so you can speak softly, gently, in a voice meant only for yourself to hear — and you watch with quiet satisfaction as a wide smile spreads across Pierrot’s face. Seeing that endearingly flustered head beneath a ridiculous jester’s hat is always such a pleasure; you wonder whether your simple words can truly stir such a storm of adoration in another person. In any case, you delight in his good mood — and in your own as well.
“My lady… Your praise, as always, makes my heart leap straight out of my chest”, Pierrot is more than happy to preserve the current position — your hand is still resting atop his, somewhere between your bodies standing far too close to one another, like two lovers hiding around a corner from their parents; a ridiculous comparison — yet some deep, dark part of you curls its lips in a perverse grin. Pierrot gazes down at you intently; you want to believe he enjoys the sight. “Seeing you in the front row every time has become so familiar that I don’t know whether I could perform as before if you weren’t watching me”, he leans even lower, almost pressing himself to your ear; the hair at your temple trembles from his warm breath. “My dear, will you come again tomorrow?”
Pierrot looks at you expectantly, straight into your eyes, burning a hole through mind and heart with molten golden warmth, yearning to hear one particular answer. Sharp teeth bare themselves so charmingly in a predatory smile, bright eyes curving into crescents, narrowing into thin slits, hypnotizing you. Of course, you give the sweet clown what he deserves.
“Naturally, and the day after tomorrow as well’, with your free hand you lightly flick his smooth forehead, as if to say “what a silly question, how could I not come,” and contort your face into a grimace. Indeed, you are not exaggerating your displeasure in the slightest — visiting Pierrot at the circus after work has become a tradition lately, and breaking routine makes your anxiety flare.
Pierrot is always glad to hear any sweet nonsense from you, anything that soothes his obsessive longing for your presence. You worry a little that this man constantly follows you around like a little tail — who knows whether he rests at all, if during the day he is either at his workplace or at yours, and at night… Well.
“Allow me to walk you home, my lady. It can be unsafe to walk alone after dark”, Pierrot subtly adjusts himself at your side and gently takes your hand in his, as if leaving you no choice but to agree; the cunning strategy is easily exposed, but you truly have no intention of refusing him.
And so you walk home accompanied by the tall figure behind you. Pierrot walks a step back, vigilantly watching your thin little form, ever threatening to dissolve into the surrounding darkness without a trace. In this tiny town, almost anywhere more than a few meters from the main road has poor lighting or none at all, and yet you habitually cut through the night with a light gait, without ever considering what might lurk within it. Your tall shadow behind you twists with dread at the thought that you have always walked these dark streets completely alone, so small and fragile, while the unpredictable world could have done anything to you while he, your faithful protector, was not there. He should never leave you for even a minute, because Pierrot has already realized that you treat yourself with the same indifferent coldness as you do others — but not him — and then he would show you how truly wonderful you are, how deeply he loves you, his little star… You are always so kind to him, so generous, that he will spare no effort to repay you in kind, destroying any filth that dares to touch you.
Meanwhile, you remain unaware of the dark thoughts in the bright head, feeling only the unwavering stare at the back of your neck for the entire walk… Well, in any case, the path comes to an end, and here you are standing before your home — the hanging silence breaks. You see Pierrot change his expression into an awkward little face, and you sigh inwardly, noticing that something still troubles him; truth be told, you yourself sometimes feel a little uneasy when you stay at home… alone. Strictly speaking, the regulator of your infrequent emotional troubles is standing right beside you now, unmistakably too close, showing no desire to part.
…You know that the clown has visited you unofficially a more-than-decent number of times, but what about a visit through the front door? Unfortunately, you do not have a red carpet.
One can guess how Pierrot will react to such a tempting offer, but you voice the idea aloud anyway — and now you are standing in the narrow entryway of your apartment, while your tall guest looks around with visible excitement.
“My lady, I must say I am deeply grateful for your invitation…” you try not to pay attention to how Pierrot pretends to be poorly acquainted with your apartment and politely waits for you to go ahead first. “It seems this is the first time I am visiting you in such a calm setting, is it not?” in truth, it is not his first visit while you are awake, but it is the first time you have explicitly invited him inside, which makes it impossible for Pierrot to restrain his anticipation.
“Ah, really? Haha, it does seem so”, you smile awkwardly at his words, freeing the already cramped space by the front door from your presence. When you finally leave the entryway, you notice a dim glow deeper in the apartment — apparently, yesterday you forgot to turn off the television, and the poor thing has been running all night and all day long… Well then, that’s an idea for entertainment.
You glance back at Pierrot, who has frozen in the doorway, watching you expectantly, as if asking now what?? He tries to avoid looking at the balcony door and your neatly made bed, unable to explain this to himself.
“Would you like to watch some TV?” the bed gives a soft creak and dips under your weight as you plop down at once among the soft pillows and carefree pat the empty space beside you. “Oh, there’s actually something curious on right now”, out of the corner of your eye you notice that the screen is showing an interesting program you sometimes watch on free evenings — something along the lines of Illuminati and conspiracy theories, but it works well enough to unload a brain stiff from work; at other times, you think of it as a comedy show.
Shifting your gaze away from the screen, you notice that your guest is still standing off to the side, lost in thought, but catching your look, he finally moves and comes closer to you, comfortably settled among the pillows. The only source of light in the room is still the old, dim screen, and you can’t quite make out the expression on the face of the person who, with a smooth motion, lowers himself not onto the bed beside you, but onto the carpet in front of it, gently resting his head in your lap.
“I cannot cause inconvenience to a lady in her own bed”, Pierrot looks up at you with large golden pupils, his hands carefully reaching for your freely dangling calves, pressing them to himself. “My dear, do you mind if I stay here?” the bells chime softly with the movement, and the dense fabric of his clothes tickles the bare, tender skin, raising occasional shivers.
…You cannot help but marvel at such a strange arrangement, yet the innocent expression on the face of the one who has so proprietarily claimed your legs… as a pillow… leaves you, in the end, without words of protest. You say nothing; with an unreadable expression you sink deeper into the cushions, one hand groping somewhere in the folds of the bed for the television remote, while the other is released to unobtrusively explore the interlacing lengths of long hair scattered across your knees.
Pierrot’s hair lies so pleasantly in your hand—soft and obedient, smooth as true silk. In truth, you like it very much — and there is little you like at al l— and it would be best if not a single hair were ever to fall from that marvelous head. You could go on pretending that another’s feelings are one-sided, feigning, as you so expertly know how, but you truly like this person — or whatever term might better apply — and every part of which he is composed.
…How sinful — it is for the first time that such greed takes hold of you: a desire for another’s attention in endless measure, even when it is already endless, and for that presence never to cease. Perhaps your masterful ability to copy others has begun to falter, but what of it — you would not object to competing with Pierrot to see who might smother whom more completely with love.
“My dear, does this occupation please you more?” Naturally, the owner of that marvelous head harbors no objection to what is taking place upon his crown—Pierrot merely tightens his embrace around your legs, delicate claws gliding over your ankles so as not to scratch the tender skin. He shifts a little closer, pressing his cheek more firmly to your thighs and nudging the top of his head into the hand sifting through his soft locks, demanding that the warmth never depart. “Please, touch wherever you wish.”
Smiling a cheshire smile, he squints like a large, satisfied cat, and you too cannot help but lift the corners of your lips in response to his words, exhaling softly under your breath.
Carefully, you brush the fringe back from his pale face, your knuckles gliding lightly along before coming to rest on his cheek, near the eyes. Molten gold burns its gaze upon you from the darkness of his sockets, following every movement and every direction of your glance — look only at me. A clawed hand settles atop yours, pressing it closer still; in the half-light you vaguely discern the motion, and your palm finds itself against other's warm lips. Pierrot gently kisses your slender hand, looking straight at you with eyes that gleam so brightly, so hotly, in the dimness of the room.
The remote, never found, lies forgotten somewhere among the cushions.
…Pierrot brazenly distracts you from watching your foolish little program; the thought that you are indulging that smiling head with its bells yet again makes you want to smile wider still, and you hope your silly expression is lost in the shadows of falling hair.
Leaning down, you linger for a moment, admiring the ambiguity of the scene, until your gaze catches on those very bells upon the clown’s cap — utterly out of place in the present atmosphere.
It is clear there is something not quite right about those caps — you have never, in fact, seen anyone from the circus wander about without them; once more, you find yourself faintly curious. You study the face in your hands for another instant before applying a small effort and drawing the figure closer to you, away from the hard carpet on the floor. Pierrot worries for the safety of your bed, yet obediently follows the warmth of your hands, pressing nearer — and perhaps it is merely a play of light and shadow, for it is impossible to smile any wider — but it seems to you that he manages it.
The position is now less convenient for your legs — Pierrot is almost lying atop you, pinning the lower half of your body firmly to the sofa with his weight — but you no longer need to fold yourself into impossible angles to bring your face close to another’s.
With rapture you bury yourself in the crown of his head, breathing in a scent of something sweet, like strawberries or chocolate; indeed, Pierrot reminds you of a chocolate-covered strawberry, you think. The aforementioned strawberry has no intention of missing such an opportunity for intimate closeness, wrapping strong arms around your waist and lower back and caressing you with such insistence that you cannot help but worry for your bones. A face with an endearing flush buries itself somewhere near your solar plexus, knocking the last of the air from your lungs — and this is decidedly not due to applied force. Something inside tickles far too much from this arrangement, and something outside tickles as well, thanks to the fluffy hair creeping into your face, so that you cannot help but freeze for a couple of moments like a disoriented fly, trying to calm the organ beating behind your ribs.
“My dear, I can hear how loudly your heart is beating… I do hope it beats like this only for me.” …this affectionate guy gives you no room to catch your breath. Pierrot presses himself even closer to your chest, as though longing to listen to the exquisite music of your soul, blissfully closing his eyes.
“…You know, you have very beautiful hair”, all that saccharine nonsense passes you by unheard; fortunately, no one can see your face now — it must be as red as Mr. Strawberry’s costume itself. If such an amoral being as you possessed a heart, it would surely belong to someone just as inhuman.
You sigh softly, your gaze sliding to the unfortunate clown’s cap and the faint outlines beneath it. If there are two inhuman beings in this room, then why is one of them always laid bare before the other, while the second still hides their true self?
You do not wish to do anything abrupt that might upset him or cause discomfort. Pierrot inhales your scent with abandon, eyes closed, listening to the quiet beating of a human chest, while you gently touch the edge of his headpiece, drawing his attention with a light tapping of your fingers against the fabric. The hands on your body tense for a moment, then relax again, claws pressing lightly into your skin through the layer of clothing. Yet you feel the shoulders beneath your fingers remain taut, the body shifting threateningly — as if the warm figure were about to rise and leave its place beside you. You forbid it at once, forcefully placing your hand against his broad back.
“My lady, I know you are curious, and I am flattered by your attention, but believe me…”
Pierrot lifts his gaze to you helplessly, shaking his head slightly, no longer resisting your delicate grip. His tall figure sinks back into place, shifting only enough to reach for your hand with his palm. “…Humans usually do not like to know what lies behind our masks. It is better to leave it where it is.”
The sharp fingers fail to reach their goal — you move faster, catching Pierrot’s hand first and stopping him.
The coarse glove clings tightly to those grotesquely long, clawed fingers, offering no hint of what lies beneath the black fabric. The sharp tips look threatening — and undoubtedly are — you can only guess how much flesh they have torn — yet those predatory claws are always dull when they touch your tender skin. You cannot help the temptation to draw closer, to examine them more carefully, to touch.
The gloves are merely the lesser evil compared to the mask and the hat, and you are done being polite with this restless clown.
“I am not afraid of what my eyes might see — but you are”, insistently squeezing his hand and pulling the fabric away under his stunned gaze, you bring his pale fingers to your lips, pressing an innocent kiss to the knuckles, then covering them with your other hand — as though you were holding the delicate hand of a princess, the most precious of treasures, and not a limb scarred and disfigured by time. So tender, so careful, that Pierrot doubts his own eyes — doubts the reality in which someone could be so gentle and kind to him… except you, comes the mental slap, no one else, only you, his little star. Pierrot does not know how much longer he can restrain the suffocating smoldering in his chest — his obsessive desire to claim every cell of your body, every inch of velvety skin, to take all those beautiful treasures for himself forever…
“Why?” you see your companion on the verge of melting beneath your gentle touch — dilated pupils shimmer with a viscous, sticky light, staring at your entwined hands. Predatory eyes slowly rise to your face, futilely trying to discern something that is not there and never was, and you tilt your head inquisitively, pressing your skin once more against the rough surface.
Warm breath brushes your bare fingers without any barrier, and Pierrot feels intoxicated by such forbidden sweetness. He simply leans forward, unable to resist.
Both clawed hands cup your cheeks, drawing you unbearably close to a heated face, to burning eyes that seem to devour you from within — and you involuntarily hold your breath, meeting his gaze in return.
“I do not wish to see fear or disgust in your eyes, my lady”, for a moment, nothing happens; only heavy breathing brushes against your lips. “Please, my sweet angel, look at me only as you do now. Can you promise me that?” cool fingers trace slow circles along your cheekbone, tenderly touching the delicate skin beneath your eyes. You can almost feel the sticky weight of his gaze sliding over your face, your neck; unblinking, his eyes relentlessly probe something beyond your soul, trying to divine your thoughts.
“Does my gaze trouble you so much?” you find his hand and give it a light pat, imitating something like a calming gesture. “I do not know what you might see in these lifeless eyes, but…” the contrast between the glove’s material and the bare skin beneath is too sharp, too jarring, and you tug at the edge, pulling the intrusive garment away. “If you like the way I look at you, then let me see more.”
Your position is far too intimate: one step forward, and your lips would already brush the corner of that wild smile opposite you — but no further. First, you will sate your own desires; his may wait. You do not expect a predator to accept a mere crumb from your palm without trying to bite off the entire hand, and so at the slightest movement toward you, you prudently raise your hand before that ambitious maw.
Deliberately, you tug at the dangling bell of his hat, making it chime. Is the hint clear enough?
Pierrot stares helplessly, uncertain whether he wishes to dissolve into thin air from the unbearable sweetness of torment, or from the realization of how inescapable his situation truly is. Is the price of your warmth really so high? Are you truly as calm as you appear? You look at him so directly, so clearly, that he dares not doubt you — and yet something deep inside is broken. All of them are mired in it. This impenetrable swamp cannot be crossed alone; perhaps allowing someone else in — from outside — is not such a terrible thing. Perhaps you could…
“You may do it, my lady”, he does not move, merely lowers his head slightly, like a condemned man awaiting judgment — and you feel like an executioner. No, truly… you don’t understand what makes Pierrot dramatize this so intensely - Perhaps the matter of identity is far more painful than you had assumed... You don’t wish to think about what might have led to this, though you can already imagine it, based on what you know. Indeed, this man is far from an innocent sweetheart — so why would anyone ever hurt him?
“I am not going to hurt you… if that is what you wish to know”, your hand glides smoothly through his pale hair, along its entire length. Pierrot jerks his head up, intending to reply, but is interrupted by the chime of bells striking the floor — the hat slips down.
Of course. Horns.
You try to settle more comfortably, focusing all your attention on the revealed sight. Pierrot shifts his head uneasily; you might have flicked his forehead again, if only your hands were not already occupied exploring the surface of the growths. There is nothing beautiful about them — three strange formations resembling withered roots, twisted and warped, like ossified fingers frozen in a deathly spasm. To the touch, they feel like tree bark — rough and coarse — as you trace their surface with your fingertips, studying the grooves and unevenness.
This grotesque image enchants you; yes, only you could find elegance in these ugly curves, only you are allowed to look and to touch. The mesmerizing contrast of dark against light, rough against silken; it hypnotizes your mind so completely that you fail to notice how tenderly you press yourself to his crown, kissing just at the base of the horns.
It is so wonderful, so wonderful.
Perhaps your tastes have proven slightly unconventional — but you are far too captivated by this. You cannot give this marvelous creature over to be torn apart by people.
“M-my lady, what you said…” perhaps you are holding the figure in your arms too tightly, yet Pierrot manages to turn, lifting his gaze to you. That does not stop him from clinging to you with a death grip. “I would never have thought such a thing, milady, you are the kindest person I have ever met,” he straightens fully, freeing himself from your embrace and once again towering above you like a large, clumsy bear, his paws gripping your narrow shoulders. Eyes burning with an unhealthy light stare directly into yours — at last, you can truly see them. “My dear, you… you truly accept this? Your embrace — it tells me so, does it not?” — the figure leans lower, claws pressing slightly into flesh; you feel nothing unpleasant. What matters more is not tearing your gaze away from the approaching blaze. “You accept me? I will not be able to let you go, milady, stay with me… Please, otherwise I…”
You meet the raging fire of golden eyes, colliding with the part of the face just below — human, warm lips brush against your cool ones, forming a kiss that is, for now, innocent; the blazing, insatiable eyes widen, and the mouth opens immediately — you feel the sharpness of fangs against your lips as they begin to devour them fiercely.
Trying to keep your balance under such an onslaught, you lower your hands to the waist of the person before you, exploring the curve upward along his back. Broad and solid, muscles taut like those of a tiger preparing to leap — and you cannot help but feel even smaller and more fragile beside a two-meter-tall man. Quite pleasant.
Even if you are attacked like prey, you do not intend to submit to it, because even a small beast has fangs — and it, too, is mad with hunger.
Warmth with the taste of blood on your lips sends your thoughts spinning in a vortex, leaving nothing to cling to, while an indecently long tongue laps the sweet liquid from flushed lips, grazing your cheek and rushing back toward your teeth. You let the writhing, serpentine tongue in, instantly losing all freedom in your mouth — and accepting the hot creature whole.
Pierrot is clearly in even greater rapture than ever before; large hands close around your waist as if it were a toy’s — far too thin even for an average person, yet soft and pliant beneath strong fingers.
Arching under the long fingers below, you only press yourself closer to the lips above, finding yourself trapped. The other’s long tongue explores everything, sliding along smooth human teeth, sweeping across the palate and coiling around your tongue; it feels as though you are about to lose your mind. Is this even possible? physically?..
Your jaw begins to ache from the prolonged tension, and suffocation flares in your lungs. You bite the other person one last time, pulling away with a wet sound and drawing in a loud breath.
Pierrot never once took his eyes off you, and you did not close yours either, watching those golden eyes the entire time. Large, like two blazing suns, they stare, stare, stare — nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee, until you burn to ash; the mobile tongue has yet to retreat, and you see clearly just how long it is as Pierrot licks his lips.
You cannot believe it… … Well then.
You watch for a moment as Pierrot, too, is visibly short of breath when he pulls back from your face and looms above you. His cheeks are vividly red; you want to pinch them.
The weight of the other body presses down, not allowing you to properly reach the fluffy head. You act before you have time to think: exerting effort — no one resists, though you are no match for a two-meter bulk — you straddle Pierrot, knocking him onto the bed and claiming the dominant position for yourself.
Flushed and breathless from the recent struggle, you lean slightly forward, bracing one hand against his strong chest. Pierrot’s hands immediately land on your waist and hips, gripping and stroking firmly. He watches your movements attentively from below, writhing and clearly wishing to continue, yet the question still hangs in the air, and you would rather not leave it unanswered.
Something primal and feral hangs in the air as you dodge the other’s attempts to devour you. Pierrot has never wanted anything so badly as to sink into you right now — with teeth or lips, or something else entirely — your warm flesh is critically lacking beneath his claws, and the soft dampness of your insides… of your small mouth, taking everything without remainder… He wants a little more, just a little more…
“So, how do you like my answer? Quite specific, wouldn’t you say?” — an elegant feminine hand glides along the smooth face, brushing the corners of the predatory mouth, moving down along the tightly fastened collar at the neck and stopping somewhere between the collarbones and the place where the heart beats. You lick your itching lips.
Pierrot exhales noisily, unable to hold back the mad grin tearing its way onto his face — any moment now, the mask might split in two. Refraining from something else and pulling you lower with large hands, he whispers in a hoarse voice right against your lips:
“My lady… you truly express yourself in a rather bold manner. I adore how direct you can be, leaving absolutely no room for ambiguity…” you find yourself at the mercy of warm, clawed palms, pressed beneath another person so that your face buries itself somewhere between his neck and shoulder, while the other’s painfully tender whisper sounds directly at your ear. “My dear, my beautiful lady, I love you so very much, you know that? My little star, so fragile and shining, you will belong to no one but me,” you swallow against your dry throat and involuntarily hold your breath, listening to the disordered murmur. “If you love me too, then you may be only mine, my lady, you will be mine, I will never leave you… I will kill anyone who touches you or even looks at you the wrong way, my love,” sharp claws slide along your thin neck, burying themselves in your hair and scraping your scalp. “I will tear out their hearts and, if you ask, bring them to you on a platter… with the greatest joy. My sweet star, people will never hurt you again — just stay with me, forever. All right?” Pierrot affectionately rubs against the place just behind your ear, blissfully closing his eyes, for you are already his, you have already chosen him. He only hopes that you will never change your mind.
He cannot see your face, and you yourself do not know what expression rests upon it now — yet your lips tremble slightly from how unnaturally wide they are stretched, and your cheeks burn in a blazing fire. For a moment, you even hear the drum-like roar of a heartbeat in your chest.
The thunderous rattling inexorably sends a tremor through your limbs, so that you can lift yourself above another’s chest only slightly — just enough for two pairs of insatiable eyes to meet.
It seems you do have a heart after all; otherwise, what is it that beats so loudly against the walls of your chest?
You inhale too unevenly to utter even a single word properly, so you simply laugh softly through constricted exhales.
“You do even realize how romantic that sounds…” your lips are dry again, and you run your tongue over them, as though after a hearty meal. Your hand reaches out on its own to rub your aching cheeks, for they are about to cramp. “Seriously, Pierrot… no one has ever confessed their love to me the way you just did…” he can finally see your sweet little face when you lower your hand — Pierrot is so grateful to the heavens and to all gods known to people, existing and nonexistent alike, that the expression on your face right now is precisely what he desires so deeply; traces of unhealthy attachment still bloom upon your lips, and your eyes shimmer with a sinister gleam seen only in those who have crossed a certain threshold. Perhaps for you this is like a dance at the edge of a cliff, when you do not know at what second you will plunge into the abyss of absolute madness and pleasure; you have long stood on this edge, neither crossing it nor stepping back. Having long ceased to notice that something is profoundly wrong with your mind, you decide instead that something is wrong with the world around you, and that the boundary separating the pit of madness from the normal world has turned into something dividing one sick existence from another — even more sick and chaotic, permeated through and through with absurdity and delirious nonsense. From your seat in the front rows, you could always see the writhing clots of pain clinging to creatures unable to cross the line that separates them from you, only stretching out their hands in vain.
At last, other hands reach out toward yours, in an instant robbing you of that fragile balance.
You do not see what hell you are about to fall into together with another person, but you do not need to — for your entire field of vision is filled with the glowing halo of golden eyes.
“My lady, I could speak of my love for you in a thousand different ways, until there is nothing left in your head but this, nothing but me”, indeed, his words always sound so smooth that you could listen to all thousand of his confessions; and you would accept all the bloodied hearts he would present to you. “If my lady is gracious enough to listen — I will gradually tell you everything… Ah, there is still so much I have not yet expressed, my lady…” claws slide along your chin, lifting it slightly upward. “I think red would suit you, my sweet star.”
Red, blood-red, just like what flows through human veins; just like the color of love. Does love flow through people’s veins? If so, why was the world so cruel? If not, why does blood leave the body when we die?
Love stains Pierrot’s hands and knives every time another assistant — a filthy little human — loses their breath on stage to the accompaniment of thunderous applause; red — the color of blood, the color of love, the color of Pierrot and the cozy tent where rivers of love-blood are spilled, all for love, in the name of love, your love — for what is the price of a human life, a life that is not-yours?
“I used to dislike red. I used to dislike everything, in truth”, you say somewhat sluggishly, absorbed in your thoughts. “But I like you very much.”
If red is destined to become the symbol of your love, then so be it; if he kills for you, you will kill for him, don the color that suits you, the color you like. If an organ torn from a body is torn from deep feeling, torn with love — can it truly be called anything else? It is still love, even if as twisted and vile as yours; after all, morality is subjective, and in your little world the sky has long since traded places with the earth, and it is no longer the one writing the rules — it has not been for a long time.
“I think it is rather beautiful… You are so open in your affection, and I will accept everything without remainder, without looking back at the world around me”, you follow the will of the fingers at your jaw, drawing closer to the face opposite — cool lips meet yours again, eager to deepen the kiss. You merely brush your nose gently along the other’s cheek, not intending to continue.
“I will wait for you to tell me more about your love.”
Pressing yourself to the warmth beside you, you truly believe what you say.
“And then I will tell you about mine.”