Page 36 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

This thing between us feels like needles dipped in substance, tearing into my skin. On one hand, I could preach about how I should not have carelessly opened the door to let this fiend in. While on the other, I could put blame on how tortured strays can find one another even blind.

He was meant to be part of a hint to the mystery, but it all went down the drainwhen my morals flew out the window in search for his lack of. I let this man into corners of my life where he never should have been.

“Glass, it’s fragile, but when broken, the shreds seek nothing but blood to smear it. So I suggest you wrap that chain tighter.”

The inevitable is lucid, the peril is present, and the fear only trickles further down my spine. Yet I keep walking, even when the metaphorical ice creaks under my feet, even when I know that not all questions should have answers, including the gut-wrenching ones. Closure doesn’t always come in the shape of broken truths, but in realizing that you won’t always understand it all, that sometimes it’s okay to stay in the dark. Yet how come I can not make sense of my own healing.

“Should I feel threatened?”

“No, you should heed my promise, because the more you bare those teeth at me, the more I’ll itch to pull at them.”

Our eyes stare unrelenting, and as the silence grows, I see the viciousness swirling behind his orbs. He is a man covered in sin, yet I know he would taste as sweet as heaven, because no matter how much I search for the angel he once was, it’s the devil dressed in silk I keep coming across.

I’m made of the same ashes I will be once I die, and because I’m nothing less of bones and flesh, so I beg to wonder. What if this brute of a man can crawl into my most ruined parts of me and kiss them to life. What if he could do the most hauntingly precious thing and know what love is.

“Death and poetry are entwined limbs Wild Rose , and while you’re as gracious as you are ethereal, you’re just as vulgar and eruptive as my most perverted thoughts, because pretty eyes hold the darkest nightmares just as poetry praises death, and death worships poetry.”

Chapter 19

Thorn – unknown 11570

She stays beneath my roof, a presence both suffocating and addictive. A shadow that clings to the corners of every room, just a breath away from where I rest my weary soul. But proximity, oh, it’s never enough. I need her closer, deeper, carved into the very fibers of my being. I need her to seep through the cracks in my skin, to breathe the same air I inhale, so that every breath she takes is woven with mine, our fates intertwined, bound by an invisible thread.

I crave more than mere closeness. I want her etched into the hollows of my soul, her essence mixed with mine, so that I can never be without her, even in the darkest of nights. She is a poison, but one I can not resist. Sweet and lethal, a slow burn that courses through me, hollowing me out with each stolen moment. I drink it down eagerly, no antidote in sight, no desire to escape. She is the venom I crave. The fire I burn in. And I long for it, the way a starving man longs for a last meal.

She is no mere woman, no fragile creature. She is a spell,a dangerous enchantment wrapped in sweetness. Honey dripped from her lips, a soft temptation. But beneath that softness lies a storm—a tempest that promises to consume all that I am. She is the embodiment of chaos and beauty, intertwined like fire and smoke. Angelic in her appearance. But her soul… her soul is a shattered thing, broken, jagged, and raw, like glass scattered on the floor, glittering with a dangerous allure.

I may wear the guise of the killer in this twisted tale, but she... she is far more. She is all seven of the deadly sins, dripping from her every motion, every whispered word. Wrath in the fire of her gaze, envy in the way she tempts me, sloth in the way she lures me into her chaos, greed in the way I can never have enough of her, pride in the way she makes me ache to possess her fully, lust in the heat of her skin pressed to mine, gluttony in the endless hunger she awakens in me. She is sin, breathing, living—impossible to resist, impossible to escape.

She is whiskey in a teacup. So fragile on the surface, so delicate in her beauty, yet the fire that brews beneath is enough to consume everything. Her exterior is honey-sweet, but there is a bitterness hidden in her sweetness, a raw, burning ache that I can not help but crave, knowing it will destroy me. A glimpse of her angelic innocence, and then the darkness unfurls. A hidden beast that claws its way out when you least expect it.

And I, the master of control, the keeper of reins, find myself unraveling in her presence. I pride myself on my ability to tame chaos, but she is a chaos I cannot cage. Every moment with her is a descent into madness, and I can only fall deeper, ever deeper. She is the wind that blows through my carefully constructed walls, the storm that shakes the foundation of my existence.

A rose. A beautiful, crimson rose with petals so soft they seem to melt beneath my touch, yet beneath them—oh, beneath them—there are thorns that rip through skin, tearing into my very soul. She is both beauty and destruction, luring me in, tempting me with her scent—her softness—until the thorns pierce deep, leaving me bleeding and yearning for more. The more I try to hold her, the more I tear myself apart.

My Wild Rose. A temptation I can not resist, a darkness I can not escape. She is both my salvation and my damnation. The poison I drink with trembling hands, knowing it will be my undoing. But oh, how I crave it—how I need it. She is the chaos I was always meant to embrace. The poison I will drink to the very last drop.

Chapter 20

Thorn

The Eulogy of Hope

Prudence, a delicate tether to sanity, like a thread of gossamer pulled taut between the precipice of chaos and reason. Sophrosyne, a name spoken of not for indulgence, but for the steadfastness of sobriety, the quiet restraint that binds a soul to its own discipline. On most days, I cloak myself in it, wrapping it around me like a mantle, hiding the storm that brews beneath the surface. A tempest that threatens to tear apart the fragile walls I’ve so carefully constructed. I take pride in starving the primal instincts that claw at me, in tempering the fierce need that burns deep within, and in silencing the urges that, if allowed to rise, would consume me in their madness.

I walk in measured steps, a semblance of grace that conceals the savage roiling beneath. The feverish desires, like flames that would devour, recede slowly, unwillingly, like waves retreating into the unfathomable depths of the ocean’s dark embrace. In these moments, I retreat into theshadows of my chambers, seeking solace in the quiet, where the world outside seems to vanish, leaving me alone with the parts of myself I dare not expose. Here, in solitude, I claw at the truth of who I am, feeling its pulse just beneath my skin, waiting, ever patient, to rise.

After all, it is blood and diamonds that have forged the Moretti name, the essence of both woven intricately into the legacy I carry. Traditions, unspoken yet enduring, throb within my chest like a second heartbeat that keeps the name alive, even as they are bound by iron and deception—threads that weave through the very foundation of my existence, entwined with the shadows of my own darkest desires.

But on other days, my bones hunger for the thrill of violence, the searing, acrid thirst that only blood can quench. I step out from my chambers, drenched in the warm, metallic crimson of my victims, my appetite satiated for a fleeting moment. Yet always, it rises again, relentless and insatiable. Their screams, their writhing agony, the madness that dances in their eyes. This is the call that stirs the monsters inside me, the hellhounds who know no mercy. I fear no evil because the shadows belong to me, and so does the valley that stretches beneath my feet. A verse my mother carved into my palms, a sacred line meant to guide me. But her perception of that line could not be further from mine. Hell, to her, was a place for fallen angels, for the missteps of the lost, but to me? Hell is far more intimate. It is the darkness that swirls in the pit of my soul, and even the most devout saint would pale before it. Evil, in its truest form, is as much a part of me as the breath that fills my lungs.

Discipline—such an elusive thing. An act long abandoned, discarded like so many chains that once kept myturpitude in check. It is as if the very essence of restraint has been bewitched, undone by some ancient sorcery. Like Circe herself had whispered her poisons into my ear. Yes, I am a connoisseur of toxins, a poisoner. But even I know that the true poison is not the vials that line my shelves. No, it is her—the one who holds dominion over my thoughts, the one who will unravel me. She is illicit, as forbidden as the fruit that Eve tasted, and I know it’s the allure of the forbidden that draws me in, that beckons me with its dangerous charm. Odessa, her name is a song that whispers of destruction, and she will be my undoing, of that I am certain.

Wrapped in diamonds, her wild, feral eyes glimmering with a hunger I’ve never known, her voice, a serpent’s hiss, calling forth temptation. Odessa could bring kingdoms to their knees without so much as lifting a finger, though she doesn’t yet know it. She doesn’t understand the power she wields, the precious stone she truly is, nor the venomous curse she carries within her. She is both my salvation and my ruin, and in her lies the delicate balance of both. How she doesn’t see it is a mystery, but I know all too well. She is my malice, my undoing, and I will let her be.

A virgin.

She sleeps mousily and blithely. And it appeases me how her mind conforms to solitude when I’m near, even if she won’t bet her lashes to speak of it.

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