ghost eyes are absent eyes.
I remember you as you were last autumn. You were the grey beret and the still heart.
The hair spilling out over the pillow is black, harsh black, like cutting rooms and wires. The girl is Aradia, the dead, the undead, the robotic, all steel and flashes. She is pale with red veins and red eyes. Kissing her neck is easy for a while and then kissing more gets boring.
The hair spilling across the girl’s neck is black, deep blue black, like shackling boats on seas. The girl is Vriska, the killer, the killed, the fanged loneliness with nowhere to land. Her fingers poke at hipbones and at eyelids, shouting "get up" and "I’m bored."
Kneecaps stick out of knees stick out of bedding.
She’s never felt so much at home.
Her restless fingers get lost in plaiting her “dum8 kismesis’ dum8 thick hair”.
Her limbs settle nowhere like ribbons.
She’s pulling on wrists, dragging the fingers of Aradia, shouting "get up, get up."
“I am up, you stupid troll, why are you wearing my clothes?”
“Mine are dull,” she sighs.
And then: “Let’s go out.”
And then: “I know I destroyed everything but there must be something left.”
And then: “I’m sorry.”ii
Aradia talks with the voice of a smoker, the voice of someone only half hanging on to life.
Aradia talks in her sleep.
Aradia talks: “What would you say if I said I wanted to bruise you all over and crush your bones into dust, just so I could sew you complete?”
Vriska digs her fangs into her lip until it bleeds.
Vriska bleeds onto the pillow and Vriska laughs.
“Is that real payback then?
Because killing me wasn’t enough.”
Aradia talks: “You killed me first. So what do you say, what do you say.
Vriska whispers: “I’d like to see you try.”
The snaps of quartz glisten through the window.
The snaps of melody thick the air with noise.
The blood bleeds blue on the sheets.
The bruises arise with purple watercolour.
The dust settles around them as the world falls apart.iii
The room littered with scraps of 8-balls.
Scraps of black future tellers.
Scraps of expensive lies.
Vriska kicks these out of the way, and passes intact 8-balls to Aradia,
who smashes them, point-blank on the floor.
They make a symphony of chaos, of crashes.
The only pleasure left is destruction, they suppose.
The only pleasure left is to tear the other apart.
Aradia’s hair in plaits, her lipstick smudged, her dead face soulless. Her neck is a canvas of dried cerulean and fang bites.
Vriska says: “Do you want to go home?”
And then: “I think you should go home.”
And then: “I don’t think we should play Flarp again.”
And then: “I’m sorry.”iv
The tin can psychopath, the red eyed ghost.
This is the second time Aradia finds herself in Vriska’s hive.
She throws her on concrete floor and it begins.
She punches her nose and her eyes and Vriska bleeds.
The blood on her hands smells like plastic.
Pulped Vriska, bleeding Vriska, never more attractive Vriska.
She throws her down again and it’s over.
It comes down to two teams, the red and the blue.
When the dust settles, really, it’s just wasting time.v
God Tier is like suspected, different.
After ascension, the first face is Aradia’s.
Aradia with rust coloured butterfly wings and hair hidden away.
Aradia with promise and new emotion.
Vriska feels almost imperfect with her speckled eye and odd horns. Her glasses balancing awkwardly on the end of her nose. God Tier is a bit like role-playing, but with less dying, she thinks, and finally looks at her dum8 kismesis.
“We match,” says Vriska, gesturing at her wings, and nearly punches the girl in the face.
“I hate you,” says Vriska, her teeth catching Aradia’s ear.
“Did you have to make it hurt so much?”
“You said you’d like to see me try.”
And then: “Without me you wouldn’t be here.”
And then: “You look beautiful.”
And then: “I’m sorry.”