Chimera Fields oh, fortune fortune

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The oujo choked and gasped from breath beneath the full weight of her assailant. The sheer mass and density of his frame threatened to crush and break her, so delicate and fine was she! Her breath could only come in superficial, minuscule puffs — curiously in time with the monster’s thrusts and macabre caresses, as if she was not even allowed to breathe unless he bade her. The dark specter had everything and she had nothing, from her breath to her fractured body to her drug addled mind to her waning spirit. But it was okay… the stranger deserved it more than she did, because she was nothing. deserved nothing. would always be nothing.

The brute found this new position to be a new way to hurt her and he drove deep. Kitsch opened her mouth to let loose a strangled cry but no sound could be heard, so her snapdragon jaws clipped shut and grit together as this new pace was sustained — and Kitsch felt everything. The lamb felt his thrusts against her feeble, quivering hips and felt his grotesque swelling inside her, felt his rough paws claw and clamor at her sides. Felt the searing pain of his fangs as they punctured and tore at the fine fur that lined the nape of her neck, felt the warm blood that coalesced with the assailant's saliva and stained her coat a saccharine shade of pink. Unable to hold her head up in the face of such shame, Kitsch listlessly laid her cheek upon the soft spring grasses and allowed her weakened body to be pushed about quite violently —  and that the moment, the wasted ingenue was nothing more than a million china plates being smash on a concrete floor,

the wing of a dove broken between the jaws of its hunter, 
the grandest of thrones set against a war-torn countryside
a delicate silken slip, torn and frayed by the claws of some cruel beast
a ragdoll chucked out the window of a family’s suburban going 90 on the highway,

and Kitsch, as she lay between man and earth, was a million things at once — but above all else, the girl was broken. Kitsch aged a thousand years during her assault and intimately knew every single second of this interminable lifetime, for the distortion of time was not in her favor and it did not end quickly. After a thousand years had come and passed, the brute finally found his release — the fleeting apogee that the stranger decided was worth more than she ever was. His jaws clamped upon her hide in his fervor and even then Kitsch could not find her voice; it simply wasn’t worth the effort anymore. Kitsch blinked her unseeing eyes as her head remained twisted and violently pressed into the earth, for it wasn’t until the man’s movements stilled that she realized how strung out she truly was. The numb that had been so endearing was now her enemy; her mind detached from reality, obscuring everything that had just been so clear. Kitsch did not feel his tongue nor hear his words. Her limbs were impossible to move, seemingly made of lead. The girl’s ink dipped tail twitched languidly upon the ground and her body trembled harshly beneath him and her blood ran hot then cold then hot then cold then hot again — but the sacrificial lamb could feel none of these actions, nor was aware of them happening. All she was aware of was a growing wave a nausea in the pit of her stomach, swelling and reeling in the confines of her sweet belly — a curling tide that crashed against her shores when the beast wrested himself from her body, torn from very being. 

She vomited where she lay and continued to heave and retch as the monster walked away, disposing of her like a stripped, rotting carcass. It was then that merciful unconsciousness freed the pale babe from her corporeal bastille, cradled her wounded soul in its soothing arms, sang her ringing ears a hushed lullaby and shared with Kitsch last restful sleep she would ever know.

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