05-13-2014, 02:28 PM
"I never claimed to be an angel. Nor do I desire to be a demon. I am what the world made me to become..."
She glinted a diamond-sharp smile. "...a survivor."
If Damien was as he said, and out of touch of the gossips and celebrities of the world, Spectra could enlighten him with a tale that no longer panged her heart. The poison of her childhood shrivelled the organ long ago. Perhaps, if she did, he would spare her the forgiveness of her sinister reflexes.
"My mother was Egyptian. I went there once, to Egypt, so small I barely remember it."
Her eyes drifted aside, pulled along by the currents of distant memory. Yet her voice recalled what her mind saw with disinterest, as though the memories belonged to a creature of fiction rather than herself. "I do not remember the pyramids nor the Nile, yet I know I was there. I remember walking until my legs ached. I remember the sand stinging my cheeks..."
Whatever else swirled in the grains of time, Spectra did not describe.
"Yet my father was Cubano, and when the cartels overthrew him as a traitor, they nailed his body to a palm tree and lit him on fire. My mother they raped and executed, and I, the precious child, I was sold into my father's own sex trade."
As she admitted the callousness of her history, there was nothing in Spectra's gaze that hinted at despair or remorse for it.
"I am the product of a world's market, Damien. It is not I who condemns a man that fails to recognize what I am, it is the world that demands such justice."
She rose and went to kneel on the floor directly in front of his chair. Her knees dug into the softness of the carpet, prickling her skin with tiny dents. Her hands slid up the tops of his thighs, moving them apart so she could come close. The green of her eyes sharpened as they lay upon his. Her face tilted with all the humility of a house cat curling its tail around his leg. "Forgive me the sensitivity of my reactions?"
She glinted a diamond-sharp smile. "...a survivor."
If Damien was as he said, and out of touch of the gossips and celebrities of the world, Spectra could enlighten him with a tale that no longer panged her heart. The poison of her childhood shrivelled the organ long ago. Perhaps, if she did, he would spare her the forgiveness of her sinister reflexes.
"My mother was Egyptian. I went there once, to Egypt, so small I barely remember it."
Her eyes drifted aside, pulled along by the currents of distant memory. Yet her voice recalled what her mind saw with disinterest, as though the memories belonged to a creature of fiction rather than herself. "I do not remember the pyramids nor the Nile, yet I know I was there. I remember walking until my legs ached. I remember the sand stinging my cheeks..."
Whatever else swirled in the grains of time, Spectra did not describe.
"Yet my father was Cubano, and when the cartels overthrew him as a traitor, they nailed his body to a palm tree and lit him on fire. My mother they raped and executed, and I, the precious child, I was sold into my father's own sex trade."
As she admitted the callousness of her history, there was nothing in Spectra's gaze that hinted at despair or remorse for it.
"I am the product of a world's market, Damien. It is not I who condemns a man that fails to recognize what I am, it is the world that demands such justice."
She rose and went to kneel on the floor directly in front of his chair. Her knees dug into the softness of the carpet, prickling her skin with tiny dents. Her hands slid up the tops of his thighs, moving them apart so she could come close. The green of her eyes sharpened as they lay upon his. Her face tilted with all the humility of a house cat curling its tail around his leg. "Forgive me the sensitivity of my reactions?"