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Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in Casse -- SpellSong's LiveJournal:

Saturday, April 24th, 2004
7:59 pm
I was thinking about lying.
Something I do like breathing

Lying isn't so bad when your lying to others really
Because you know you're lying to them

It's bad to lie to yourself though
Because then you can never tell
whether your lying or your the rock bottom truth

because you always question
you always wonder

if you've found the truth deep down
or if you've just...

constructed one more lie
to lose your real self in

Current Mood: awake
Friday, January 2nd, 2004
3:15 pm
I love to sit by the window in mid december.

I love to follow the tiny crystal formations on the window. Watch as they turn the translucent glass to a pristine white. Love to be startled when i lean to close to the window and get startled when my breath suddenly begins to fog it. And perhaps I love even more dropping the tempature of my system low enough that when I blow soft white chilled air onto the glass it begins to ice, too. I love to watch the snow falling outside the window and listen to the sound it makes when it falls against the glass. This gentle slushy and yet almost feather light glittery sound.

Bell once told me I only liked this season because it was as cold as me. The cajun's Bell, not my angel you mind.

There's something magical about winter though. Something that didn't die that day with my mother or with the day I left my family or in each of those eyes of those I've killed. Something strangled and yet struggling to live that suddenly breaks free in the sight of that snow. Simple and easy and pure.

Sometimes I can still hear them if I put my ear close enough to the friggid glass. Laughing and talking. Throwing snow balls and playing in the yard two floor below. The last time they built a tiny ice castle we could walk through. It really wasn't much more than an ice walk way with one hollowed out area we called a 'room' but it was our castle. I still remember. I should forget, but I don't. Maybe I don't for the same reason I don't forget winter. Maybe not.

This was my fathers season. Oh, he liked summer with the hunting and the tank top wearing, but he loved winter. The thin stream of smoke from his cigar as he walked through the forests around the house pointing out tracks to me and growling when I couldn't remember what one we'd talked about the day before had been. It was about crisp clean snow, and wide open space, and the moon. It was always about the moon on the snow fall.

She was his lady. His ever constant.

I wonder if mother was ever jealous of the moon. I wonder if she ever begrudged the nickname he gave me, calling me his little moon.

I can't see the moon right now, just an endless black outside my window. That how my soul and my being feel. Fingers tips to the glass sucking the cold into my body and filling it with emptiness. There is no akiko tuski left in this body. No moonlight to guide the way on fresh fallen snow.

The windows go from clear to white, returning to pure innocence, but people can't. No matter how white you strive to be, once you've mixed black into the paint scheme it will never come out again. The closest you ever get is a grey. I wonder if thats how the swamp rat and her lover, and even dad feel sometimes.

I can still hear them laughing and playing outside the window, out there on that untouched snow, the way they did that last winter at home and as the tear freeze on my cheeks for a moment my christmas wish is the utter impossible and improbable. But I never forget. They won't ever forget what I did to them....any of them.....so I don't deserve to forget either. And I won't. I won't ever forget anything. It'll be etched into my mind, my skin and my heart till the end of time.

And because of it I stopped making wishes long ago.

It's just me and the window and the endless black.
Sunday, October 5th, 2003
9:57 pm
Another day, another death.
I remember when I used to laugh and tell that to Rejar in a sing-song voice. I was fifteen and had no place knowing how to kill people just by how they stood and smiled, than I did knowing how to make a man keel over in pleasure in less than two seconds by the use of my smile and the tip of my tongue. I was a modern day Lolita with the power to kiss as fast as kill, and to do either without the care of the merrit of either.

Another dead body, except this time I was naked before it happened. They could say I don't mind getting my kick off my marks, and I wouldn't decry them at all. Mostly because your not wrong, and other wise becuase I'd just kill them if they annoyed me with my gossip too long. Biggest of all on the chart though is that I don't have time for a lover. Too much work. I detest pandering to someone else's insecurities.

She's dead now though. Her touch wasn't as good as could have been at all, but it didn't matter that much. She gave me mine, and she died in the center of hers. That might as well be my good deed for the year. She never felt herself leave life, because she was caught up in her bliss. She wasn't a person on the wrong side of the game. She was the only daughter of someone who was.

They want him to suffer before he dies, too.

First year college student, studying archeology as a passion, and experimenting in girls as a two year lasting hobby. Something about her inocence made me want to spare her the terror, though I guess that only points at a weakness though. But destroying a hospital and only hearing the sounds of the babbies cries before they were smoothered by the ceilings that crushed them for a year straight, because heaven deemed this your perfect torment.....it has a habit of changing you.

She kept her innocence even as she died, and she never felt the pain or terror. Yeah, she's dead at my hand and the smell of her sex is still on my body, but at least I didn't defile her soul. Must say though she taste like the way the dew on the roses in The Garden tasted. I'll remember to thank Rejar or making me drink dew off the rose petals during those very wanton lazy dayz full of drink, death, and debauchry when we met up the third time.

There's something addicting about the taste of innocence, because you only understand when you taste it;

What it was,
What it is as a loss,

And that you'll never be innocent again.
Especially in death.

Current Mood: dark as sin
Sunday, September 28th, 2003
11:54 am
He asked; "Where will you go now?"
They both seem to ask that question so often. Where now? But so much is implied into that question depending on the person. Patric says it as though he wished to know innately what will happen out side his blanket of security placed around me. Bel says it with the chagrine of a parent watching a child who hasn't learning not to fall down.

There are so many blasie answers, and so many only half-true ones, too.
The cross-my-heart-honest truth is that I don't think I've ever had an answer.
Saturday, September 27th, 2003
2:13 pm
I always think about that here. I'm not quite sure why.

Bel, my angel, he believe in redemption but I never have. I knew what I was doing when I left the Legion of the Damned as a child. I knew what I was doing when I became a theif and then an assasain on top of it. I knew what I was doing when I took part in Garden's of Delight in New Eden. I never looked toward needing to be redeemed. I never wanted for the idea of it.

Redemption was always this funny flavored candy that never quite tasted right. The Legion tried to redeem me to no sucess. My father tried to redeem me, only to gain his hate of me. Steven tried to no avail, while Patric just pleaded at me with those beaitful grey eyes in words only the heart knows, but neither swayed me very long.
Yido did redeem me, but he sent me back to a place that wouldn't take redemption, and ultimate lost me in my black soul again. The cajun, he tried, but he walked the line too close, and I walked back over all on my own.
And, Patric, as always was there to pick up the pieces of my broken heart once again. How is it my heart is broken if I was the one who walked away? Maybe I have a perpetually broken heart. I know that sounds stupid and de de'classe for someone of my standing, all my standings, but maybe it's true. I lost my sister, my close family, my mother, my father, the rest of my close friends, my surogate father and mentor, and now even my unborn child.

I have little reason to have a heart, so why I keep a broken one sometimes is beyond here.

I shouldn't come here as it only amplifies the pain, but I always come here in the quiet deep or the night after the money is exchanged and I've shaken hands, knowing I'll be free until the mark and the lab top show up again with my next duty. It could be an hour, it could be a year.

So why here?

Because I love this place. And I revere it. More than I am allowed to. There is a peace and shelter that can be found in these open spaces. Even for someone who's soul is covered in blood; the blood of other wrongly taken. The wind blows through the trees and the moonlight casts shadows everywhere. The kao in the pond dip in and out of the water wrestling like starving animals for the bread crumbs I drop from my perch on the bridge railing.

I'm not allowed to love things. Personal decree. Because it makes me weak. It makes it so that any who could track me, even if the possibility is slim to none, could hae something they could take from me. They could score a mark by stabbing something deep into my heart. Something of value. I'm tired of being killed on the broken shards of my own heart and thats probably why I stopped watching people go when I killed them.

I enjoyed watching the light go out in their eyes originally. I think just up until I realized in a mirror that all of mine was gone. I don't even remember the last time I looked into a mirror. I never need to when I'm getting ready. The Perfecting will take care of all of that. Everything is always taken care of by the Perfecting. Everything is meticulous.

Except for me deep inside. It can't reset the counter deep inside, only the one that makes up my body.

I should be sleeping, but somewhere between The Perfecting and the seven favor pact with Dream when I walked through the Endless Maze, I never sleep. Somedays I give into the urge to cat nap, but most of the time the memories of the dreams are enough to keep me from it for weeks.

My angel will be here soon. He always comes after I've been released. All that blinding light, and the white wings. Fuses like a mother at me in that voice that is pure music because it's never been touch by anything that is earthen. Eyes the color of molten copper and fire mixed, and pale skin off set by the white robes. He really isn't mine, but I do call him that. And Bel. I call him Bel, perhaps because I dilike how pointed it truly is to call him by his name and title like I should.

He is Barakeil, the Angel of Chance. My once upon a time jailer, and my forever concience it seems. I did not ask him to follow me when I was released but he comes anyway. With messages from HIM, from my sister. Sometimes he comes for no reason at all. If he were mortal I'd say he had fallen in love with me and came for his love of me. But he is not mortal and he does not think in the ways mortals do. Mostly I think he comes to chide me for not being whatever it is he sees in me.

People have a habbit of doing that alot if you let them. My tendency to make myself more the scare when they do is why I have very few I can count among friends and family undoubtedly. The other reason is that the life I live is too dangerous for me to call anyone close.

Lives can be snuffed out much faster than someone could take fire to this park and pond.

I know.

All too well.
2:01 am
Morning comes.....
Twilights child hangs bows of light on my window panes, lighting the dew on the red flowers outside my window. The breeze sways the trees and flowers to and fro calling to me. Telling me it's time to rouse my sleepy head and go into my day. I've been up for hours --actually I avoid sleeping all together-- but it doesn't mean that I'm awake. I'm coming back into my awareness.

Pushing the window open, I reach out to touch the red petals of the flowers right outside the window. I never could resist a rose. They were Patty-Patch's favorite and therefore remind me of him. My heart deepest joy and fondest sanctuary. Which makes him off limits from my life. He's too dangerous to my life. And I'm too dangerous to his. But I given to the feeling of the rose petal against my skin, closing my eyes and letting a sigh escape my lips.

An ungaurded release, one of few that will ever be noted about myself.

Opening my eyes I have to take in the color of red on my fingers against the petals. It's not the bright crimson of the petals I'm stroking, but deep maroon, mostly dried and crackling. I can't even forget that it's smelling of iron. My senses are too acute to be able to lock it out. The room smells of iron as though someone smoked it into the air.

But no one has been in this room save me for five hours.

Perhaps thats not entirely true.

Over my shoulder and across the room there is a bed. On that bed is a well mutilated and now very dead body of an aged man. He's got four children, three boys and one girl, ages seventeen, fourteen, ten, and three. They'll be getting up to go to school now thining nothing of the fact their father hasn't returned yet. After all he travels a lot and stays away from them for business even more than he travels.

He is a double crosser and dirty player. He likes to think he can play both sides of the feild and not get caught. My kind of man. I might have even liked him had I met him without a mark. But he reached no such luck when the mark was handed to me. He's lucky that his mistress, or whore, left early, or I would have been greatful ot kill her, too. She would have gone quickly and scared him into submission. I liked it more that he struggled.

I got to torture him for the information my employers wanted to know. First went the digits on his pinky's on both hands, and then on both feet, and inward from there. Sadly, he passed out three times, which meant I actually had to dirty myself on bringing him back. The digits are strewn on the floor wherever they fell when I cut them. I don't really care so much about the mess because the maid will come to clean in three hours or so and find the body and mess.

But I can still feel him inside my head and, perhaps, thats why I haven't left the room yet. I can see the faces of his children, his wife, his whore mistress, his friends, his colleagues, inside my mind. Memories of all sorts floating inside my already so cluttered mind. This is a torture of a sort, but I submit myself to it.

Patric would call it guilt, but Patric hates to admit to anyone but himself when he's alone in the art gallery that I could be anything but his pretty angel and most cherished being. Even Jenaveave will never be loved by him the way I am. We share a mind, a heart, a soul. It is my most prized possesion, and my deepest bane.

I look to the mess on the bed with regret now, because of the dreams I know will plague him. I don't want him to see this part of me. I want him only to see that part of me that he says resembles the truth that was our mother long ago. I don't want him to see what he will only make out as a cold blooded killer and enemy.

I admit to being a murderer, but I am not a killer.

To murder is to take a life, but to truly emply the art, to truly kill, is to watch them, watch that light as you snuff it from their eyes, their being, their soul. Till there's nothing left of them to leave this life and continue on. I've gone there before and I don't want to ever go there again. I will be a murderer for hirer, but I will never be a killer. I'm sure few will ever know the true difference, but those who do, you can see it in their eyes.

That dark shadow that came back with them from the plunge to the other side and the fight back to this one.

Dawn is coming though. Bright beauty of morning, mother of daytime, and life. She sears me as I stare toward her glory, knowing I have stolen life from her world. She does not shine happily upon my skin, but I do not draw back from her bite upon my skin. A gentle golden light mixing with the faint blue glow that surrounds my pale skin that burns me into my core. I stand and tremble, but don't flinch nor run from the burning light of day.

Reaching out to touch the petals again, I feel the emptiness inside my stomach that always comes. That oblivion of transcendant joy and the lack of feelings thta accompanies it. This is just a job like any other. I follow my orders and rule book. I get patted on the head. I get paid. There's very little more to it.

But I know there's more to me that this....this destruction, even as the rose crushes under the clutch of my fingers over the entire bud snapping it from the branch brutually.

I know because he told me, because she whispered of my future. Well this is what I've made of that bright future. This is what I made of her dreams. This is what I've made of his hopes.

A puddle of blood drying in the dawn's breeze under a tepid, half disected corpse in a dirty motel room with crumpled rose petals strewn on the floor.

Thats all I see inside myself.

Maybe it's why I stopped owning mirrors.

Current Mood: empty
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