[ There is nothing wrong with a good jest, a practical joke or nasty trick; her violence, however, is neither an empty exaggeration stated for effect nor a final recourse to an insoluble problem. It is a self-sustaining mode of being without intrinsic horror, to wit, when Millie declares her admiration of horror, it is as its perpetrator and engine, a being unconscious of its own darkness for it is the essence of her nature as a Christmasland child, requiring no more acknowledgement on her part than the autonomous workings of one's organs. She is a mockery of her former self but not without a kind of purity to the completeness of her corruption. Perhaps figments of light yet circle her soul, but at an immense distance, like stellar objects orbiting the rings of Saturn, the detritus of memories faded and proscribed.
She awaits his ministrations as though they are par for the course, a duty thrust upon Edward to his unknowing. It's surely learned behaviour, given the confidence with which she choreographs her post-meal dance, but learned from whom? He could hazard a guess, but too rash a judgement carries the risk of doing away with all nuance. Millie does approach him like another figure in her life, but not exactly like them. He is yet himself.
Her actions convey a measure of unspoken trust, though were Millie to reflect on this development, she would make a face, chagrined at her negligence before an adult. But here and now, shutting her eyes and relaxing her inhibitions feels right, if only for a moment. ]
Are you now. Is your dead heart athumping.
[ Words delivered blindly and without the emphasis of a question mark but with the beginnings of a smile upon her bloodsoaked lips. The minute cracks in his expertly cultivated demeanour are all the more salient for his refinement.
The girl tolerates the manipulation of her face to a point, the onset of a whine building in her throat just as the deed is done. ]
Argh... am I decent yet?
[ Millie opens her eyes. ]
I'm glad you understand: whether bystanders die depends on you. I have no tender feelings for the hoi polloi.
[ She looks past the stone arch then takes the lapel of his coat and tugs a single time. ]
no subject
She awaits his ministrations as though they are par for the course, a duty thrust upon Edward to his unknowing. It's surely learned behaviour, given the confidence with which she choreographs her post-meal dance, but learned from whom? He could hazard a guess, but too rash a judgement carries the risk of doing away with all nuance. Millie does approach him like another figure in her life, but not exactly like them. He is yet himself.
Her actions convey a measure of unspoken trust, though were Millie to reflect on this development, she would make a face, chagrined at her negligence before an adult. But here and now, shutting her eyes and relaxing her inhibitions feels right, if only for a moment. ]
Are you now. Is your dead heart athumping.
[ Words delivered blindly and without the emphasis of a question mark but with the beginnings of a smile upon her bloodsoaked lips. The minute cracks in his expertly cultivated demeanour are all the more salient for his refinement.
The girl tolerates the manipulation of her face to a point, the onset of a whine building in her throat just as the deed is done. ]
Argh... am I decent yet?
[ Millie opens her eyes. ]
I'm glad you understand: whether bystanders die depends on you. I have no tender feelings for the hoi polloi.
[ She looks past the stone arch then takes the lapel of his coat and tugs a single time. ]
Let's go, Eddy!