ribbons -- third person, Jane POV

[Kat J.]

She appears with eyes red like strands of velvet, ribbons resembling that of those she pours with anger just as potent.

She coddles the toddler with a mocking expression, it’s mother’s screams falling on seemingly deaf ears, a twisted countenance with all emotions but grief, perhaps anger. An immortal child, a broken little thing with a hunger more insatiable than any other newborn, a creature worth twice the name. She feels nothing but hatred, a vexation so hot it boiled her frozen veins, and melted the black ice of her insides.

She too was a tempter, a young monster destined for a seat of greatness, a gluttonous existence of attention and admiration succeeded by fear; not only was she gifted with a talent unchallenged, but she was so young. It was her blessing, her form of power among those with years well above her own, child-like face and big eyes tainted only by their color that appeared the most unwelcoming, sharp contrast to the white of her skin almost translucent in texture. Her wrists, that used to bloom with the blue roots that anatomy called veins now run placid like stone. She seems untouchable in her will, lips pursed and eyes forever cold but truthfully, she was enjoying this. She relished the suffering, the torture, knowing her mark was made in destruction. It was a pleasure she partook in feeling like the most powerful person in a situation with hardly having to raise her voice, move a finger of her rather small hands and cause the same pain it took an entire village to cause her.

She was a war zone, a soldier on a pedestal made of her own burning, a witch not in truth but in existence.

Her fingertips brushing the face of an ice cold child, small enough to fit in her arms despite their own size, and sees nothing but a tool for her own use. The screams push her forward, gaze meeting it’s mother’s eyes with no sign of remorse, no mercy. Someone who does not know their place is not worthy of such things, a vampire with no rules is a savage beyond even their descriptors, a malefactor by the laws of her creator. While he is not, by definition, truly a god, he is a ruler with an iron fist and silver tongue assisted by his followers, by her and by her loyalties, and she would do nothing if not to keep his favor.

It takes but moments for her to grow bored, an eternity of shifting chaos breeding into a short temper, an impatience, and just as easily her arms empty. The fire that licks the center of the town, embers drifting into the blackness of the night do not warm her skin, do not make her hiss as they ignite with what could be considered her own kind. She is above the child, her breed nothing like his in her own mind, a difference in hierarchy and being. It was lawless and she is an enforcer, far outgrown the term fledgling. Her being, her very existence is proof of survival, and she is no longer afraid of fire, of pointed fingers. Now, she stands with a posture that demands respect, demands fear. She is not the victim, but the perpetrator she was destined for, a being that screamed a demand of obedience, of troth, and if not by choice than by blood, by pain.

Black cloaks billow by her feet and while she still feels the remnants of rage, the proof of destruction and of her victory is enough to twitch at her lips, a sadistic lack of empathy that is far too consumed with her own pleasure. She is nothing if not a product of her surroundings, a child raised in equal parts ambition and loyalty for hundreds of years that maintained her sense of twisted purpose.

She suffered, so in turn, others must suffer for it.