indydavid
11-03-2009, 10:52 PM
Ashes of Amber
In emptiness and sorrow, on a quest to find comfort and ease the pain, Scott did a vile, despicable and unspeakable thing. He went to bed with a whore.
He found her on the darkest night, and gladly gave his money for her services, and she responded with silence on the seat beside him. He would bring her into his home where he would lay with her, make love to her, and take her however he could. It didn’t matter, because in the morning she would be gone, and would take with her anything and everything he desperately needed to forget.
She was an amber slut with a soothing voice, who lied coldly and dispassionately, but it didn’t matter. A lie is a lie, no matter who tells it, no matter who is hurt; and this was just another lie he’d been told. Yes, she lied to him about pleasure and happiness that would ease his pain and make him forget. She promised to be good for him, to be gentle with him and to let him have his way with her. And in everything she told him, she lied. For instead of the peace, comfort and safety he was promised, she scoured his wounds with bristles of agony. Instead of the happiness and serenity he desperately needed, she cut and slashed him with a vulgar blade, opening fresh gashes that could never be faded, jaded, dimmed or healed by the passage of time.
He suckled her lustily, scented the fragrance and tasted sweet juice. He used her, and abused her, and he drank of her until he could drink no more, but, in the end, cursed both the darkness and the light, and the day he’d fallen in love with those eyes of soft jade that tacitly promised to hold his heart safely in her warm hands.
The whore fortified him with liquid courage, and when finished with her, he was reduced to nothing more than the charred, cold remnants of a once raging fire. The essence of him once passionately relit with the flame of tender love had flickered, and the fire in his soul, kindled long ago, was dead. The passion was still there, and would remain forever within, yet already he could feel it being locked away once again, until all that remained were nothing more than gray, cold ashes; the ashes of amber. But it didn’t work, and when he awoke, she stabbed him again with memories that wouldn’t go away.
The whore was named Alcohol, but she called herself Scotch, and on the darkest night of his life, Scott wallowed deep into a quagmire of undignified self-pity, and drank himself into intoxicated oblivion.
In emptiness and sorrow, on a quest to find comfort and ease the pain, Scott did a vile, despicable and unspeakable thing. He went to bed with a whore.
He found her on the darkest night, and gladly gave his money for her services, and she responded with silence on the seat beside him. He would bring her into his home where he would lay with her, make love to her, and take her however he could. It didn’t matter, because in the morning she would be gone, and would take with her anything and everything he desperately needed to forget.
She was an amber slut with a soothing voice, who lied coldly and dispassionately, but it didn’t matter. A lie is a lie, no matter who tells it, no matter who is hurt; and this was just another lie he’d been told. Yes, she lied to him about pleasure and happiness that would ease his pain and make him forget. She promised to be good for him, to be gentle with him and to let him have his way with her. And in everything she told him, she lied. For instead of the peace, comfort and safety he was promised, she scoured his wounds with bristles of agony. Instead of the happiness and serenity he desperately needed, she cut and slashed him with a vulgar blade, opening fresh gashes that could never be faded, jaded, dimmed or healed by the passage of time.
He suckled her lustily, scented the fragrance and tasted sweet juice. He used her, and abused her, and he drank of her until he could drink no more, but, in the end, cursed both the darkness and the light, and the day he’d fallen in love with those eyes of soft jade that tacitly promised to hold his heart safely in her warm hands.
The whore fortified him with liquid courage, and when finished with her, he was reduced to nothing more than the charred, cold remnants of a once raging fire. The essence of him once passionately relit with the flame of tender love had flickered, and the fire in his soul, kindled long ago, was dead. The passion was still there, and would remain forever within, yet already he could feel it being locked away once again, until all that remained were nothing more than gray, cold ashes; the ashes of amber. But it didn’t work, and when he awoke, she stabbed him again with memories that wouldn’t go away.
The whore was named Alcohol, but she called herself Scotch, and on the darkest night of his life, Scott wallowed deep into a quagmire of undignified self-pity, and drank himself into intoxicated oblivion.