(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

gargling a cauldron full of old broth even if she did."
"Point taken."
"Why the Hells did you buy that thing, anyways?" Morte muttered, floating
beside me. I shrugged, "I don't know. It just seemed kind of familiar..."
I focused, trying to snag the ragged hem of memory. For once though it
seemed elusive, so unlike that eager upwelling of nostalgia. It evaded my
curious probings, but once I snagged its rough edge I knew something was
wrong.
By the hunger of change and emotion
By the thirst of unbearable things
By despair, twin-borne of devotion
By the pleasure that winces and stings
The delight that consumes the desire
The desire that outruns the delight
By the cruelty deaf as a fire
And blind as the night
The profane litany came in brief flickers: vulgar poetry trickling from scarred
lips and brewed with a half-crazed and desperate mind. I could feel the
rough stone against my bent knee, the fresh cloth of the rag doll in my hand
as the incarnation of memory whispered in a voice mocking, pleading, and
insane.
By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
'Till the foam has a savour of blood
By the pulse as it rises and falters
By the hands as they slacken and strain
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars
Our Lady of Pain!
"Run..." my lips were dry.
"Ch-"
"RUN."
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