"Marjorie," he beseeched.  

    It came out in a hiss. 

    Urgent, feverish. Snapping Decarabiaʼs neck back, he tore out of her almost as quickly as he went in and without much warning, he went down on her and his teeth clasped onto her as if he was a dog with barbed canines, his hands wrapped so tightly around her thighs the bones nearly broke.  

    "Marjorie," he repeated, in a trance like-state. 

    Eyes a glowing crimson, Decarabia trembled as Macbethʼs lips and fingers worked more viciously; cold as a cavern of ice, raking down her body. Then, without warning, his nails gutturally sawed the inside of her. Snakes of sanguine blood streaked out of her, and as he stroked her viciously, licking, teasing, nibbling, gasping. 

    Hungry. 

    So hungry. 

    "Macbeth," she protested.      

    Hungry. 

    So, so, hungry. 

    As mascara smudges streamed down her face, he caked himself in gore. Smothered himself. Bloody strips of meat fell out of her, onto him, and he was rotting. Molding into greasy, gory mush, blacker than the day. It spread its tentacles like a disease, and as his claw-like fingers marred her skin, he gave into the hunger and pierced her stomach. The flesh curled underneath the layers of thick skin, and choked on rivers of her gore, coaxing and coating her juices. 

    "Blood is what brought me to my knees. I hear it all. Her screams, her agony, my screams, my agony. When nature seems dead, it stirs wicked dreams. Curtainʼd sleep, with a blade wedged underneath your neck. Blood, our essence, our life, it moves like a ghost, sure-and-firm, and when blood seems most imminent – most ephemeral, people pray for the Bible. For solace, for a story ordained from the Church as holy. Safe. 

    "Pale Hecate offers her horror, her pleasure, and that blood is more inviting than ever. And when I try to fight it, when I bring about these threats, this blood, He lives. My Marjorie, my unborn child rot in the cold ground with one heartbeat and your Dark Lord, your Light-bringer, your Hellish Prince fallen from Grace, He lives. In your gospel, their words too heated, whispering and murmuring of deeds too cold for breath to give." 

    His breaths grew shrewd. Colder than the frost of the wintry rose, and as it hung in his breath with the furor of charcoal smoke, he clawed at her uterus – shredding it in half – and feeling the flesh etch itself into his claws. Letting out a ragged, exasperated pant, Macbeth trembled and watched as her body constrict into a tight knot, stilling as her demonic eyes fluttered shut. Rills of blood streamed down his arm, effervescent and animalistic, like leeches clinging to his skin. And with every tug, every primal growl, every tear, tears clouded his vision. Not dripping, not singeing his ice-cold skin with the raw sensation of fiery life, just harbored in his pregnant vision and fueling the fires that fanned his hatred. 

    "This is not the story you cherished in Sunday school, and I am not the Messenger that swarms you with insurmountable pleasure. This is not a story of forgiveness," Macbeth sneered, snapping her cervical bone until marrow spewed from the source. Clutching her face, cradling it violently in his hands, he gripped her chin – blood smearing her chin like wine against a porcelain fountain – and cooed. Softly, as if providing a babe with solace. 

    "Blood stole everything from me, and from this day to my last – hear it not, Decarabia – I will bring this world to its its knees. And whether you are summoned to heaven or to hell, you tell your Lucifer, who possesses the man that took everything from me, this," Macbeth hissed. 

    "Itʼs you and me, old friend. Itʼs you and me and a world to burn."