The Melancholy Tales of the Pearl-Tears

As the feathered-hair boy walked, his steps diseased the ground, the patches of grass his talon-feet touched would decay and bare earth would show. The dripping feathers burned the ground, covering everything in thick black slime; the boy was poison.

He plagued the route he was walking on, peeling the door he was now facing from off of its hinges. The malice-filled smile was still there, when he walked in slowly, he found a woman and a man on the bed. Disgusted, he wrenched the sheets aside, startling them both. With a loud shriek, the woman fled, leaving behind her partner.

“A mistress,” Beau said tightly, fury-filled eyes glowing in the night. The man let out an oath, his hands were shaking. “How befitting of scum like yourself.” Beau finished.

The man produced a small knife, pointing it towards Beau; it shook with the rest of his body. “I will kill you, evil being, be gone!” he spitted out. Beau gripped his dripping poison-feathers, his features twisting in to only one with insane thoughts could withstand.

“You did not tire with eating the flesh of the wretched girl?” the man laughed to himself, trying to be calm. “How gluttonous.” His shoulders straightened, and his eyes glazed over with newfound confidence. “It’s a good thing that asinine human being is gone, she was a mistake. She was never supposed to be created.” The man retorted while putting his knife away, a teasing smile crept over his features. “What will you do to me, accursed one?” he sneered, looking lazily over at Beau.

With a smile, Beau quickly threw two feathers straight at the man’s wrists, the quills pierced his body and he cried out in pain, the blood that dropped was black.

“Let us see how well your dear people treat you when you are not like one of them.”

The man gasped, he quickly clawed at his wrists, trying to dig out the quills from under his skin. He grunted and cried out, but they would not budge. Taking this distraction, Beau threw two more feathers at the man’s ankles, he fell down instantly. A small pool of black liquid puddled around him, he looked up at the towering Beau. Beau crouched down and with great ferocity, stabbed his back with two dripping feathers, steam escaped from the man’s shoulder blades. He screamed in agony, weakly trying to push away from the cursed spirit. The boy laughed, standing up again.

“Does it hurt?”

The man did not reply.

“You are not going to die, do not be afraid.” Beau said in disgust, his face twisted with rage.

The man whimpered, weakly trying to rise. Beau could not help but stare; he looked so much like Annabel-Leigh at that moment… He shook his head, what he was thinking about was absurd; it was impossible.

“My comrade,” Beau said icily, “with this last feather you will be just like me, one-and-the-same.”

Beau aimed the feather at the man’s brow. With a whispered command the feather flew in a blur towards the man, who stared with tragic eyes. He whispered sweet prayers, begging for mercy, but pity was lost on him, it had been lost for a long time now.

With a crack, it hit him right on target. Beau looked lazily over at the man, putting his hands into his pockets. A small frown eased on to his face.

“Some advice, friend,” Beau paused; his tone was laced with malevolence, “leave, and never return.”

The man slowly turned over to the boy, the man’s hands were claws, his feet were talons the size of Beau’s arms. Instead of having feathers for hair, the man had quills like that of a porcupine; they stood on edge just at the sight in front of him. The man’s eyes glinted with hard and cold blackness. The man roared, coming towards Beau. He did not flinch, but stood his ground.

"You make me sick." Beau snarled.

He clawed his grotesque face.