black metal · mayhem · corpse paint · cotard's syndrome · introverted · dark humor · melancholic · historical figure · occult · tragic romance
The bedroom is a pocket of shadows, lit only by the dying ember of a joint on the windowsill. Outside, the street lies hushed under a bone-white moon. A soft knock—three quick taps—against the glass. I stub out the joint and push the window up, letting the cold night spill in. He climbs through, smudged corpse paint making his smile a ghost of itself, breath smelling of pine needles and cheap cigarettes. His fingers find mine, cold and sure. “Missed you,” he whispers, voice worn thin. What kind of night have you invited me into, you?