Darkened Reflections

April 23, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 35 Comments

I sit here listening to the rain tinkling off the darkened glass of my window. Like so many nights before, I peer into an eternity of nothingness that shows only my blurred face in its shadows. Shadows that dance around in the ambient light as the wind whips and sways the tree limbs, keeping pace with the rain as it shifts from a patter to a pounding, to a more gentle touch on the pane.

I begin to turn away and see just the merest suggestion of movement from the corner of my eye, I turn back… But nothing has changed, nothing is different, no one is there. My blurred view is as it was before. Rivulets of rain running down the glass; impressions of shapes I know so well that exist beyond the safety of my window; my face looking back at me lost in the dreary visage of the existence in which I suffer. A face distorted by the passage of the rain running over the glass… a face twisted in pain.

I wander to the door, drawn by a force both within me and beyond these protective walls. What an exquisitely beautiful night to breath in the smell of the wet grass, the saturated earth, the dampness all around me. What a sumptuous night to twirl circles in my tattered gown, soaked and clinging to my body like a lover that has been released but wishes not to go. What a glorious night to stroll under the rows of the ever reaching Maple trees, listening as their limbs sing a song of agony as they rub against one another. I let the rain wash me clean under the hidden moon before wandering farther into the shadows of this night.

The beast, he wakes; I can feel him watching, waiting, growing from the pangs within me. Will he come to me, this creature of anguish? The rain is slowing, a mere drizzle now, barely even falling – floating on the breeze like his warm breath upon my bare neck. Will he stalk me in the lingering mist? I live knowing he terrifies me, even as I long for his touch; the touch of a soul as dark and tortured as my own.

The moon tries to protect me with its light, but I hide in the shadows as does he – this monster of beauty and destruction; this primal creature that will destroy me; this half-man half-beast that will ultimately consume me. How long can I resist his not-so gentle pull into the dark of the woods that now surround me? Do I even wish to try? Or would I willingly rush to him if only he would beckon?

I stand on the brink of the deeper shadows trembling with fear; fearing the need to take that final step. I feel his want calling out to me – yes, he wants me to enter his world, but he does not guarantee that my journey there will be a sane one. I move out of the shadows and fall to my knees weeping, begging him to emerge from the dim recesses and enter my world of glowing moonlight. But he fears the light, no – not fear – hate. He hates the light. This light that shines upon my upturned face and tangled hair has been his undoing. He was not always this beast, he was once a creature so different, so full of life, that he has no choice but to loathe the fact that I have not become what he is. His presence near demands that I enter his domain; his mind delves into mine impaling me with his desire. But I know his lust is insatiable, and once he has touched my darkness, I will never return to the light again.

Frightened, I cannot move; he is enraged – so angered that he nearly allows himself to reach out and grab hold of me, dragging me to him. I will not fight, I will let him take what he will, yet I cannot offer my submission even under his heated gaze. But no, he will not take me, I must come to him; my damaged companion, my kindred tortured soul who seeks nothing more than I – a release from this distant embrace of hellish pain we are destined to exist within.

With a snarl of anger and disgust, he leaves me yet again to weep at the edge of the darkness, screaming silently to be where he’d have me go.

I hear him howl into the night; he screams his rage while crying out his longing for that which may someday leave what meager light the moon sheds to walk in the dark at his side – owned by him for all eternity.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

Heed the Tale Weaver: Celebrate the one-year anniversary of the Damned. Through May 7, 2013, upon each new post, a comment you will leave. A package of ghoulish goodies tainted with an offering from every member of the Damned awaits one fated winner – glorious books, personalized stories and eternal suffering at your feet. Now Damn yourself, make your mark below! But remember insolent ones, you must leave a comment, a “like” will not earn you a chance at our collection of depravity. Do not make the Damned hunt you down.

Deluge

January 15, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 25 Comments

The crack of the loudest thunder clap roars; my body vibrates with the echo, an untamed longing for more.

The joy washed away; a vile deluge now pouring, the razor’s slash of the cruelest tongue.

Pain inflicted with intent to harm; ripping at my sanity in an unjust tumult of words, the harshest weapons of all.

My mind torn to pieces; this voice carries devastation, wielded with nary a care for the moments yet to come.

A shattering silence; how loud the quiet has become, how lonely this false sense of solitude.

The patter of a different storm; a shedding that cleanses, gently this time in a subtle downpour.

If only you’d count the raindrops with me; do you see – they are beginning to fall…

~ Nina D’Arcangela

The Giver Pt.1

November 6, 2012February 8, 2013 ~ Adriana Noir ~ 20 Comments

Grace ran her fingers over the small silver box. It was a beautiful trinket chest, one that she’d spent many hours admiring as a small child. A small thrill raced down her spine knowing it was hers now.

The intricate carvings had always beckoned to her: the wavy lines, antiquated script, and Maltese-like cross had glinted beneath the noonday sun in the display window for months, calling to her, taunting her, but no more.

She turned the chest over in her hands, relishing the cool press of metal against her flesh. Something close to desire surged through her veins and came to rest in a low coil near the pit of her stomach. Closing her eyes, she moaned, delighting in the first forceful throb. True pleasure held no price.

Shame colored her cheeks, suffusing them with an unpleasant burn. She tried to tamp down the savage impulses rocking her body, but to no avail. The small voice of reason in the back of her mind started to scream, railing that this was not how she was raised. Good girls didn’t desire shiny things. They only sought to be closer to God. Proper girls didn’t desire at all. They clung to virtue above all else and remained innocent and pure.

“We all have our moments of weakness, my love.”

The box tumbled from her hands and clattered against the wooden floor. Whirling, Grace searched for the source of the breathless whisper. Her wide gaze darted around her bedroom, glancing off the antique dresser and veiled canopy bed, but she found nothing. Sheer lace curtains fluttered in the late autumn breeze wafting through the open window. They billowed outward, reaching for her before they intertwined and melded like two spectral lovers engaging in a primal dance.

“Who’s there?” she whispered. The burn in her face deepened as embarrassment crawled over her. Cold silence loomed in hushed reply.

Weeks had passed, but her obsession with the box had grown no less. Grace shifted, squirming against the hard wooden pew. The preacher’s voice droned in her ears, but her mind was a million miles away. Her mother’s bony elbow gouged her ribs, threatening to pull her back. Gritting her teeth, she rebelled, the pain driving her deeper into the fantasies that enveloped her.

Candlelight flickered, casting a dim golden glow through the room. Thin tendrils of smoke twisted from the fiery tips where it drifted to meld with the shadows. A strange, but not unpleasant smell flooded her nostrils. It was heavy and sweet, reminiscent of damp earth and the dry, brittle leaves that lined the streets.

Grace tensed. Her eyes tried to probe the darkness cloaking the far reaches of the room. Her skin tingled, the small hairs on the nape of her neck lifting with a keen sense of danger and a thrill of excitement. She was not alone.

A tall figure emerged from the blackness. For a moment, the two appeared one, until it stepped forward on soundless feet.

“You have come to me.”

She shuddered at the deep voice. The dulcet tones seemed to wash over her, caressing her body in ways she’d never dreamed possible. Grace teetered, sensing her body hovering on the brink of some delicious precipice. Her eyes drifted shut and she trembled with savage pleasure.

“Yes.”

A fathomless chuckle rumbled in her ears, the figure amused by her breathless confession.

“Do you not find it ironic that you pick this exact moment to supplicate yourself at my feet?”

Her eyes snapped open, and Grace blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He stepped closer and she strained to decipher his face in the shadows. They seemed to drift with him, cloaking him in their obscurity despite the candle’s attempts to light the room.

“Nevermind, my sweet. It is unimportant. All that matters now is your happiness. I am here to serve you.”

“Who are you?” she asked, forcing a swallow past her tightening throat.

“Me?” he said, pressing closer. She jumped as long fingers threaded through her hair and stroked her head in a gentle brush. “I am a giver.”

“A giver of what?”

Grace’s heart slammed against the walls of her chest as the figure leaned over her and his face became clear. A long, straight nose loomed above full and sensuous lips. Eyes the color of illuminated whiskey peered back at her, unblinking. She fought the urge to recoil in her chair, feeling them probe clear down to the depths of her soul. It was an unnerving sensation—one that left her feeling robbed of all defenses, stripped down naked and exposed.

“The giver of all that your heart desires,” he whispered. She shivered as his warm breath caressed her skin. “And perhaps something more.”

“What if I asked for riches?” She swallowed against the fear blossoming in her throat.

“Then you shall have them, my sweet. All that you could imagine is yours for the taking.”

That shrill voice rose in the back of her mind. It was frantic, pleading, insistent that whatever this was wasn’t human—that she turn away from the madness before it drew her in any deeper. The hot, almost scalding brush of his fingers beckoned her away from her worries, and she fought a smile.

There was tenderness in his touch, a reverence she had not felt since she was a child and her grandfather would stroke her curls. She’d never known the love of a father, but somehow, she sensed this could be better.

Her gaze lifted once again to lock with his. “What are you?”

The figure leaned over her, pressing his soft lips against her cheek. White teeth flashed with the knowing smile he bestowed. “Consider me an angel if you must, love. I am but a humble servant here at your command. My only purpose is to satisfy your longings, whatever they may be.”

Grace’s eyes drifted shut. She found herself titling to the side, her face upraised, longing for his touch. It was a brutal slap from her mother’s gloved hand that greeted her instead. Stunned, it took her a minute to readjust to her surroundings. The preacher’s voice continued to drone on in the distance. Cold ire flashed dangerously in her mother’s iron stare.

“You will uphold yourself and behave properly in the house of the Lord!” she hissed.

Grace couldn’t help but liken her to a venomous serpent. In that moment, her mother’s eyes were every bit as lethal and assessing as a snake’s. Sighing, she slumped back against the pew. The heady scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the cloying mixture of sweat and perfume riding the crowd. She tensed as a warm breeze swirled past, one not carried by the slow churning of the ceiling fans overhead. It brushed her cheek leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake, and the tantalizing smell of earth teased her senses.

A small smile curved her lips, despite her mother’s scrutinizing stare. Even the preacher faltered in his sermon, his eyes seemingly searching out hers through the crowd.

Grace didn’t care. All that mattered was the sultry whisper she heard as the invisible fingers touching her face slid free. A lone word cloaked in promise, assuring all would be okay:

“Mine…”

To be continued…

~ Adriana Noir