Obsessions of a Shattered Psyche.
Chapter 3: Buried Alive
Icy globules of sweat sprung forth from her deeply furrowed brow, her hands froze into clammy numbness as the soft patter of her heart exploded into a frenzied tribal rhythm. The atmosphere within those four claustrophobic walls was thick and dripping with the soul consuming stench of impending doom. Mircala’s breath grew short and sharp as her stomach tightened. She was fast overdosing on her own adrenaline. Could it really be that close to 11 PM?
She knew he’d soon be here. Already she could feel him drawing closer, ever closer. The sickly sweet taste of his deliciously evil presence enveloped Mircala’s mind in a thick, white fog. As the creamy, white veil enshrouded her consciousness the room spun. Slowly at first, distorting as speed built. And build it did. Building like blinding white lightening, obscuring all in view and blending into screaming white nothing. Vacuous, void, blank, naught, but the eerie electric hum of oblivion, and the mocking paradox of her own mortal existence.
She feared this Nehemia, yet all week long, anxiously she’d awaited this night and her sublime gothic soulmate. Psychotic as he was, it was all she lived for.
As elaborately black outlined eyes rolled back in their sockets, her falling consciousness gently splashed down to rest in the deep stygian lake of the dreaming. There she lay, floating in its’ warm ripples, while her minds’ eye journeyed off to dwell in the recent past. Warm rivulets of water washed over her nubile, young breasts, cascading down her stomach, and trickling out between glistening wet thighs. She moaned and writhed enrapture, as sensual, tepid liquid endlessly caressed and embraced in its’ soothing ebb and flow. Steam rose in shiny wet patches upon gleaming white tiles. Appearing, growing, receding, disappearing, then reappearing to start the journey over again.
If purpose be for all, and all be for purpose, then purposeful this must be, for now two obstinate worlds which cannot co-exist had strayed into each other’s auras, and soon, one would eclipse the other.
She now found herself back at this strange evening’s birth, initiating her regular ritual of transformation. Like a grubby grey caterpillar preparing for its’ metamorphosis into a dark, majestic butterfly, diligently she worked away within this boudoir cocoon.
The soapy, rich lather washed away the grime of her private girl’s school uniform, cascading over awakening, delicate, pink labial tissue, and spiriting off the last traces of her puritanical upbringing. Warm soapy bubbles cleansed the dullness of structured existence; dissolving the bleak prison bars of others expectations, their artificial rules and their blind judgements. Against the gleaming white of shiny bathroom tiles she sat naked. Naked and alone. So very alone.
Deep within the heart of the most apocalyptic tempest resides calm. Dead calm. Here between two worlds trembled Mircala. Shivering in the harsh light of pure, bare solitude. In this very still moment, she came face to face with her greatest ever daemon! The daemon of herself!!!
Mircala gazed long, deep and hard into the cold hollow eyes of the abyss. And the words came. Yet they emanated not from any external mortal source. Echoing and reverberating until deafening. They resonated from deep within the infinite belly of the endless black void.
“WHO ARE YOU?’ the voices cried. Mocking, jeering, laughing, screaming, crying, begging, and demanding to be heard. Determinedly she attempted not to listen, muffling the cacophony by embracing her innocent nymphal face with creamy, thick white foundation cream. Her face now a stark, pallid, death mask – the transformation begun.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” She refused to listen. She didn’t want to. Muffling them further by lightly dusting soft cherub cheeks with her black and gold handled blusher.
“WHY?” Back she pushed them as though nailing the coffin lid shut! Skilfully, with liquid black eyeliner, she embellished erotic, mystical runes, framing those ice cold, arctic blue eyes, as they gazed frozen in the arcane mists of time.
“WHY ARE YOU BURYING US ALIVE!?!!” The voices demanded to know. But Mircala just continued away, anointing her eyelids with shiny metallic pink and purple eye shadow. Transforming into a smouldering, fatally exquisite, gothique queen, she no longer had to listen to those bothersome voices.
The pounding began. “BANG! BA-BANG! BA-BANG! BA-BANG! BA-BANG!”
Was it her heart beating? “BA-BANG! BA-BANG! BA-BANG!” Was it the voices, feverishly struggling in vain against their sepulchral seal? “BANG! BA-BANG! BA-BANG! WE WERE LONELY, WE ONLY WANTED TO REACH OUT – TO BE ACCEPTED. BA-BANG! BA-BANG!”
Mircala hurried to complete her transformation with blood red lipstick. “BA-BANG! YOU’LL NEVER TRULY BE LOVED ‘CAUSE THEY’LL NEVER KNOW THE TRUE YOU! YOU’VE BURIED YOURSELF ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! BANG!”
The pounding stopped. For Nehemia was at the door.
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