Obsessions of a Shattered Psyche.
Chapter 7: Awakenings
Her heart was afire. Electricity throbbed and pulsed throughout every fibre of her being. Another deep, lingering passionate kiss rendered her breathless as a smouldering heat within; set her ever tightening chest ablaze. Vertigo threatened to plunge her consciousness further into the murky depths of the unknown. Yearning this ominous descent, willingly, she surrendered.
The endless, sweet caress of the flick knife made love to Mircala in ways she’d not dreamed of in her wildest fantasies, as she mapped her future along delicate, pale forearms. The gleaming, silvery blade drunk deeply. Ravenous for her life’s essence it took all she could give, and more. Mircala had accepted the flick knife from Nehemia, and it, in return had embraced her, giving more than any mortal could ever hope to offer.
Tepid, viscous liquid caressed her young breasts as it widened its saturating grip. Reaching out, and spreading its shiny wet talons across the dark satin of her ball gown. Enveloping her fragile frame, clinging tightly like a shimmering, second skin it exposed an exquisite figure, and her hard, erect nipples. Life’s essence cascaded over the shiny, black lurex waspy only to splash upon the white tiled floor below. Dripping endlessly, only to rest in gory crimson puddles. Every heart beat threatened to widen this stygian red lake beyond the boudoir door. Each throbbing gush promising to expose her sacrosanct quest to those who might prevent the final journey.
Beyond the cubicle door, life continued. Laughter and chatter mixed with the muffled thud-thud cadence of eerie, discordant, gothic music. A realm unto itself the Blood Klub may have been, yet here, within this boudoir, an inner sanctum far removed from any other reality existed. Mircala needn’t have feared outside discovery, for those beyond cared not about her. Eagerly, with all the avarice they could force upon themselves, in evil anticipation, they hailed the demise of a gothique king and queen who’d long outstayed their welcome. They’d not betray the secret unfolding behind those doors.
Mircala, Nehemia and the flick knife made a truly malevolent threesome. Despite his belief of her unfaithfulness, this was the first time she’d taken in another. At his request only, she’d opened her heart, her soul and her veins.
Together, she and her dark soulmate had journeyed too far to even contemplate return. They’d taken their first awkward steps alone for they’d not yet encountered each other. Their presence here had been a choice they’d made apart, many years before. Only later did they come to share this virulent voyage as one. Mircala harboured no regrets or remorse. She yearned not for those halcyon days gone by, for she also welcomed this element of the pilgrimage.
Her exotic young face tingled as life’s blood slowly drained away. Mircala’s mind spiralled back, hurtling her consciousness beyond time and space. She now relived each past event in a haze of reality unreal. Strobing flashes of once treasured moments rematerialised. Again she was back. A trembling, vulnerable 14 years young. The images were frighteningly immanent, yet at the very same time, transcendentally aloof. She could taste them, touch them, feel them, but she now, strangely, was naught but an outside observer to herself. For these events transpired almost a decade before.
When first she peered through the shadows of a mysterious, forgotten gothic nightclub, she’d watched agog. Hiding amongst the darkness, she feared discovery for with it carried the risk of rejection, and maybe expulsion. She was not yet one of these awesome midnight creatures.
As the legions of the lost and damned paraded before her, she marvelled at their malevolently decadent spectre. Each clad in their varying gothic fineries. A sea of tight black lurex, glistening chains, studded leather, frilly white shirts, fishnet body stockings, black lace and cleavage crowned ball gowns weaved through mist and shadow. Stirling silver and golden jewellery housed glowing red and purple stones. She watched in anonymity as she hid herself deep in the recesses of the club. Cast metal icons of winged dragons, bats, spiders and daemon skulls hung from the eyebrow, nose, lip, ear and belly piercings of many of those she spied. Deviant masks, comprised of eyeliner, eye shadow and lipstick over shaded white foundation cream blurred in and out of focus. There was diversity, yet unity here. She sensed the sinister camaraderie as wraiths danced devilishly throughout the night. And she hungered, longing to be part of it all.
Back sank her head as though its’ own weight was now too much for her slender, smooth neck to bear. Her mind travelled between realms while her body swayed entranced. Mircala briefly viewed her distorting countenance within the glimmering reflection of the flick knife blade. Consciousness once more shifted from past to present. Red dyed streaks running through her shiny long black hair matched the shimmering puddle below. A golden necklace crowned her forehead, like an elegant halo. It held a daemonic claw wrapped around a tiny purple crystal orb. Thin painted eyebrows stretched out like twisted branches in the shadows of the night. Pink and purple metallic eyeshadow blended above black outlined eyes. Another thin golden chain formed an elegant bridge between her delicate earlobe and small,nymphal nose. Within her full, deep red pout, she stopped rotating the sterling silver lip ring.
Yes, she became as one with the scene. And now, she was to merge with those legends who’d passed before and had been forgotten all too soon. A last message scrawled wildly across the tiled wall screamed out to all, inscribed in Mircala and Nehemia’s mixed blood. It too would soon be washed away, like the experiences that led to this moment. Already, the scent of her apple blossom perfume seemed to fade.
Years before, she ventured within these dark halls and savoured the dizzying rush each experience brought. She’d flirted with it, risking addiction. A taste here and there was not enough. She needed more. Over weeks of silent immersion, she absorbed all she could. Haunting the scene’s clothes boutiques, record shops and craft bazaars. Each Friday and Saturday night spent hiding within the shadows, watching in delight. She’d transformed her bedroom, wardrobe, music collection and all else that was in her power to do so. A new being was soon to emerge, and anxiously she awaited the dark debutante that she’d bestow upon its’ arrival.
T’was Nehemia who first offered his outstretched hand to usher her in. Gladly, she accepted his invitation to this ball. He was her sublime, gothic prince, and it was he that would soon parade her to all those who comprised this dark community. Gladly she’d accepted the subterranean culture. And now, gladly, she’d accepted the flick knife.
Slowly, she placed it on the urinal seat. Consciousness now passed to that other realm for the final time. No more would it shift between realities. It was here to stay. At least for now. Mircala adjusted gradually to this new environment. She viewed the apparition of Nehemia floating toward her through that eerie fog. Her heart soared and she smiled, as closer he drew. He knelt down to offer his hand again, as once he did many years before. One last time, she lost herself deep within his smouldering gaze as she accepted for all eternity. Together, they both arose and vanished into the night.
