The Mirror

I know, I post so very rarely here... but I rarely write something I feel worthy of posting. Not gonna bore you with long introductions. Just a warning. If you've read my stuff before, you may already know. These stories of mine are dark.

The Mirror


“We will always have tomorrow…” she used to say.

The large pristine mirror wall reflected the room she had always dreamed of, a painting out of a fairytale.
The sheer white curtains swayed in the gentle breeze. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and roses, their petals softly illuminated by the sweet caress of sunset. Above, the sky was painted in deep shades of violet and indigo, the first stars beginning to twinkle.
The table was set in a sea of deep crimson. A silk tablecloth, rich and luxurious, cascaded over the edges, pooling slightly on the floor. Slender candles burned slowly, their warm amber glow casting shifting shadows against the dark navy walls. Crickets serenaded under the window, blending seamlessly with the soft violin melody on the old gramophone in the corner.
She wore a flowing dress, soft ivory, almost luminescent against her skin. It shimmered slightly as she moved, the string of pearls around her neck catching the candlelight in fleeting glimmers. My sharp charcoal suit was pressed to perfection, and the silver-threaded ribbon was tied neatly in a bow under the stiff collar of my purple shirt. It contrasted her fragile elegance, projecting strength and confidence.
There was no clock in the room, time didn’t matter this evening.
Her lips, a perfect shade of rosewood red, parted slightly in a sweet, shy smile. Her hand felt soft in mine as I escorted her to her chair, and her bright eyes followed me as I sat in mine.
The roses at the centre of the table were a violent shade of red, their petals lush and full, their scent thick and intoxicating, almost suffocating. Between two ornate wine glasses filled with a dark, velvety red merlot, lay a plate of food, the juicy steak seared to perfection, still bleeding at the centre. A smear of deep burgundy sauce stained the plate, an accidental stroke of art against white porcelain.

The first sign? The trembling in my fingers. Subtle at first, just a slight unsteadiness as I reach for my wine glass, but when I lift it to my lips, the liquid wobbles, sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I set it down too quickly, the base clinking against the table louder than it should have. She glanced up, concerned, but I force a smile, nodding as if to say, I'm fine…
Little did she know she already had my trembling heart in her palms.
The silence had melted shortly after the first sip of wine. Laughter rippled between us like a ribbon caught in the breeze. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the movement slow, absentminded, as she smiled at me over the candlelit table. My hand, steady and sure, rests beside hers, fingertips brushing in quiet, unspoken affection. The warmth between us is tangible, weaving through the air like the scent of roses and the lingering taste of red wine. It reminds me of cherries and chocolate.
The ivory dress draped smoothly over her form as she leaned forward. The candlelight flickered gently in the mirror, casting a golden glow that danced over their faces, illuminating the quiet adoration in their eyes. Her lips parted, exhaling a breathless sigh of delight as his fingers brushed against hers, their touch light, lingering. Her nails painted the same shade as the roses in the centrepiece, traced lazy circles on the back of his hand, a silent promise, a gentle invitation.
The table, set with care, shimmered in the candle’s glow. A wine glass tilted as he reached for her, but I catch it just in time, chuckling as I steady it. The merlot swayed inside, rich and dark, but not a single drop spilt. Instead, I lift the glass to her lips, offering her a sip, watching as the deep red stained her mouth like the first blush of a kiss.
I stand up and offer her my hand. My fingers tighten around hers, not in force, but in quiet reverence, a touch filled with tenderness. Her eyes, reflecting the dim golden glow, softened, flickering between anticipation and certainty. My nose fills with her scent, pure, innocent, as I pull her close for one last dance.

-----------------------

My gaze catches the mirror. My reflection feels… unnatural. Do I belong in there? My dark eyes glinted with something unreadable, unnerving.
The candlelight seems too bright now, flickering erratically, throwing shadows that move too fast, too sharp. The warmth in the air is stifling, pressing against my skin like a suffocating weight. My breath hitches. Shallow. Wrong. I try to inhale deeply, but my chest feels tight as if invisible snakes had wrapped around my ribs, squeezing, ever tighter—
My heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out the soft melody playing in the background, drowning out her voice. Is she speaking? I’m not sure. I can’t focus. The room feels too small, its walls pressing closer, the air thinning. My throat clenches. My fingers twitch against hers, gripping the fabric like an anchor, but it’s not enough. The world is tilting, the edges blurring.

I find myself falling, swallowed by a vortex of darkness. Shadows twist around me in the eye of an eternal storm, each carrying shards of the large mirror on the wall. Except, in the myriad of reflections, it’s not me standing at her side.

‘You… It’s not you… It will never be you…’ The hushed murmur is cold. ‘She doesn’t love you.’ It is ice, cracking in my soul. ‘How can you trust her? She betrayed you before, she will not hesitate to do it again.’ My blood froze in place.

Her hand covered mine, warm and steady. I flinch. Once she had my attention, she gestured to pace my breathing. My gaze locks onto hers - clear and grounding. With my heart still racing, I mimic the slow rise and fall of her chest. Inhale… Exhale… The walls recede in their place, as the shadows retreat.

Her thumb brushed against my knuckles, comforting me. I nod slowly, my breath still shuddering. The moment passed. The warmth in the room returned. The candlelight softened. But somewhere, deep beneath the surface, the darkness still stirred, slowly pressing against the back of my mind.

I try to brush it off, blaming it on exhaustion and maybe too much wine. She didn’t seem to buy it. I insist I am fine and I won’t cut this night short over something so trivial. All I need is her company and I will be alright. She relented only after making me promise I would rest.

The mirror still stands in its place. Pretending to fix my tie and suit, I inspect it closely. The man looking back at me stands as tall and proud as he did at the beginning of the night. Composed, resolute, the embodiment of the perfect gentleman. But the unnerving glint is still there. For an instant, my eyes are obsidian, as black veins streak across my face. For an instant, my reflection smiles a wicked smile. But, before I even know it, it’s all gone in the blink of an eye.

No matter how warm her touch was, how comforting her smile was or how bright the candles were, there was something else there. A sliver of ice lodged in my heart.

I joke about what had happened, feigning fainting, calling her my knight in shining armour and myself the damsel in distress, only to get a half smile and the ghost of the laughter we shared earlier. It quickly dies just before the last glass of wine. Now, silence stretches between us like a fraying rope, taut and thin. My fingers twitch against the stem of my glass.

Her shadow shuddered behind her as the flame flickered. It demands my attention as it glides back towards the mirror and bleeds into it as it reaches its edge. Hairline cracks form as it spreads, a spiderweb ensnaring and distorting my reflection.

My gaze drifts back to her. Her eyes closed, she rests her head in her hands, listening to the music - a delicate cascade of notes, gentle swells, and notes blooming like candlelight in the dark, warm and golden, wrapping around her like an embrace.
How foolish, how childish can I be, to be jealous of a song?
As if to answer my question, I hear it, something lingering underneath the beauty - a single, sustained note, quivering, a thread of unease woven into the harmony. Subtle at first, barely noticeable amid the melody’s elegance, then, a shift - a minor key, blending through the sweetness, an unexpected tension, a dissonance almost too slight to name.
Uncalled, her shadow tugs at the edge of my vision. The cracks are more pronounced, each of them, a menacing shard. Each shard - a different face, looking lovingly, longingly at her, laughing at me. Each raucous laughter, accompanied by the sound of cracking ice, insinuating itself under the violins. The melody hesitates and falters, if only for a breath, before continuing, as if trying to shake off the weight of the burgeoning shadows.
The refrain returns, heavier, the once-playful trills laced with sorrow. The violin cries - not in anguish, but in the quiet, aching way of someone holding back tears. The darkness does not encroach, it doesn’t consume. No, it lingers, patient, waiting beneath the surface, like a secret, never to be spoken, but never entirely forgotten.
As the song fades into silence, the final note shivers in the air, unresolved. Not quite an ending, not quite peace.
‘You can’t appreciate the sun without rain,’ she used to say, ‘nor summer’s soothing warmth without winter’s blistering cold.’ A single, sparkling tear, ran down her cheek. She always loved that song, not for its sweetness, but the bitter undertone. Our song…
“Forgive me, my dove,” I hear myself speak, “I never meant to cast a shadow over our night.”
The voice, the words, they are mine, but I don’t remember uttering them. “My intention was never to make your heart race with fear or worry, only with love…” I stand up and step close to her. My movements are not mine, they feel mechanical, yet fluid, as though an invisible puppeteer is guiding me. “I wish I could undo that second, erase it with a touch… Please, let me remind you who I truly am to you.”
I offer her a hand to help her stand, but she wraps her arms around me, pulling me close and laying her head on my chest, listening, smiling…
I had never noticed the difference in our stature, until now. She’d always been up on a pedestal, a goddess worthy of devotion, someone to worship. Now, exhausted, she feels small and fragile, even though she tries to hide it. She shifts and nuzzles into me, acting like a child seeking comfort. The puppeteer relinquishes its control for a moment, waiting for my reaction.
My hands, ice-cold, but steady, cradle her face, thumbs tracing slow, reverent circles along her cheeks. She shivers, not from the cold, but from the way I hold her gaze and my breath mingled with hers in the fragile space between us. Her skin is soft and warm, radiant in the dimming candlelight. I brush her velvety hair aside and, trace a finger under her chin and down her neck. Her heart must’ve skipped a beat, as a faint gasp escapes her lips.
I hesitate, just for a moment, as I savour the inevitability of it. Then, with a quiet sigh, I close the distance.
The kiss is slow and unhurried, with a gentle press of lips that speaks of longing held back for too long. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my jacket, anchoring herself as the world fades in our embrace. The room starts to spin, as light and darkness swirl around us. She pulls me in tighter and I let her. I want to memorise the taste of her, the feel of her, the way we melt into each other.

‘NO!’ The shadow’s silent scream breaks through like shattering ice.
Startled, I break the kiss abruptly. Does she hear it? Am I going insane?
“The moon looks lovely tonight…” Her voice sounds like out of a dream. “It almost feels alive…”
‘NO! Lies!’
I want to turn, but the mirror beckons me. It changed yet again, the cracks had spread more, the spider web had grown more intricate, with her caught in the middle. Each shard, a different pair of eyes ogling her, a different pair of lips pressed against hers, a different pair of hands caressing her. And she welcomes every ounce of attention she gets.
“Do you see that?” I ask as I push her gently and twirl her around to face the mirror.
“Oooh,” she feigns surprise, “the moon has nothing on you, on us!”
“What do you see?” I press the question… but I don’t hear her answer.
The image shifts yet again. Her reflection faces me, ragged, worn down. Her muffled words are heavy, filled with scorn and disgust. The shadow loomed large behind her, a malicious mass, ready to consume us both. It shifts and alters its form… It is him, or rather me, my eyes - pits of obsidian black, my smile - a wicked grin, a predator about to enjoy a well-earned meal.
My reflection moves forward. Closer. Too close. The glass ripples like water as dark tendrils shoot forward, slithering and curling towards me. A sharp pain lances through my skull, like fingers clawing into my mind. The world around me blurs, black creeping at the edges. With a jolt, it pulls me through, darkness swallowing me whole.

My sight clears with every blink, but something is terribly wrong. And yet, it feels incredible - unwavering confidence, unbelievable clarity, unparalleled power.
“No matter what I do, you were never mine, to begin with, were you?” I hear myself ask…
Her eyes widen in shock and her lips part slightly to utter an answer or to protest, but she will never get to finish. His hands… no, my hands are around her throat…
Her ivory dress bunches and wrinkles beneath my grip. The candlelight flickers wildly, painting the scene in erratic flashes of gold and obsidian. Her lips part further, gasping, but no sound escapes… except the rasp of breath fighting to remain. Her nails painted the same shade as the roses, claw at my wrists, leaving streaks of crimson against my skin.
The once beautiful table, set with care, trembles as her struggle sends a wine glass toppling. The Merlot spills, a thick red pool creeping across the tablecloth, bleeding into the fabric like ink on paper.
My grip tightens. Her teary eyes, reflecting the dim golden glow, widen, flickering wildly between panic and pleading. But my face remains unmoved. When her body finally stills, the only thing left was him… me… the shadow.
“You were never going to be mine, were you?” I ask her again, as her heart stops in my cold, steady hands.

The Darkness engulfs us…

-----------------------

How much time has passed, I don’t know. I come to my senses, kneeling. My hands finally relax and release her.
The room is trapped in a frozen stillness, barely lit by the candle’s smouldering embers. The wax has melted into grotesque, deformed shapes. The once-clear glass vase, overturned on the floor, now holds a dead, brittle rose, its petals crumbling at the slightest touch.
The gramophone still plays, but its melody is warped and slow, notes dragging into an unsettling wail. The crickets had fallen silent, replaced by the distant rustling of something unseen moving in the shadows.
Through the window, the sky is a void of endless black, the stars devoured by an oppressive darkness. The air, once sweet with jasmine, now reeks of spoiled meat and vinegar, decay and something metallic.
She is slumped over the toppled table, a thin rivulet of red dried out the corner of her lips, the string of pearls - a ruby choker. Her skin is pale to the point of being near blue, darker blue around the lips, stiff, her eyes still open, a final look of terror. Somewhere in the distance, a raven’s call splits the silence.

“There’s no longer a tomorrow… not for us… not for you…” I say as I stand up. I glance at the pristine mirror wall, but I am no longer there.

Dark confession

Depression is nothing to joke about and I know my mind enough to know when a dip in the Dark Pits of Despair is coming on. I do my best to avoid it. But, when it does, I know what has helped me before. I've said it in a long-forgotten poem I wrote almost 17 years ago. I take the muck and turn it into diamonds. Not all of them are perfect, but I can see the world far more clearly through them than through my own eyes.

This is a thought experiment, brought on by a friend's post on Facebook. It gave me a reason to think about my own experience.

It will be used in the main story, eventually...

Dark confession

I am bruised and battered. 

My hands are bloodied. 

My mind is a tempest and I am on the precipice. 

The wind starts howling. It is whipping at my face, not that I can see anything. 

It is pitch black and the void is staring right back into my soul. 

The air is so heavy, that breathing is a chore. 

I can’t step back.

My skin feels tight. My flesh aches. My eyes pound inside my head.

There is no going back. 

Headfirst I jump into the abyss, half expecting to be smashed against the rocks. 

Yet, it shrouds me, it embraces me and I welcome it. 

It is quiet. It is dark. I am floating.

In the nothingness, I see you. 

I know you. I see myself in you.

You are beautiful, but I am repulsive.

You are mine to pleasure and to torment.

With each kiss, I tear your skin open.

With each caress, I rend your flesh. 

With every thrust, I break your bones.

I have healed you and I have killed you a thousand times over 

You don’t fight back, you never do. 

I am no god, but I mould you to my whim. 

Your heart, a rock, I take it.

I break it, I stitch it back together.

I water it and the blood flows once more.

The chisel in your hand, you shape me.

You impart your beauty on the wretch that I am.

The darkness may be no stranger, but it has no hold over you. 

I open my eyes to see the Sun shining through the clouds.

My hands are clean. My mind is clear.

A new dawn arrives

The Descent

As you see. the next installment of the story is not... in its usual form. I am stepping away from poems for a while. It takes ages to keep a written coherent form. But I will return to that sooner or later.

This story is indeed part of the Knight’s Tale. However, I needed a new medium for this bit. Introducing a new character, the Puppetmaster, in the days before the main story takes place. The form is supposed to be akin to a letter of admission of guilt.

I hope you like it. I hope it makes sense the first time around. And lastly, I hope you like this enough to stick around for what comes next.

The Descent

People wonder why I hate the light of day. I hate it because it is an impediment to the work I do. Always has been. No puppetmaster would step in the light, lest he breaks the magic of the show he puts on for the masses. And show me a man who doesn’t enjoy a little magic from time to time. My work is better done in the dark, the attention of the public affixed on the puppets and the show. In the eyes of many, I am just a tool. I play the fool, the few that have business with me, only see the mask and garb of my office. Most nights, it is quiet enough to hear a mouse snore. Quiet enough to dull the senses of normal folk, a feat most people achieve only by drinking themselves under the table. Probably the reason why I don’t like alcohol. In my field, a proper tool is as good as long as it is sharp.

This night, however, is not one of those nights. The streets are alive and, inside the castle, it is brighter than ever. The candles and hearths are lit, in your honor. After all, it is your wedding. The hall is decked for the festivities, in your colors and his. You look happy. The two of you are seated at the table on the dais, at your father’s side. A few guests ask of your brother. As always, is nowhere to be seen. Few outside the family know his condition wouldn’t allow him to join us for the entire night.

Your father stands up to hold the customary toast, bestowing the gods’ and king’s blessings on you both. The nobles cheer. From my seat close by, I raise my tankard and down my ale in a single breath. The man at your side is oblivious to my presence, thinks me just another nobleman. Just the way I like it. You however, meet my gaze. I can survive his ignorance, but your smile pierces my heart worse than a flaming arrow. I grit my teeth as I return the smile and have my cup refilled. The servants bring out the next course and, while everybody is paying attention to the food in front of them,I stand up and, if you were to hear the servants tell it, evaporate into thin air. Little do they know of the hidden passages. Minutes later, the guards see a cloaked figure making its way out of the castle, but lose it in the crowd gathered outside the gates. Those brutes couldn’t track a wounded rabbit when fully awake, let alone someone who wants elude them when they’re partially drunk. Were it any other night, I would have invited them to one of my shows, but even the puppets get a night off to enjoy the party.

The tavern is packed to the brim, except for a corner dark enough to hide my identity, even without a hooded cloak. I didn’t need to worry though. The patrons take me for a petty lord, far too unimportant to be seated in the castle halls, and pay me no attention, which is just fine. I loosen the strings of my coin purse and empty a sizable amount on the table. A couple of rounds later, my newly found mates are happily drunk, the innkeeper retires for the night, happily counting the silvers. His wife and daughters are left to tend to the rowdy crowd, guarded by a boy, who was holding a sword far too heavy for him.

As I drown my sorrows in rivers of wine and ale, my thoughts drift back to the look you gave me at the ball and, slowly, resignation sets in. I am honor bound to serve your family. My loyalties have always lied with you. My little princess. My love. My queen. With each cup, I realize more and more that I have lost you. Anyone else remind me of the good old tradition of a member of the royal family to have a paramour. But… I have taught you too well. That would create complications you do not want. At least not if you want a long and prosperous rule. Not to mention, you would be too honorable to break your vows, heartfelt or not, even for me. Especially for me.

In my half-drunken state, I start to ponder taking my life. All I need is a length of rope, and I am within spitting distance of the tavern’s stables. But what good would that do? You’d probably mourn for a week, maybe two, then you will move on. The world doesn’t stop in its tracks for a fool. The court even more so.

Soon enough, I spot her, a shapely bar maid. One of the innkeeper’s daughters most likely. A cute little thing, she has been working here all her life and still can’t recognize me without the trappings of my so-called office. I see her eyeing the coin purse. She’s been doing that throughout the night. Even though the tavern is as busy as it has ever been, with lordlings and servants gathered for the royal wedding, she finds a way to serve mainly around my table, chatting up my inebriated table mates, listening and giggling as they regale each other with stories of their own lands, flaunting any symbols of measly power they have. I watch this display and snarl in disgust. My reaction does not go unnoticed. Always the good host, be it driven by her father’s teachings or by the thirst for gold, of which she knows I still have plenty, she asks in the sweetest of voices if there is anything she can do to brighten my night. With a growl, I tell her to keep the wine flowing. She does just that.

Throughout the night, I must have drank close to a firkin, yet only now I feel the alcohol slowly going to my head. The insufferable noise inside the tavern is muffled. My pent up stress of the past couple of days turns fades away and I become comfortably numb. For the first time in forever, my senses are dulled. It has been far too. Almost forgot how it feels to relax, to remove yourself from the burdens of the day. Of life. A bitter smile creeps on my lips. She sees it and laughs. A familiar laughter. I look at her. Through the veil of the bacchian fumes, I see your features upon her face. I blink. She is not you. Yet, she is here, you are not.

I close my eyes and, out of thin air, I conjure a gold coin. I hear the gasp of wonder as she believes my sleight of hand to be magic. I toss it to her. She catches in mid air and thanks me. I ask her if she wants to see more and she says yes, clapping as enthusiastically as a child seeing her first puppet show. It has been a while since I have seen anyone have that reaction. It reminds me of yours when you first saw that simple trick. I can’t say if she is putting on a role, to cheer a grumpy patron for a bit of gold. If she is, she’s damn good at it. And if she is, why should I care?

I decide to put on a show, each act designed to delight and mesmerize my lovely audience, each trick meant to enthrall her, to pull her into my web. Eventually, she asks me to read her fortune. A lowly request. She might look like you, but she lacks your spark. I take her hand in mine and, with each proclamation of a bright future, I kiss her hand. I see her flush. She puts on a sheepish smile.

I pull her in my lap and kiss her breathless. She wrestles out of my arms and, after a moment spent catching her breath, she takes the lead. Her smile turns wild and she returns the kiss tenfold. This time, she takes the lead, taking my hand and pulling me up from the table. Pushing through the crowd, she guides me out of the hall and up the stairs, to one of the few free rooms.

She lets go of my hand and closes the door. It takes me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. She walks towards the bed, slowly unveiling her left shoulder. She turns her head and I see a inviting smile gracing her pretty little face.

That smile reminds me of you. I am enthralled at the sight. I step close behind her and, putting my arm around her waist, I gently kiss the exposed shoulder and work my way up the neck right, ending up right under her ear. The smell of her hair, the warmth of her sun kissed skin, they are intoxicating. I feel her shudder at the touch of my lips. Still holding her close to me and kissing the nape of her neck, I slowly unlace her bodice and her blouse and pull them off. I run my finger down her bare back, along her spine. She moans quietly and takes a deep breath. I stop for a moment. She turns to face me. I see her in all her splendor and I am speechless, shamelessly staring at her naked body. She reminds me of a nymph. She giggles, pleased at the reaction she got out of me, and, grabbing me by the collar, pulls me close and kisses me.

I breathe her scent in and, if possible, get even drunker. Your effect on me is incredible. I break away, to look at you, when you gently take my hands in yours and raise them up. There is no time for you to notice my surprise, because you quickly take my shirt off. When I start laughing, you shush me with a finger, but you can’t stop giggling yourself. You put both your arms around my neck, pull me close, and, in one flowing move, you jump and wrap your legs around my waist, pressing your bosom against me. I can feel the warmth radiating off of you the moment your skin touches mine. I close my eyes in pleasure.

Normally, that would have been enough to thaw out any lonely man’s frozen heart. However, something, I don’t know what, is holding me back. I return the embrace and, holding you tight enough to stop you wriggling, let out a deep sigh. You stop giggling and suddenly I feel your wet lips on mine. Before long, I kiss back, slowly going down your neck, nipping and nibbling along the way, and nestle in between your breasts. I can hear your heartbeat. It is more soothing than I would have thought, even though it is a little fast. I can feel you tremble as I let out a soft moan.

Still holding tight, you lean backwards and fall on the bed, pulling me along with you. I slowly open our legs and reposition myself. I hear a soft cry and see tears welling up in your eyes as I enter you, but I can’t stop. All I can do is kiss your neck and go as slow as possible for as long as possible. Soon the cry turns to soft moans, as you start enjoying it. Pain turns to pleasure, as you start to go faster. For the first time in what seems like forever, I give in and let instinct take over.

If anyone was still awake at that hour, they would have banged on the door to demand us to quiet down. Yet, no patron is sober enough to care. The innkeeper definitely wouldn’t want to disturb any customer, even if it sounds like they just might destroy the shoddy furniture. Repairing it will be just another chore for the boy.

I can’t say how long both of us lasted. I wake up what seems like hours later, to the cool darkness of the room. The sky outside still has a dark blue hue, a single crimson ray piercing it. The creeping sun looks like a bloody cut on the fabric of the universe.

My head is pounding, I can feel every heartbeat clanging like a brass bell. My mouth feels like I have eaten moss and not the fresh kind either. Sticky sweat covers my body. My arm and chest feel unusually warm and I can barely move. Someone is nuzzled up against me.

Could it be true? Could it possibly be really… you? You have no business being here. Not in the same bed with me. Slowly, yesterday’s events come back to me. The wedding… The royal feast… The tavern… A stir snaps me back to reality. I can finally see who I am in bed with. Relief washes over me as I notice it’s not you, followed by a pang of regret. I take a moment to look at the young girl that spent my night with. A sweet little thing. But she is not you.

Shame bubbles up as I start remembering, realizing my own weakness, something a man like me should not have. Last night, I wanted to take my life, but what would that say of the man who brought down empires without lifting a sword. Losing my wits, my single and most prized possession, to drink, even on your account, is something that should never have happened.

She stirs again. I run my fingers through her hair. I have to admit, she has provided a much needed release. However, even though she has been a delight to have, right now she is nothing than a loose end. Sure, I could pay her off and leave her be. But I do remember how she looked at the coin purse. She may be simple, but even a moth will always be drawn to fire. And a loose end must be dealt with before it ends up unraveling the canvas.

She sighs deeply and she smiles at me. I smile back and gently push her off. Her skin is cool to the touch. She’s too sleepy to notice me getting on top of her. I caress her cheek and go down her neck. Her eyes snap open as my fingers curl around her neck, pressing and squeezing, closing like a vice. She is trying to gasp for air and scream at the same time, but all I can hear is… silence. I see the tears flowing. As much as I would want to stop, I am committed to this course of action. After all, she is nothing but a vulnerability, a loose end. She digs her nails into my hands, trying to pry the fingers away. She is almost spent, yet she finds enough strength to reach out and claw at my face. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my left eye. But I don’t release my grip. The silent screams subside as she slowly drifts away.

I get up, go to the water basin and splash some my face. I can barely open my left eye. It is still ginger to the touch. She drew blood. Can’t blame her. She may have lacked your spark, but she was not that dim witted to give in to death without a fight. A few red drops fall into the water. I look around and find her blouse. Looks clean enough and it’s not like she is going to miss it. Should do the trick until I can patch it up back in my quarters. I rip a bit and tie it just so that the wound is kept covered.

As I put on the rest of my clothes, I wonder how to make my escape from this wretched place. It is quiet. Nobody knows her fate, nor that I am the one she shared her bed with. I could jump out the window, even though I haven’t done that in a long while. But then I remember she did provide a much needed release, it would be bad manners to leave her like this.

I close her eyes and wipe away the sweat off her now cold skin, before I arrange her body in bed. If someone should come in, it would appear as though she is sleeping peacefully. Just as I pull the covers over her, I notice rivulet of dried blood on her inner thigh, as well as a splotch of red on the sheet. Was she a maiden? She couldn’t have been… could she? I mutter a curse under my breath. I decide to empty the remnants of my coin purse on the table next to the bed. After all, it was what she was after all along.

I open the door and listen. Not even a single peep. I slowly close the door behind me and deliberately make my way down the wooden stairs, stepping over my former drinking mates, who were now snoring, far too drunk to make their way home or to their rooms.

The sky is still dark enough to see the stars twinkling. The crimson ray  on the horizon turned to shades of orange and dark yellow. The street is deserted, even the most diligent of the village’s denizens still sleeping off last night’s excesses. Apparently so are the gate guards. None of them even budge when I accidentally kick one of the bottles lying empty on the stone floor. I will need to remember to punish them. But not now.

I make my way to my quarters and clean the cut. Still can’t open my eye fully. A look in the mirror shows a thin scar, spreading across the eyelid and a little under the eye. An easily recognizable mark. For a puppetmaster, someone who should always stay in the shadow, it may come to haunt me.

My reflection sends me a wicked grin. If there is one thing I hate about this mirror, it’s my counterpart’s impertinence, his enjoyment over my building frustration and desolation. It’s like he’s patiently waiting for something. For once, I willingly act on my first impulse. In one fluid motion, my left arm reels back and snaps forward, towards my reflection’s nose, dead set on wiping the stupid grin of its face. The result is less than satisfactory. The impact sends a shock from my fist through the wrist and into the elbow, effectively numbing it. What’s even worse? The mirror is shattered into a hundred pieces, each and every one showing him, laughing at the futile attempt of ridding myself of him.

I pick the bits of glass from my hand and wrap a cloth over it. These tiny gashes I can easily hide. The face, however, is another story. I patch it as best I can, avoiding my counterpart’s gaze. To my dismay, the scar doesn’t go unnoticed, my glamouring skills aren’t as good as I’ve thought.

Everybody sees it that very same day. You look worried, the king stares, but neither of you says nothing. However, the damn fool, always tongue in cheek, always quick witted, does speak up. Sinister, he calls me, in a flurry of proper and pig Latin. Not long after, he considers it suitable to dub me Lord Sin, a name that puts a smile on your father’s face. He starts using it on a daily basis. The lords pick it up as well and start using it during councils. Even you begin using it, sheepishly at first, then teasingly, even sensual at times. I play it off.

The scar. The name. All are a reminder of my moments of weakness. But, each time you speak it, it twists the knife. With each and every utterance, my blood is boiling more and more. Something all of you will soon regret.

Enough for now, my dearest. Time to set the stage and get the puppets ready. You will definitely not want to miss the next show. It will be my greatest and will require cold blood to pull off.

To be continued...

Birth of a Monster

I have to admit. I am my own worst enemy. Writing can be a pain in the rear end. 

You start with one idea in mind, and, soon, that idea develops a mind of its own.

It takes time to shape it into something that you both (the writer and the writing) agree upon. 

This poem. while you can try and read it as a stand alone one, is definitely missing something from before. And something after it. Both the before and after will be written in due time. This, however was inspired by something I read recently. A borrowed book, as chance would have it. Now don't worry about the names. they'll make sense when (and if) everything is ready. Each Character will have its own name. 

The picture did help quite a bit. Glad I got permission to use it. Copyright goes to Frank Doorhof. Might use more pictures, if I will allow be to do so.

Well... enjoy:

Birth of a Monster

It’s been centuries since his death.

Now a drained soul in his burnt out shell,

A husk with cracked lips, struggling for breath,

Chained to the walls of the black cell.

Stabbed in the back, consumed in fire,

A serpent coiled around him.

Demons stripped his skin with ire,

As he laid at their Master’s whim.

Amidst the screams and terror,

Through the stench of rot and smoke,

Drew closer a vision of one once fairer,

Fleet footed and shrouded in a dark cloak.

A raven perched on her shoulder,

She danced as mad,

With ashen face and eyes a’ smolder,

In folds of black-red roses clad.

“Dead, yet again” she said, in a whisper voice,

He opened his mouth to speak.

“Shush, my dear, I know, it’s not by choice…

Be still, my love your future is not that bleak.”

“Lorelei…” He uttered, but no reply.

Round the dimly lit cell she walked

Closely watching him, knowing he’d feel

Like prey by deadly predators stalked.

“I am here to offer you a deal.”

Her cold hand brushed seared flesh,

Stopping where his heart once had been.

Suddenly his muscles twitched and threshed

As her nails pierced the void beneath his skin.

“Remember freedom?” He closed his eyes with no fear.

A gentle breeze caressed his face,

The swaying ship, the sea calm and skies clear,

Another day’s voyage and he’d be in her embrace.

“You could have all that back… And more.”

“If you ever loved me… you’d free me.”

The chains snapped and he fell to the floor.

“You’ll be truly free when you bend the knee.”

“I would sooner… go to my death.”

The temptress cracked a smile…

“Stubborn fool… even when short of breath.

I am offering a way out, before Master’s trial.”

“No...“

“They made you the villain in your story.

Embrace me. Rejoin the fight.

Reclaim your proper glory.

Return and set things right.

Shed this charred and tattered skin,

Take pride in the scars of battles past,

Don the cloak of sin,

Get your vengeance at last.”

“A century ago, it would’ve been a godsend,”

He admitted as he struggled to stand.

“Now, what’s the good, to what end?

Why should I raise or stay my hand?”

“What if… you could undo their crime?

No more generals… no more kings…

What if… I could give you more time?”

She asked, unfolding her crimson wings.

Only then did he notice in her eyes,

The mad and bloodshot stare turn to eerie glimmer.

“Is the thought of seeing… her… a promise of Paradise?

Time’s running out and that hope’s growing dimmer.”

“Such… help… never comes free…”

“True, my price is but one.”

“Name it, what would you have of me”

“Kill the Master when your battle’s won.

I have served him far too long

And I have grown far too tired.

Time for one last swan song

Is the last thing I dare desire.”

“How would I go about this?”

“Kneel before the Master’s throne,

He’ll never see things are amiss.

As his power wanes, gather your own.

As for your will, worry not.

It’s still yours, if I have a say in it.”

“I am not throwing away my shot.

I won’t rest until that bastard’s throat is slit.

Lend me power and you shall have my blade.”

She kissed his cheek and stabbed him in the back.

“You must crawl before you fly,” she said stepping in the shade.

‘You’ll be the last to die,’ he thought, fading to black.

The Darkness that enveloped him was unyielding.

He felt the snake slither beneath his skin,

Coiling its body around his soul, scalpel wielding

Tendrils tightening and molding the monster within.

His husk was soon carted into the throne room.

He heard the Master’s voice as he spoke:

“You’ve been summoned from your cell and tomb.

Stir from your slumber, time you awoke.”

Murmurs swept throughout the great hall.

Lorelei was standing at the Master’s right hand

“My liege, generals, guests, I present to one and all

My masterpiece, as promised. Ready for command.”

The husk cracked and there he stood, kneeling before the throne.

His burnt face, hidden under a dead cold mask.

A tattered cloak shrouded his skin of ash and stone.

“A sight to behold. Let us hope he is up for the task.

Have an armor to fit your rank

A sword of blood for you to wield.”

As he bowed once more to present his thanks

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the shield…

I’ve become my own nemesis,