The owl and lark reference is from The Hunchback of Notre Dame (the original novel). I own nothing here.
Notte. Night. The most blessed and easiest time of day for anyone. Ordinary becomes extraordinary under the cover of the black shadow. When the sun sets, the sensual feeling seeps into the air and turns calm men into fanatical, feral creatures of the night.
This fantastic change, however, does not affect me at all. I was born Satan's offspring, a child eternally cloaked in night. Just after the peak of twilight does my power grow, does my presence be felt by all the day-dwellers. Under the cover of the pitch sky, a romantic blossoms and feeds on the gentleness and nonjudgmental serenity excluding from the dark. Why is the dark always perceived as evil? Good can come from the darkness.
But then there is you, my dear.
You, who are the sun and the pure holy light, the epitome of grace, innocence, and perfection. You, my divine goddess of song, who sings so as to make the angelic choir cower in shame. The moon, queen of the realm of night, pales next to your magnificent halo of light. There are no words to accurately describe how utterly lovely you are. I am but a pathetic carcass who worships at your feet and lives for you and you alone.
Tonight I slip wraith-like into your backyard, right under your first-story window. You have locked your bedroom door, hoping tomorrow will bring freedom from the turmoil of now. You weep almost silently, each crystalline tear snaking its way down your china-doll cheeks. This is not right by any moral standards, angels do not cry. When they do, something is horribly, catastrophically wrong.
Your distress is extremely unnerving. I long to reach through your window and enfold you in my arms. I would drink your perfect tears. I would whisper words of love and comfort to you in the most calming voice I could muster, and I would not stop until all your pain has been sucked into my unholy, disgusting body. I would take the pain away from you and be grateful and honored for such a task.
But I refrain from doing so, for now is not the time.
Gradually, your weeping ceases, and you begin combing your flaxen waist-length curls slowly. The motion is utterly hypnotic. I am entranced by this small act of normalcy. If I could stand for eternity and watch you combing your hair, nothing would make me happier.
Quietly, I jimmy open the window, just a crack, and I begin singing a lullaby for you.
Don't be frightened, sweet! I would never harm you, deliberately or not. The wild terror rampant in your eyes is endearing. That's right. Listen to the alluring melody that is my instrument and mine alone. No one else in the world will ever have one like mine. Hypnotic, isn't it, darling? You're in a trance, and your blank stare is charming. I truly am a magician!
Oh. I see what effects my voice has on you. You get sleepy, yawn a bit, blink to fight the tiredness overcoming you so as to hear the entire lullaby, but you can't. You are powerless against the song I wrote exclusively for you, my songbird. The fatigue is overpowering your delicate frail body, and you sway unsteadily, a flower in a light whisper of a breeze.
With a small exhalation, you surrender to the exhaustion and crumple to the floor.
I cease my hypnosis. Dear God, what have I done? I have inadvertently caused you pain!
But I must berate myself at a future time. Now, I must concentrate on the Herculean task at hand.
Silently, I open your window wider and slither in. I extinguish your lights and turn to stare at you, ethereal and motionless in the stunning glow of the moonlight. You look so lifeless that my own ghastly heart skips a beat, worrying that you have moved on. Death may be jealous of me because I have you in my possession now, but I will conquer even Death before I allow it to wrench you from my grasp.
The owl must not, may not, enter the lark's nest, because doing so could harm the lark. But what if the lark required the owl's intervention? Would the act then not be considered allowable?
Kneeling beside you, I select a syringe from my jacket pocket and position it above your right arm. I know how you detest needles, but this shot is necessary, sweet. A simple sedative, and nothing more.
As I plunge the needle straight into your vein, I beg silently that you don't feel it. Forgive me, angel! Have mercy on your poor, foolish servant who strives for your pleasure. I have already punished myself to no end for involving needles, but yet I have not been punished enough. If you had been awake, I would have been treated to your lovely shriek. I savor every sound that comes from your perfect lips.
I pocket the empty syringe and with a quaking hand I skim my unworthy, cold, skeletal fingers over your forehead. You seem cold and dead, as though the rigor mortis has already set in.
But death eerily becomes you, my songbird. You shine splendidly, and I fall deeper in love with you.
Is what I am doing for love? Would I do this for anyone else? No, never. The rest of wretched humanity can go to Hell, for all I care. You are the only life, the only soul I care for and value. My own disfigured soul doesn't matter to its owner. All that matters is that you remain.
As I sit taking in your pristine form, and pondering the fate of humanity, I am struck by the realization that the sedative will only remain in your veins for so long. With a tentative sigh, I stand, and look you over once more. Are you in blissful oblivion, sweet?
I reach my arms under your perfect body, just under your kneecaps and on the upper region of your back, and lift you effortlessly.
Oh. Oh.
I may now die a truly fulfilled man! I have never had any close human contact, and the proximity of your drugged clutch chills me happily. I have held perfection in my undeserving arms and I have not tainted it! Oh, what elation!
I shift you slightly in my loving arms and – dare I imagine – you nestle closer to me. I wish to worship at your feet and kiss your holy lips, but as I've said before, now is not the proper time.
I slip away from your room, you still cradled in my arms, and make my way to our escape vehicle. You sigh contentedly, and I can't help but wonder what you're dreaming of, if you're dreaming at all.
Silently, the car opens, and I lay you inside, still intoxicated by the sedative. This is for your own good, my sweet. I am the only one who can truly protect you from life's obscenities.
Before I turn the key in the ignition, I glance at you through the rearview mirror. You appear to be at complete peace. In the generous cover of the dark, I whisper the only words that matter.
"I love you."