For Thyme in her Eyes , with love!
E c h o
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The covers were glued to her sweaty limbs as she shifted in her sleep – like tortuous serpents of rose-hued silk they wrapped around her legs, her waist, her small white hands. She felt their soft caress with a giddiness that was not in her nature- her; a sensible English wife; her, a schoolteacher whose fingers had only ever profaned vile books when it came to imprudent dealings.
Wilhelmina, the humble woman of little talent, of little ambition, according to her own person; she had never wanted to disturb anything, nor would she ever seek to wreak havoc in anyone's life – be it in their business or in their minds. She had always followed what everyone else called 'the right path' – she had tried to keep the tips of her lacquered shoes just behind the line. What was her life? What had it been? A wanton pulse hidden beneath the soft beige powder, coquettish smiles veiled by the wooden bones of a fan, a noiseless heart quivering feebly in the steel-boned prison of a corset. A lifeline made of lace; the refined etiquette of 19th century English women. It was an existence of lingering perfumes, of light sprinkling laughter, of eternal expectancies and desires hidden from the world to cover their shame- it was an existence of spinning masks, satin gloves furtively brushing the arm of Danger and Seduction, but never once taking hold - never once abandoning sanity and principles for the simple sake of survival- be it the survival of their image, their reputation, or their veritable selves.
Where was the English woman and her mysterious principles of life now, the Darkness laughed as the undulating curves and domes of flesh emerged every now and then from its shadows as she twisted in her sleep, snakelike and delicious. Her mouth was parted as though she was drinking in the obscurity, rendering herself drunk in its tasteful promises, letting herself seduced by its attractive hue. Was it truly unconsciousness that allowed her to stretch out her delicate fingers into the void of night- and was it unconsciousness also that allowed her to extract from its uncertain depths a filament of dream, an idea of solidity… her blunt nails ground against skin of an almost liquid countenance, as cool and silky as water- that which resides between the visible and the unseen, the tangible and the unreal – running through her nerves, drowning her in an ecstasy of sensation.
The skin had no human warmth, it had no human suppleness or authenticity. And yet she bent herself towards it, she was drawn to the ice, drawn to the exact contrary of anything a human might ever desire. It was a thing of nightmares, a thing which plucked flowers from the festering chasms of the Pit, a thing withholding the knowledge of everything that was pure and taking great delight in letting it all be infested by its own darkness, perversion being its strongest card. And yet… how could she possibly be attracted to such a being? Was it really the proof that in every woman lies a decadent yearn that goes unsatisfied for the wellbeing and sanity of others – or was she slowly letting depravity ooze its way beneath her skin?
The devil's eyes were on her, she could feel his burning gaze as keenly as gobs of warm honey on her flesh; it was the look of a master; the look of the possessor on the prized possession. He knew he had her, and he knew she could not refuse his touch, for that was all she desired now- the Darkness smiled a cruel smile as the English woman, the learned schoolteacher, the mistress of discipline and all that embodied Holiness, offered her frailty to the crooked hands of the imperfect one, the monster whose heart stood still and whose irises flared crimson as her naked obedience aroused his senses.
Oh, how she had wanted this- this escape from the prude, self-conscious world in which she was obliged to live! Her hands wandered over flesh that was so unlike her husband's and yet that was so familiar to her- her coal eyes rolled up to meet his, and her lips sought out the extinguished life that somehow animated his own.
From beneath his top hat, he stood as an ingenious parody of the gentleman- and the kiss she received from him much resembled his appearance… yet she preferred this satirical delight by far. She knew reality only too well – too long she had been hiding behind its numerous curtains. Too much reality only shuns your vision of everything else. Is it not what a woman yearns, after all? Ever unsatisfied, ever asking herself why these things that occupy her life never seem to completely fill her… perhaps it is because a woman is only rarely offered the chance to feed her own darkness – it is not deemed as healthy to do so, and yet, she would rather a full cup of delicious poison than a half-cup of tasteless, too-young wine. Must she really pick out fruits from the realm of the unknown, the realm of all that is imaginary and indefinable, in order to reach satisfaction?
She was a hollow doll, ever seeking what could give her true weight - were the streets of London a masquerade of such dolls, each weighing down their emptiness with sumptuous dresses and coiled hairstyles and heartbreakingly heavy, heavy gazes?
Her prince was a vaporous promise of romance, a spectre who held roses in insubstantial fingers – she could feel his breath like metal rasping against her lips, those hands descending to take her by the waist… she was kneeling, throat exposed, and he was all around her – finally, she had been too close to the sickening warmth of humanity- he chilled her to the bone, and further than that; he touched her very core, and took as much pleasure as she had perverse pain in wringing it till the blood began to drip – proof that she was alive, still? There was a voice in her ear, Transylvanian accent encroaching it like rust, and his head dipped in a sensuous dare… daring her to let go – daring her into death.
Dvs sunteþi dragostea de viaþa mea…
…Viaþa mea…
A hand shoots out.
"Mina? Mina!"
Hot, clumsy fingers scramble their way through the knotted sheets and find her skin as she shivers – she had been sighing, moaning, her forearms pressed against her chest, hands on her face and tangled in her hair. A frown mars her beautiful face, Luxuria in person, a writhing sin in silken sheets- her throat, like a swan's, extended as she burrows her head into her cushion, collarbones delicate in the moonlight, and her gown stretches over her virgin curves, outlining her breasts, transparent folds plunging into the shadow between her legs, catching between her fingers as she spreads her hands over her skin.
She stops when his grip turns iron- when his fingers twist as he seemingly tries to snap the frail bone. He looks at her with his pathetically innocent eyes, grey strands falling over his face. He looks at her with the anxious eyes of a husband, the ignorant eyes of a partner who fails to notice the changes in the woman with whom he has chosen to spend his life. Down-to-earth, he thinks it is over- he believes all their troubles ended, several months ago, when the monster was 'put to rest'. Put down was more like it, to him.
But he has no idea.
He shakes his wife into consciousness, looming over her, his naked chest casting a shadow over her, cutting her out of moonlight's reach. She slowly, slowly opens her eyes, lashes ungluing from the tearstains freckling her cheekbones. Her mouth is parted, her eyes are heavy, drunken with sleep and… as if he could guess.
"Are you all right?"
She stares at him, her mind emptying as her eyes lose their delectable lustre.
She stares at him, closing her mouth, reaching up her hands, and he winds a comforting arm around her, give her neck a prude little kiss, whispering things to her that she hardly even registers as she bathes in a thermal shock of sensation, of dream, of reality.
Is that what you have withered down to, my love?
Nightmares? Dreams? A torment of imagination?
The moon catches something sparkling beneath her lashes, and she clings to her husband's arm, feeling the shadows shifting around her, terrified yet enrapt by the furious stampede of her heart, the goosebumps covering her skin, and the lingering feeling of the Devil's eyes feasting on her flesh…
Are dreams not what we die to reach?
"Oh, Jonathan," she sobs, the ridiculous English bourgeoise, the ridiculous human bride. She clings to warmth, because that is all she has – she clings to the man because he is the only one who isn't pretending, clueless though he might be.
Time to keep your eyes wide open, my darling.
And that is what she does- she has learnt not to trust the dark, and yet… oh, God…
Winding her legs around the sheets, she shackles her eyes to the light, heart hammering, dreading sleep, dreading consciousness, dreading the awful echoing voice…
Eyes wide open.
Best not to fall back into sleep…