Dark Promises
By: Anubis
August 15th, 1893
Michel stood before his easel, putting the final touches on the painting. He stood back, and studied it, liking what he saw. 'We'll, its hard not to like it,' he thought, smiling. Melanka's portrait had turned out better than he had hoped. In the painting, she sat on his couch, looking out at Michel defiantly. Her black dress made her look so exotic. Much too exotic for his parlor as a background. So, instead of the French comfort she was originally sketched in, she lay in an ancient Egyptian court, servants attending to her every whim. The royal guests lay on similar couches in the background. They were painted in soft pastels, so as not to attract much attention from their host. Dancing girls stood motionless to the left of Melanka, frozen forever in their cultural dance. It was his masterpiece. He grinned, and walked slowly down the steps from his studio to his bedroom. It was two in the morning, and Melanka was gone to feast. He collapsed face first on the bed, his feet hanging off the edges, and almost immediately fell asleep. He had worked on the painting almost day and night for the past month, with only brief intervals to feed and sleep. And to make Melanka happy, he sometimes went with her to the park at night. He was exhausted now, and just wanted to sleep.
It was hours later he finally woke. The sun was shining brightly through his big picture window, and it blinded him for a moment. He raised his arm to shield his sore eyes, and climbed sorely from his awkward position across the bed. He moved sleepily down the hall, and walked into the kitchen. He searched the counters for the vials Melanka usually left for him. He frowned when he didn't find them, and moved to the living room.
Shadows disfigured and mutilated his once familiar furniture. Ashes lay in a soft blanket on his hearth. The remnants of the burned wood scattered and fluttered in the slightest breeze. Dust lay in a thick lining on the brass mantel clock, while it ticked away the hours, minutes, seconds, all being lost in the sands of time. Michel turned towards the window, and pulled the curtain back, allowing some of the weak sunshine to leak through and give some color back to his shadowed parlor, chasing the invisible demons from their positions in the corners and crevices of the room. Michel looked out into the street, watching the merchants, the common people, and the beggars mix together in a social harmony that they were imposed on everyday. The bleak picture of human life was so alarming, and in some erotic way, inviting. The uniformity of it all was a utopia for those weary of surprises, those weary of new stages of development that was being forced upon the ever-changing world. And yet, it was tedious, these daily activities performed by everyday actors, caught in some melodramatic drama where no other reality, no other existence could correspond with these all powerful beings, who were gone with the turning of the tides.
They ruled the world, these minute individuals, they kept this mundane drama forever playing itself out. And yet, there were the others, the eternal beings that fed off the life force of those that continued this infinite performance. They were there, watching from the shadows, waiting for one that would fall, the weak link, and take them from this life to the next. But there was a flaw in these beings presence; they were trapped between realities, stuck in this mortal world as if they were nothing more than solid ghosts whom were never shown the way to the final destination. No, time had no mercy on them, they had to destroy those creatures that they once were, hunt down humans like prey just so that they could live to see another sunrise.
And with this mortal world were the social airs he had to once put on to earn the respect and money of his "equals". He had nearly forgotten the proper way to greet a lady of high breeding, the dances and the balls that everyone who was anyone attended. These were such things the less fortunate dreamed of, but they were stuck at the foot of the social ladder. And was it not the fault of those that were well to do that these unlucky beings were as poor as they were? Wasn't it those well to do that judged how much and how little these underlings received in their paycheck? And yet, they did not take the blame. No, they blamed it on those that can control nothing of the affairs of those who give them money for the essential things that kept them living. It was the unfairness of this ephemeral life that kept them at the lower end of the food chain.
And here, at the heart of the city of romance, in the gayest and most light-hearted town in France, Michel was locked away, confined in this prison of eternity between heaven and hell. And he, too great a coward to take away this cursed life, sat alone in the misery of forever, they countless millennia going by, gone from his grasp forever. He was the embodiment of time, forever and ever belonging to everything and nothing.
A great weight had settled over him; the knowledge of death, the knowledge of partaking of your fellow man as if her were a wine to drink and savor. It was too much for a one being to comprehend, and so he sat, unthinking, watching listlessly as the evanescent world of humanity changed and grew before him. He drew back finally from the portal to this semi-perfect world of those being sacrificed and those willing to sacrifice for 'the greater good'. The curtain fell back in place, blocking the light from showing the way across his living room. He moved heavily, his shoulders slumped and his face sobered. Climbing the steps to his studio, Michel opened the doors and inhaled deeply the smell of wood, paint, and the ever-present smell of the vitality he used to make his works of art. He prowled around the room, glancing blindly at all the tarps and splatters of paint that seemed to coat the floor and the off white walls. Something was missing; it was like an empty feeling when your loved one leaves you; that feeling of loss when you can't decide to sit and cry, or drink you troubles away. He prowled around the room like a caged tiger, wishing for that distant paradise where he could hunt and live without the worries of those who would discourage him from his far-fetched schemes.
That was when the fluttering paper caught his eye; a note had been tacked to one of the walls, and was fluttering helplessly buy the quick movements Michel was making. Melanka's signature was on the front, and a dark feeling was creeping in to his gut. He tore the note down off the wall, and scanned over it quickly, before reading it more slowly, anger filling his body:
Dear Michel, I have grown tired of this game you forever play wit me. You swear your love to me one day, and than lock yourself away in the horrid studio, painting and painting a worthless picture! You claim it will be the thing that will have everyone talking of you, but I can't believe that. I need more that empty vows and broken promises! You are a fool; did you truly think I would stay by your side forever, when you treat me as nothing more than a doting servant? Never! I will not allow you to make a fool of me! There are plenty of men who would become my slave, as you once were…yes, my slave! You did everything for me! And I shall have that attention again, whether it be from you or someone else! I deserve better! Melanka P.S. I have taken your "master piece", and I shall laugh and hang it above my mantle while you sit alone, a broken man, in the eternal arms of your reticent artistic mind!Michel tore the hate filled note, and glared as the white pieces fluttered lifelessly to the ground. He moved out of the workroom with the ethereal grace he had inherited with his dark existence. And slammed the door to his apartment. One thought was apparent in his malice filled thoughts; Revenge…