This one shot fiction is based upon the movie, not book.
Enjoy and review, please. :]
Lip Balm
…
A man with dark, brooding eyes sat uncomfortably in the compressed burgundy chair, staring down at a leather clad book with yellow edged pages, thumbing through the sheets by the minute. An old, chipped grandfather clock struck twelve, propelling twelve eerie, reverberating tolls throughout the empty room. He turned a page once more, then stopped.
Beginning to read from the very middle of the page, the man tapped his fingers on the arm of his seat, scanning over the words again and again, not bothering to take in the words. They were scrawled in neat calligraphy along the worn out pages, in perfect lines, in dark brown ink. The single candle, lighting the room in such a tiny flicker shook slightly, as Ichabod Crane placed a red, cloth bookmark inside the page and shut it, staring into the turning, tallow, wax candlestick at the base of his elbow.
No! You must believe me. It was a headless horse man. A dead one! Headless!
Ichabod replayed the images in his head, clenching his jaws from spewing the light broth he had consumed for dinner.
He could not eat well. He would not eat well. Meat turned into human flesh at his teeth, fine wine transformed into slithering blood at his tongue, dripping down his chin and back into the goblet again, to be devoured in never ending time. Water tasted of bile, bread was ash in his mouth, a dry, sickening ground substance of gray bones.
He shuddered, turning towards the walls of his room, completely windowless and dark, except for a single candle next to the leather, burgundy chair. A single luminescent sputter in the sewer of skeletons. Of rolling heads. Of headless bodies. Of corpses. Of nightmares.
Extending his arm, he clenched his fingers around a glass of water and swallowed lightly, holding his breath and feeling the warm liquid make a trail of moisture down his parched throat. He rubbed his eyes, staring into the single flame of the melting, folding candle again, imagining. Wondering.
No! He urged himself. No, let it go. Let it slip from your fingers and down into hell where it belongs.
He could not do it. He would not do it. Thoughts turned into writhing worms at the base of his throat. Millions of tiny flies, circling around the bodies in a sacrificial ritual, singing a buzzing song of death and anger. Images flashed behind closed lids, in front of open lids, amid walls and flashing fire places. They were there. They would not go. The floor felt like ice, he thought he would slip and break his back, where a thousand snakes with long arms reached out and smothered him until he lost breath and died into a twisting agonizing path. Then darkness.
No! Ichabod cried out, getting up from the floor where he had fallen into stricken imagery. No! Think of Katrina. Think of love.
He could not do it. He would not do it. His mind screeched out, I love her. I love her. I want her here in my arms. Encircled in the pale form of love that would rekindle in the sharpest moments. In the dullest moments. In the horror of it all. Sitting himself down in the chair, images of Sleepy Hollow replayed in front of his eyelids as he struggled with his heart on trying to embrace the image of sweet, dear Katrina. Spiders crawled around in Katrina's soft hair as Ichabod got up from his seat, frantically turning towards a polished door.
And then she was there. The angel of beauty was at his side as Ichabod turned fiercely away from her.
"Katrina," he said, his voice above a whisper. "I imagine you dead every night. Everything is dead. Everything is death."
She soothed him, pushing back the dark locks from his pale face, planting a series of cardinal kisses on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, as Ichabod collapsed in her arms and fainted onto the floor.
…
He awoke in clean sheets, the sunlight seeping through the cracks of a window. Birds sang harmonically on a branch, feeding their young the same worms that had devoured him in his darkest nightmares. A fluffed pillow was propped against his back as Ichabod rose from the bed, entering into the room of darkened memories.
Katrina was there, sitting on the leather, burgundy chair, thumbing through the book. She was staring at the page with the cloth, red bookmark and arose, a smile tugging at the end of her lips.
"You're awake," she whispered.
"Katrina…"
She shushed him, planting a full kiss on his lips as Ichabod wrapped his arms around her waist, the silent echo in his mind thanking her for keeping him sane. For keeping him alive. They locked themselves together for a moment, releasing when the candle went out, as it always did in the dark, windowless room.
Ichabod said, "I'm feeling…hungry."
Katrina nodded, exposing a smile at the random remark. He headed towards the squashy chair, lighting the candle again.
The man with dark eyes sat comfortably in the compressed burgundy chair, staring down at a leather clad book with yellow edged pages, thumbing through the sheets by the minute. A chipped grandfather clock struck twelve, propelling twelve tolls throughout the room. He looked down at the volume in his hand, staring at the perfect letters.
Love will overcome death, it said in the far corner, in that same, perfect handwriting. He placed his hand over it, lifting it up and examining the inky mark it left on his palm. Ichabod looked at the floor, smiling in what seemed like ages. Katrina returned with a crude meal, picked up hastily in the kitchen and made quickly for the sake of hunger. Ichabod placed a morsel of food in his mouth, savoring the taste of sweet bread in the noon of a dark night's after.
…
Review. :] This was a one shot. Brought to you by Lip Balm.