One Angel self-portrait
A wistful melody hums lightly in the cold air of my room on this night. Elegant, temperamental, and yet with undermined passion, a piece I can relate to. I believe I can even hear the quiet sound of a tubular bell reverberating in the background of that small harmony. A piece by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, I'd say if I am not mistaken. A favourite of mine, also, but that's not something you'll find me sharing with the public. The dwellers of this place, those ruffians, couldn't understand true Art if we were to force-feed it to them. If we were, what a sore expression for me to use on that night. I can already see it, on my desk that little Victorian clock with the precious golden metal frame. The cycle of the Raven comes to an end and soon the circle of the Moon. The room's ambiance is now glacial, the chilly air tracing ghostly trails in front of me, as if trying to impress me with their nightly ballet. The fireplace isn't aflame; I have no use for such a commodity above purely aesthetic considerations. Far into the winter night, through my window, I can already hear it, what they call the 'Silent Night'. They will all join back together with their families, their friends and maybe, for the bolder, their lovers. Most people would be inclined to believe eternal life grants one freedom from all timely matters. They could not be farther for the truth for eternity does not grant any respite to me, on the contrary. In fact, time possess that strange power to slow itself down to the point of appearing nearly immobile, almost unmoving, to those of my kin, and it drives the weaker of us crazy. After what might have been an eternity I took back the volume of poetry I had laid on the layer of silk covering my laps. I took a small breath and read with amusement what one of my kin before me had written on that accursed yearly indulgence of the mortals.
"Hark how the bells,
sweet gloomy bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away
Christmas is here,
bringing fake cheer,
to young and sold,
sick and the cold,
Bing bong bing bong
That is their song
With gleeful ring
All murdering
One seems to hear
Words of ill fear
From ev'ry where
Filling the air
Oh how they sound,
raising the count,
o'er hill and stale,
telling a grim tale,
Gaily they ring
while people sing
songs of ill tears,
Christmas is here,
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas,
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas,
On on they send ,
on without end,
their last tone to every home
Bong bing bong bing, bong Dong
Now they rain down
Without a mere frown
To the bomb the city fell
Bing bong bing bong sang the bell
The city of Nuremberg was burnt to the ground near midnight on the 24th December of the year 1951."
I gave a contented sigh as I uttered the poem's last word. I slowly closed the
tome's cover when I heard a slight creaking noise behind my chair, where I would usually have cast my shadow.
"What do you want, Chachamaru?" I asked with a harsher tone than what I meant to use. Even such exquisite poetry couldn't completely dissolve the unnerving aura of that peculiar moment of the year.
"Mistress, may I inquire about the identity of the one who gave birth to the
little piece of poetry you just read?" Chachamaru asked in her usual soft
monotone and extreme politeness. Before Evangeline had even the slightest
chance to give her an answer Chachamaru approached the fireplace and
kneeling slightly lit it up quietly.
"A man who was once worthy of respect." I said without much of any emotion.
"I understand." The machine answered back to the vampire.
The fire now sat in the fireplace brighter than ever. The warmth emanated from it in a quick succession of waves that came down near my feet where they would crash as if I was the shore to an invisible sea of heat. Everything
about it was of a perfect clarity in the room's frigid space. I smirked
knowingly. Few people knew this but Chachamaru has a deep hatred of darkness
and as such made a lot of undue effort to keep some sort of light around me when
possible. How and why she came to 'despise' darkness is unknown to me but
she does not fear it, strangely enough. She's truly an almost human machine,
I guess.
Then I can suddenly hear it in the distance, covering the weak melody of the music box standing next to me. The lone bell of the Mahora Clocktower rings into the
chilly midnight air while, at the same time, the twelve strikes of the Moon
cycle announce the arrival of Christmas Eve.
"Chachamaru, isn't the clocktower simply divine in the light of the new
moon?" I asked her nervously. My whole body almost trembled from the
conflicting emotions, marvel at the scenery before me and disgust at this
time of the year. I wanted to cry both of joy and of despair.
It felt horrible beyond words, even to me, the coldest of all.
Then without warning or words my dearest Chachamaru took me in her strong
and stiff arms of cold metal and embraced me silently, like a mother would
her child; soothingly and gently.
"Chachamaru…" I said with a heavy sigh. Why did she need to be so human yet
so inhuman?
Why did she need to be so much like… me?
End of part 1
Author Notes: Many thanks go to Sheo Darren for not only being nice enough to leave a review but also reminding me about this story I had completely forgotten about.