The Room
StoriesDiscuss The Room in the The Pen forums; Reverend Draven’s sleek hearse disappeared through the wrought iron gates and followed the mile long driveway. The tall oaks concealed his domain, blocking out any sunlight that Ireland’s ...
Reverend Draven’s sleek hearse disappeared through the wrought iron gates and followed the mile long driveway. The tall oaks concealed his domain, blocking out any sunlight that Ireland’s dense fog did not. His headlights bounced off the cobblestones and illuminated the mirrored eyes of foxes and wolves as they fled deeper into the forest. He pulled up to the weathered brick two story behind his wife’s town car. As he got out he smiled with familiar comfort that she was home. Their home was of modest size, but had the feel of an enchanted castle on the hill of Tara, complete with its king and queen.
A soft click of his key and the heavy door creaked open, leaving two marble gargoyles to guard his palace. Draven slipped out of his trenchcoat and let it fall to the floor. “Where’s my Dark Lady hiding?” He called out playfully as he loosened his necktie. He inhaled the familiar scent of English rose petals deeply as it wafted down the stairs and surrounded him. He could hear the melody of a man’s deep voice crooning over a symphony of pipe organs and electric guitars. It was drowned out by the sound of running water. He walked towards the smells and sounds that lured him from above and decided to take a shower as well.
The sharp striking of his steel capped boots against the marbled floor echoed through the sparsely furnished parlor. It was a melodic contrast to the tiny clicking of Isabelle’s heels which he likened to the pleasant clinking of wine glasses.He paused at the foot of the stairs to grasp his walking cane. His palm felt the cool sensation of metal as it enclosed around the silver skull. The other hand trailed across the mahogany banister as he made his way up the staircase, grazing the minute but deeply etched binding spells that covered its surface. “to keep the sacred in and the sacrilege out” he chanted to himself threefold. He did this everytime he passed the invisible barrier. For all his wealth and influential power, the priest could never be too careful when it came to safeguarding his most prized possession. His present lifestyle had been acquired after three long decades of painstaking research and inevitable misfortune. Had he been alone, he was certain he would be dead by now, but Isabelle had bled for his beliefs from the moment she had met him and together they prevailed.
The water overhead mimicked the rushing of a waterfall as he neared the bathroom. Draven presumed she was relaxing in the whirlpool and decided he would much rather take a bath instead. The mental picture he conjured up of his wife’s flawless skin covered in nothing but a filmy layer of bubbles excited him and he bounded up the remaining stairs. He felt the skull slip from his hold and put his hands out as he fell against the stairs. He cursed himself for not watching his step, the runner always bunched up on the third stair from the top. The water was deafening now and he felt his hands sink into soft wetness. His dark eyes slowly followed the saturated carpeting to where it met the marble tiling in front of the bathroom door. Frothy, crystalline bubbles seeped from under it, the opaque stone was covered by a steady flow of water. His acute senses became a blur of dissonant sounds and muted colors. He became overwhelmed by the feelings of dread and morbid curiousity only humans possess. He knew what lay behind the door, he knew why she wasn’t singing along to her favorite album, “Isabelle!” He screamed , but he knew she wouldn’t hear.
Draven awoke to the faint sound of running water overhead. He had helped Isabelle out of her bath and put her in bed, and then went to sleep without thinking to turn off the water. He would go to her now, before she woke and realized she was alone. He put on his robe and slipped into his boots (the sound of his own tangible presence echoing through the halls comforted his unease) and grabbed two familiar objects from his bed stand that fit snugly in the crevice of his palm. Down the spiraling staircase, ivory fingers trailed across the banister, grazing each post that jutted unevenly, he felt as if he were inside a rib cage. The elongated hands cast spindly shadows on the web shrouded walls, distorting into gnarling tree limbs that shook angrily towards the sky. Dripping sconces illuminated the chamberlain, their flames dancing to silent melodies. He felt as if he were walking down the eerie stairs that led to an episode of Tales From The Crypt.
And who better to play the part of the crypt keeper? Draven amused, his head hung low with a wicked grin forming upon his lips, revealing two sharpened incisors. A chilling shriek echoed through the corridor. He was not startled, merely lifted his head and waited for it to die. In his hand he held a brass skeleton key that shone like the sweat of the sun he so vehemently detested. It is where all our dreams lay unexposed, all their flaws and discrepancies susceptible to the world. Beside it, a scalpel’s fine edge gleamed like a tear from the moon. His eyebrows furrowed and his grin soured. Why had she come down here, she had always went out of her way to avoid even looking at the staircase. A white taper glowed above the arched door, its blackened hinges rusty, the bowing mahogany reeked of mildew and decay. A wax encased hand was mounted on either side of the passageway, palm outstretched to display a bleached skull in each. Eyes full of shadows seeing nothing, Draven thought, just like mine. The key turned with a soft click revealing the room, awaiting his presence.
To the untrained eye, the room was boundless, an infinite cave swathed in dark abyss. But Draven’s eyes didn’t even have to be open for him to know the confines of the room and the contents they held. He could see the black marble floor beneath his feet, and could feel the hardness of smooth stone above solid earth. He could make out the sharp edges of stainless steel tables and could sense their cold glimmer. It is not what is there, but how I choose to remember it.
The place gave off as much coziness as a hospital room, but Draven did not equate it with cold and sterile. The opaque mirrors and metal shelves were warm and comforting to his touch, like hematite. “It is a warlock’s conjurer, associated with mystery and magic. It is always cool to the touch, no matter how warm its environment.” These were Isabelle’s words to him when asked about the ring she had never taken off. He ventured to question if maybe that was because she appeared cold and aloof on the outside, but had so much tenderness and empathy within. He halted the thought, knowing that would mean he felt tepid to the touch, but was detached and frozen beneath his facade.
As Draven brushed a strand of hair from his face, he felt her soft hand across his jaw, her delicate fingers tucking the silver wisp behind his ear. A lilting laughter began to fade as quickly as it came, and he felt wetness cascade down his face. His ebony nails left angry gashes across his dampened cheeks. His tongue darted out instinctively to catch the “wine of Bacchus”. Liquid copper coated the steel sphere that rested on his tongue. A salty trail slithered through the crease of his mouth and he groaned in ecstasy, prolonging the bittersweet taste of blood and tears, even if it were his own.
The apparition materialized before him, and Draven felt the hair on his flesh prickle. “Don’t you want to taste me, beloved? I’ll be the offering upon your unholy feast.” Isabelle laughed coyly as she slunk away, her gaze intent like a stalking lioness.
Draven glided across the marble and rested his hands upon the stainless steel wall. He lifted candelabra from the adjacent wall and struck a match. He carried its flame to the other eight tapers and spun on a gleaming heel, barely noticing the room in its new light. His eyes reflected three silver altars, and rested on the only one occupied by a white shroud. His lips parted and he chuckled softly as he came to stand beside her. You just love playing the victim don’t you? Draven whispered as he kneeled next to the shroud. She was lost in peaceful dreams; he pulled the covers back and kissed her warm cheek.
“Every vampire needs a victim.” Draven wearily looked around. They were alone, he knew, but she hadn’t stirred from her slumber. She had said it, hadn’t she?
Déjà vu maybe, nothing more. Maybe she thought it, even unconscious she is still aware. Draven delighted in that thought. She loved the game as much as he, maybe even more. But he wanted to worship her innocence now; satiating the wicked hunger would come after. I keep these twilit hours so I don’t miss a moment of your eternal beauty. It’s very warm in here, isn’t it dear? He set the candelabra on a silver shelf beside her pillow. He let his limp hand fall to her throat. He toyed with the silver chain around it. Even as you sleep you wear it for protection from all the monsters I cannot see, because I promised to protect you for eternity.
His metallic hair cascaded around her face like a curtain. He knelt beside his bride and kissed her forehead, then the tip of her upturned nose. He gently nibbled on her pouty lips, and then slipped his tongue between their plush openings. The dark moist warmth of her mouth made him think of a home where she was the door, welcoming him inside. He traced spells down her neck, across her shoulders and around her perky breasts. His gaze went to her unfluttering eyelids, and then settled on the hollow of her slender throat. Beneath the translucent parchment of skin, he saw a faint pulsing as he felt his own throbbing below.
Draven breathed in the musky scent of wilting roses, lost himself in it until he was no longer in control. His ivory fangs burrowed into the hollow, and he withdrew as soon as he felt them pierce her flesh. They masqueraded as vampires, as close to the boundary between reality and fantasy as a mortal could get, without crossing into delirium. He could sense something was amiss, but could not think clearly under her trance. He lapped at the incisions, relishing her blood, but it didn’t pour as freely as he had anticipated. You do not even stir, so obedient when you want to be. Oh, Isabelle, you know how it excites me when you still your heartbeat, but it scares me so. I love waking beside you; we are like a candle, melting into it. You lay there in innocence that feeds my carnal desires, your arms crossed over your chest as of to fool yourself into sweet repose. These gashes upon your slender wrists, they look convincing enough, but they are only artificial wounds. I have seen deeper on my more successful clients. You are my eternal bride and I wait eagerly for your dark embrace.
He kissed her lips once again, drenched with the stain of burgundy wine. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers bury into the fur lining and it feels like her. His grip tightens around the familiar object and he feels the blade bite into his hand, like a row of jagged teeth sinking deep into his soft flesh. Hot wetness spreads in his palm. Ahh...now it really feels like you darling. How dare you tempt me so?
Draven withdraws the slippery scalpel and lifts his arm above her head. In one quick motion, he twirls the scalpel between his fingers and thrusts it into his adjoining wrist. He drags the blade up towards his palm, as it pulls through the flesh and tears apart. Biting his lip he exhales a sigh of release his breath becoming visible in the chilly air. A river of maroon slinks around his pivoting wrist, until the gaping wound is above her mouth. He catches a ruby bead on the tip of his fingernail and uses it to part her lips. His essence floods her mouth, now overflowing, now smeared thick like the lipstick on a whore. He feels a white heat rise up his thighs and a predatorial snarl curls at the corners of his lips. You are mine love as I am yours. Take my sacrament and feed this insatiable hunger.
Slowly he rounds the foot of the altar, staining the sheet with a pitter-patter of red as his hands trail down her still figure. He caresses her feet as the ruby blossoms grow across the white linen .He stays transfixed until the bright petals turn a dark maroon.
You always know how to bring out the demon in me. Let me worship our God in your temple; let me gaze upon my shrine. The starched edges of the crisp sheet crinkle in his hands as he tears it away. The powerful scent of decay rises to his moistened face as the sheet crumples to the ground, and he can smell her in the air.
His goddess lays silent in her sky clad beauty. Midwest Flesh pounds through his skull, a dark ballad he composed in inspiration of her. My eyes are the only eyes to see you so vulnerable; he lets them drink her in. Clad in only his velvet robe, he rise above her, feels her taut skin as it sends trails of fire through his skin. He feels the cool handle thrust forward in his palm as the blade sinks into her chest, then pulls down between her breasts. Behind his vacant eyes, images of autumn leaves crumbling and panties ripping accompany the swift motions of his tool of trade. My hands are the only hands to touch you, my porcelain doll. The scalpel is released from his grip; its handle sags forward, and then rests comfortably protruding from her navel. His fingertips graze her belly, follow its curve down her hips and across her thighs, until his cupped hand nestles seep within the familiar moist fur lining. In his other hand, he holds himself and slides between her pouting gates.
You are my sanctuary, my Dark Lady, my blackened rose. His arms run up her chest, mingling her blood with his own.
Like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted on, you will be my macabre masterpiece, eternal love frozen in time. To never grow old, never wither away. This is my gift to you love, my immortal bride. His once gentle hands now throb with anger, pulsing with the fury of the love they desecrated.
“Who screamed in the corridor, Draven? It wasn’t me. My lips were frozen before you even came home last night. You screamed, crypt keeper. Because you knew before you saw. You knew that I was gone. I didn’t come down here; this is where you laid me to rest.”
His gaze becomes detached from the gnarled claws that violently tear her necklace in two as her alabaster face is wrenched to his own, then falls back to the pillow with a thud, the broken chain limp in his clenched hand. His fingers rake red trails upon her throat, his thumbs hook into their gouges as his violent thrusting sends tremors through her limpid form. His eyes roll heavenward in abandon, his tongue erect (anticipating hers), barbell dragging frantically across sharpened teeth. His thumbs, sunk in her flesh, part her flesh like soft wax. His eyes become transfixed on the crimson choker he has designed. His sticky fingers clasp around the nape of her neck and her pretty head lolls from side to side, now precariously attached only by her spinal chord.
He takes a long, hard look at her, oblivious to the red ribbon upon her throat as it spreads. Admiring the desecration he has wrought on his idol, Draven releases the death grip of his blood drenched hands. Elongated fingers pry open her translucent lids, he is mesmerized by her vacant, cloudy eyes as his hand climbs blindly around the shelf for his desired instrument. The candelabrum teeters on the edge as the sensation of dripping wax scorching his skin brings him dangerously close to rapture. Her crimson collar smiles at him, he returns it with a visceral laugh. The flames plunge to the cold floor, leaving trails of fire in their descent. The sharp clang of metal against stone reverberates from the metal décor and the shadows follow, shrouding lover’s gore. A metallic shriek pierces the falling silence as Draven drags the athame across the steel ledge. His lips part for her hardening breast (as rigor mortis sets in), hover there momentarily, and then lunge for Isabelle’s velvet choker. His tongue plummets into the gaping crevice and drinks deeply from the nectar of his goddess. Its consistency is that of jellied cranberries, rather than succulent wine. Still, he fills his mouth until he can hold no more. His eyes burn, two fiery orbs of green, and he caress her ebony hair before they become entangled in the clotted mess. He rips a sodden clump out, a bloodied mass of scalp dangling from its crown.
And I give you this love, Draven whispers; his voice hoarse and raw, Eternity in your bloody kiss.
The metal stirrups cut into the soles of his feet as he gives a final thrust. He opens his mouth to return her coagulated essence. It overflows from her parted lips, dribbling down her chin and meeting the remainder spewing from her gaping throat. Draven shrieks as he ruptures, he screams her name. He raises the double bladed athame and collapses upon it as its hilt sinks into her already punctured chest. Into her dark embrace he surrenders, sealed together forever, like a candle melting upon itself.
THE END
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