Ripples of grief

Chapter 3

It was on her hands – the reminders of those loves once blooming, now devoured by the beast that writhed before her, devouring its prey with mercy that is held by the sinister kind of love – a mass devolving into those mindless beasts. They cackled in unison with some left behind, leaving a poor, defenceless front to be torn down, the souls devoured by the silence and lack of agony searing through their veins – the silence killed them, and yet the chants continued, less mechanical as they splashed against small rocks, blood dripping from those relentless jaws, simply wine for the viper who seethed and seethed with insidious tongues. Now more human – uncanny. Those chants. And the drums – no longer the relentless rolling of vipers and serpents bellowing toward innocent souls, crushing the land owned by no one and holding before them a bait; a bait of human flesh. They were rabid. Those human faces. The froth was a thing. No. No no no no no no no. It was faces. It was him. It had been him. But no longer. The froth of the sea glistened with sweat – faces chanted no more in unison but in insidious clamours slowly approaching. Wild eyes. Guns in hand. Sweat dripping down like blood. A foreboding tint of crimson before they charged, and their cackling became raucous. The waves crashed against each other, and they screamed, their fury boiling beneath the surface upon the horizon; their pupils flashed with a buzz – an electric hum of melodic anguish. A sort of nothingness – a kind of comforting. The froth was mixed with calm breaths of metalic water rushing forth from a deep shadow. But among it all was a peace; a friendliness to those uncanny faces; a friend within the enemy. Surely the petal still remained, withered and broken, crumpled and stashed away, a storm seething within a skin too small. She turned for a moment from the glinting, ominous moonlight, knowing it was true. Those soldiers with the glint of ill-intent in their gaze. But that fire was an evil, no holy act; bewilderment sank into her clattering bones, memories of a man so kind now twisted and contorted like those guns and faces. Just guns and faces. Drums and cackling. The rose stem was torn but there was still a wooden petal.

She rose, the serpent clutching at her shoulder ready to pull her in until she shrugged it away. It was as if she was climbing a torn stem with needles to place her feet one in front of the other; he would care – he had spent so many hours and hours upon it, keeping it afloat. And now he had sunk beneath the waves. Falling still. She clutched at her sanity with a grip certain and never false or wavering – she took the two steps and gazed into the wooden chamber of saving graces and sorrows left to fester like a sprout of mould, vile but invisible. Within it lay the answers she craved and yet there was the petal, almost incessantly putrid in its stench of memories from that false face. And yet it held her in a loving, motherly grasp, guiding her palms over its edges and skin, paint in a thin layer that had chipped away – and yet the motherly smile still lingered, a throbbing reminder. It guided her hand toward the top and dragged it over to the water. It held her in its palm. Kind yet malicious – and cold. So cold. As if she were simply another toy tossed into a concoction of blood and bones of roses – thorns tossed in and clashed against the others as her corpse was writhing along the serpentine twists of the labyrinthine maze; clashing walls. She was just another toy; another speck to gaze upon in pity but without care. It knew her. And it knew she wouldn't dare hold in her hands the one thing that could place before her an uncanny image of a lover – love sapped from eyes with a crooked smile as they speak of the enemy and hold in their empty hands a gun. But then perhaps it would be better than a cold carcass under the ocean, inert and empty of life. Empty of the tender care. Trembling. So she let it trail into the lake, from the paper-like fog plucking a cruel incantation. A careless murder. It lay before her, and all she could do was watch as the ink was sprawled over the page and horrid images flew before her. Yet she could not look away. And she could only glimpse a foreboding picture through a sinister lens. It held something unfamiliar. Like from a serpent's mind upon the paper. And yet something so friendly. It whispered. She tossed it back in, disgusted.