Ripples of grief

Chapter 12

Looming talons were held within the slender silhouette of light, branches of sinister intent crawling in tendrils to peel away the light and scratch away at it, fangs showing in fierce disdain for the serpents that would emerge if there was ever a blink of light left before all perished under an ashen glare. More and more light began to crawl from the dimly lit silhouette, a crack, a tear opening like a wound with that blood of a candle flame bleeding through bandages until it was pale; the rose lapped up the blood, the light, the petals quivering with joy – and the claws scattered it, gathering up those layers of skin to reveal the flesh beneath. Where the shadows could linger unnoticed. The beast of talons and tendrils hid away, covering its eyes as the door would not close, instead opening the eyes wider and wider until ever speck of imperfection was cruelly visible. Their fangs of sinister intent searched around, eyes blinded by hate and mocking derision – but once they sensed that web of thorns and guilt and remorse sewn around her, they leapt back, their piercing blades dragging the web away strand by strand by strand – those strands bound her to the darkness, the blind wandering and rambling like an old, desperate man, full of madness and rambling that could never answer anything but that voice that always seemed to speak, never stopping to breathe. She felt every vibration less and less, knowing that the shadows would devour every scrap of light and drag her closer to the door. Another dull pulse of those restless spirits, fleeing the choking dirt that engulfed every memory in darkness and sorrow. She felt a shudder run through the air in a trickling ripple – a moment and it would just be another string. But those thoughts became quieter and quieter; until the talons plucked her from the spot where she stood, rooted there by the cruel clutches of dread. The darkness had found her, the serpent's fang cold as it plucked her among the sea of scattered strings toward the door, opening at a crawling pace like a child, inching more and more open unto the talons fought against the layers of skin that hid the serpents of shadow. These memories seemed so hollow. All it would take was her to flee the all-powerful tendrils by closing the door, and leaving behind a decaying boat that would keep her above the surface gazing into the lake of hollow memories. All it would take was that.

All it would take was for those talons to be hidden away – and yet they crept away from her guilt, seeing the light it shed and fleeing its stench of blood – there was no crimson scar upon it, but the serpents lingered only once she gazed upon them, once a corpse dropped to the ground to be devoured by that rose of war and its vile petals. The shadows clawed at it but could never get close at the mere sight of that grotesque complexion. It was coated in crimson light that bled out and revealed every dreary crevice of dread that lay within, and that coated the hands of the shadows, leaving their mark over every surface or hollow memory that forever rotted. The serpents lay in corners, the dark a blanket. Closer. Closer. They crept, the talons of darkness swatting them away as new sinister heads grew. She took a step forward, watching the shadows dance with avoidant terror and knowing that it was there – just the light hadn't bled out. Or perhaps it had before, the serpents still lingering. A waltz-like pulse. They had danced, held hands. But now he was gone she lapped at the hope with puppets of shadow, watching light shy away from that web of writhing, buzzing rage. A beast ready to be awoken. A clawing, acrimonious beast of shadows and light, a flame burning within, ready to be unleashed; instead, it scratched in acrimonious footsteps. It breathed with a rasping tone. A clock ticking away as the shadows began to be revealed, and the raven-like figure began to watch as she simply walked away from its clutches – and she saw the outside mocking her. She stepped back, glancing over her shoulder. As if there was a lingering spirit, always watching even after the carcass fell back into the grave and paranoia was a dance of shadows with crows plucking at the corpses of those fallen vipers. She saw beaks and eyes – eyes that held such little sight, simply the blood of the raven as the flock fled to the skies. Hideous complexions lurked within those branches of mould, a disease of grief that surrounded and engulfed those hideous faces. Faces of such hollow memories. Now perishing like the withered petals upon those silhouetted stalks. They would seek out her almost innocent grief and claw at the shadow and pluck it from her skin like ravens. Just as she had stolen their souls away with a single rose. That was the guilt even shadows fled.