Ripples of grief

Chapter 32

Among the gloom, perhaps it was more comfortable – a childish warmth in her mind as if the candle was lit, so phlegmatic that even the woes – even the stench of dreary sighs, of tears wept for no return but a drop of sympathy. An ocean of light could not drown out shadows, because among the thorns they would always lie – the rotting corpses. Just like a corpse there was always a silence, as if another person should be perhaps murmuring, whispering maybe; just anything to stop the thorns choking her neck and making her writhe to escape that stench. The words would never return just as leaves never seem to. Falling. Cascading. Down. Down. Down. With the hiss of wind beneath; incessant as she took a step toward the door, glimpsing light beyond; there always seemed to be that choking stench of every woebegone sigh, every step taken almost too hesitantly to be more than a dull, fragmented facade. A whisper, but more malicious – more sinister; as if it were a viper, thorns along its slender flesh as it slithered over her neck, a rose stemming from the false soil. Hiss seemed like the correct word. Because the stench of choking anguish was a normality. Yet it shouldn't have been. Did others glimpse it shift among the shadows? Did it see her? And as it spoke in a strange, uncannily familiar tongue, always lurking along the thorns and the vines and seeming to roll over them with each word. Each. Trenchant. Word. Every last remaining moment spent among sinister, cruel glares. Always watching. Waiting. But flowers always had that same stench – that hiss of cruel words – just because a rose petal is almost like a flame, it's just as cold as the leaf as it falls and decays. It drew her in, that perishing flower. The final, long corridor among a labyrinthine path of faded pages and repeating stories, and a scratch on the wall as a final nail on the wooden coffin – one that would send the corpse to decay. And yet it drew her closer. It smelt bittersweet. Yet drew her nearer. Because there were longer shadows as the evening reared its mottled, grotesque complexion of moonlight threatening; such as roses – they always had the cruel sting of thorns – this was a pleasant sound almost; almost. Such as poppies – every tear wept held a glint of golden glimmering crimson and scarlet, cruelly smiling back at the masked facade of joy; cruelly gazing back with eyes of a stone eagle that were dull with melancholy apathy. The blood glinted golden for them.

There was always such a flood of stinging anguish when the lights came on, but not because of the brightness, perhaps not even the dread of golden eyes waiting with a ring, a noose of those glinting threads. Eyes were sinister when two glared at you, every blink in time – but what terrifies a lost apparition of memory as they wander the cave tunnels is the echo of their own complexion. With a glance downwards, she began to take small steps over the shards of glinting reflections, the eyes within seeming to have fury – seething vitriol in such a tranquil, eerie glare – and they had twice that of life. Twice that of vengeance. There was that flood of stinging anguish because those corpses had talons of agonising sharpness, long and crooked, as if knocked to the side by crows above the grave as they rose – and the flood of agony was constant, just a countdown toward something, never echoing back what as her bewilderment rose and throbbed and pulsed with melancholy. That deep ravine of wrinkles on gaunt skin peered through, a veil of dull light as a film over the top. The shadows held glass that bit her flesh hungrily. Ravenously. Seething and pulsing in those deceitful eyes. She had thought about fleeing to the eerie peace of shadows hiding among the light – thorns among silken sheets, scattered so that they drowned out the lassitude of days with no rest; even her hand brushed over the handle, beginning to push down. Only ever beginning – because the image of that gaze was reflected in the shattered glass, almost too many times – it was as if the glare was so kind it invited you to look; and to return the sinister intent that had almost a shadow of joy, of an unburnt forest, glowing deep viridian and emerald seas with waves that carried on – and on – and on – and yet the ephemeral, dreary melancholy didn't quite even murmur a warning or threat before the flames devoured it hungrily. That smile was full of rotting teeth. Yet it was only a silhouette. Her gaze travelled up the decayed complexion to that glowering stare once again; and within was a circle of flame, grey teeth decaying quickly into a storm of chaos; as above. So below. Vipers whispered it all around her. As above, so below.