At the Devil's Table - Part III

Part III of V

TROIS

There was a stale stench in the air that morning. It wreaked- more so than usual, of the kind of demise that beset the world in all its glory. W****s and politicians, hypocrites and blasphemers, the children of God and the pigs for the slaughter; they were all the same to me. I drew the curtains and saw the town arise into motion; the same one it had done for days and months and years past; the one I was longing to end. A small smile curled upon my lips as I thought of it all, soon all of these vile wretches will be suffocated by their own hand. “Soon, Von Grimm,” I cooed to myself, “Soon,”

                I looked down into the street just under my window. A vagabond walked down the street, glancing upwards at my window for a split second as he hugged the handle of his sign and walked on. His placard read: “Prenez garde de l'abîme de approche”. It made me laugh. Nobody else on the street paid him much attention. I watched as he disappeared down the street.

                A knock on the door interrupted me and I turned just as it cracked open. “Master,” I heard Harry’s voice croak.

                “Let her in,” I said, feeling irritated by his mere presence. I turned my attention to the window once more, feeling the heat from the sun’s rays upon me as a cloud shifted in the sky. I smiled, enjoying the warmth, and heard footsteps behind me. “I trust you return with good news, Charlotte,”

                “Of course, sir,” She said, “I wouldn’t have dared return without such glorious news to share,”

                I turned and saw her adjusting her netted veil; my smile grew into a grin. “The body,” I said, “It’s destroyed?”

                She paused, looked at me in that way a woman would her incompetent husband, and pulled out a compact to begin touching up her crimson red lipstick. “No word of how I look today, Von Grimm?” She said, “Usually you are so… generous,”

                I leaned back on the window and let my eyes drift from her feet to her painted lips. “Forgive me,” I said softly, “You look…” I walked over to my table and fixed myself a dry whiskey, feeling her gaze on me, and the weight of her hanging on my every word, “Well,” I cleared my throat and took a sip, “Like a London w***e,”

                “Excuse me?”

                “You know,” I turned to face her, and then made slow steps towards her; my shoes clunking against the floorboards. “The ones Jack the Ripper loved to slice open for the entire world to see,” I grinned as I circled her and placed a finger against the skin of her neck, tracing a line down into her cleavage. Without warning, I grabbed her chin, making her choke for breath. “You little one-eyed b***h,” I snarled, my lips almost touching her ear, “When I ask you a question, you answer it,”

                “Il y avait trop de personnes!” She choked and I threw her forward. She flew off the chair and into the wall opposite us.

                “There were too many people…” I repeated in a whisper to myself, adjusting the cuff of my jacket. “After all these years of serving me, Charlotte… you choose now to make your grand mistake,” I picked up a silver letter opener from my desk as I walked past it towards her. She sat up against the wall, nursing her slit lip carefully with her fingers. The blood stained her porcelain fingertips and I could feel her seething with anger.

                “J'ai fait ce que je pourrais monsieur…” She said shakily.

                “Sometimes, dear Charlotte,” I said with a growing grin, “Your best is not nearly enough,” I stopped in front of her and tilted her face upwards with one hand.  “My poor, sad little pet,” I cooed , and lifted her veil to expose the hideous black-and-blue empty socket where her left eye should’ve been. “Give the others my best,” I whispered, and watched as the colour drained from her face, and her expression drop with horror. Swiftly, heavily, and without a split-second wasted in hesitation, I plunged the letter opener into the empty socket.

                She screamed, she shook, and I twisted the blade further. She tried to claw at my grasp on her chin, but I couldn’t feel her dark red nails digging into the flesh of my wrist; not even when strings of blood formed under my cuff.  I buried the blade deeper still.

 “Struggle all you want,” I mused, a smile growing on my face. “You’re going home either way,” With a swift motion I tore the letter opener out of her head and watched as her body fell to the floorboards.  A heavy thump, and then silence; beautiful, glorious silence… I breathed in the afterglow of deceit and murder, it filled my lungs and I was replenished. My shoes creaked across the floor as I reached for the bell on my table and rang it.

Delicately, I removed my gloves and threw it onto Charlotte’s carcass, smirking when I saw her face was frozen in horror. Harry entered, “How may I help, master?”

“See to it that Charlotte is taken care of,” I said, still staring down at her empty shell.

“Very well, master,” Harry said sombrely. He took hold of her ankles and dragged her out of the room. Her body made a beautiful sound against the floorboards; her knuckles tapping rhythmically; 4 to 4, perfectly spaced beats. I would never tire of such an occasion; a fresh kill, and all the sounds and smells of the affair.

I went to my dresser and sought a new pair of gloves; purple and fur trimmed this time. “I’m feeling hungry, Harry. See to it that my breakfast is prepared,”

“Yes master,” He said, and disappeared out the door.

I looked at myself in the mirror- a luxury I would never grow tired of. This beautiful looking glass, trimmed with a solid gold frame engraved with a thousand or so little hands that appear to be holding it up. I watched my mortal body as I folded back my bloodstained cuffs and saw the damage that w***e had done. I picked a fingernail from my wrist and watched blood trickle down from the dent it had made in my skin. Another luxury that I would miss; the scars of battle, the sheer intricacies of a body turning from living to never-breathing… where I came from death never came for even the reaper hated the place. It scorned it so much that stabbings, strangulations, drowning and gouging all went on forever. The actions, the bleeding, the suffering and the cries for help stretched out for eternity. I wondered why; there was so much beauty and awe in the end.

I saw the smear of blood on my floor reflected in the mirror. At least the French b***h was dead, I wouldn’t have to deal with her insolence any longer. I had been playing Farris Brimshaw, if that was in fact his real name, like a fiddle of skin and bones. It was so easy, and I played dumb as he approached closer still. So close I could have taken care of him myself- and done a better job, but that putrid human wench of his continuously drew him away. Georgina… how plain and uninteresting, and yet somehow she had continuously led Farris away from me. He should have died so many more times before he finally did. I sneered, thinking of all that time I had wasted throwing that horribly boring dinner party, and only to have him run away from me without so much as a sip of that toxic wine.

So many dead politicians and lawyers and so-called holy men; they littered the dining room and it was almost beautiful. But without Farris’ carcass to litter the chaos of remains, this was a masterpiece missing its winning touch; the smile on Mona Lisa, the last suicidal plunge of lovers in Romeo and Juliet. He was just far too clever, too quick, and too damned lucky. I would be ready next time…

My green eyes scanned myself in the mirror; dark, well kept hair and pallid complexion- that now seemed to fill with a delightful red glow. My lips pulsed a soft red, like the crimson stains on my fingertips- her crimson stains. I pressed it to my lips and tasted the copper taste. I grinned, my pearly whites flashing in the mirror before me. The human body was so exquisite, and for a moment I was almost impressed at my Father’s achievements. If only I didn’t hate him so much.

I looked down at my wrist as the wounds on it closed up slowly, the flesh regenerating and closing up the thin rivers of blood. “You did a fine job, Father,” I mused, putting on my new gloves, “But what I have planned is so much better,”

 

TROIS ET UNE MOITIÉ

                Mother was blind. She had been since I was only a little girl of about 4 or 5. It happened after she fell from the drawing room window. Back then, our house was as our lives were, beautiful, shining and bright. Mother tended the gardens, and she handpicked the drapes and the upholstery. She updated them continuously. I remember watching her from a gap in the door, sitting upon her chair and knitting a cross-stitch for my pillow. The walls were white like her clothes and bonnet, and the sun streamed through the windows, making everything shine. It was almost blinding, but wonderful, like a halo of pure light. Now the walls are gray… and it seems to rain all the time.

                I lay awake on sheepskin in the lounge room near the fireplace, a copy of Bram Stoker’s newest on my chest and my fingers buried between its pages. I could see the moon sailing through the sky outside, and wished Mother could see it too. She was upstairs asleep, nowadays she always was. Selfishly, I felt happier when she was, at least then I wouldn’t have to see her wandering confused and debilitated through the halls. Still, at least her presence kept me grounded. I couldn’t imagine living in this house with just the servants and my father.

                He was just like any other father I guess, stern and disassociated from all the wantonness of a young daughter’s dreams that hung on the sidelines and faded away slowly as she forgot. Eventually, I thought darkly as my eyelids shut, I would be just like mama. I would be lost in a labyrinth created by those who apparently loved me, forced to marry and bear children and supervise the servants as they polished the rough edges of my life. And then I would wear terrible, ugly, black shapeless dresses and a low bonnet to hide my femininity for fear of the kind of sins and debauchery femininity apparently attracts. “The power of a woman, so dangerous,” I remember Farris saying to me, as I closed my eyes and smiled, feeling his lips pepper soft kisses on my face. “Fear and champion, my soul, my heart,” He smiled down at me, “I love you, Georgina,” He sighed, “I am yours to destroy.”

                The first time we met, I knew we would fall in love. It was written, destiny, fate- maybe even a miracle. He was so beautiful and so unlike the other men I had met, at his age he far exceeded them in wisdom and knowledge, and the words he spoke were flawless. They spilled forth; rivers of milk and honey; and I was hooked from the start. But heaven forbid my father learn about us… I knew what he had planned for me; a marriage with some rich, older man, someone good for business, someone devout. Someone who could carry on our estate… not poor Farris who could barely afford the clothes on his own back… But father was away at the moment, he had been for weeks, and I secretly wished for his missionary trip to continue in delays. Perhaps the savages he was trying to save had already tied him to a tree and fed them to whatever numerous gods they worshiped.

                “Georgina?” I heard my mother’s voice from behind me. My eyes snapped open and I looked up at her.

                “Mama,” I said, “Did you have another night terror?”

                “No,” She replied, her hand grasping the door frame to hold her upright. I saw she had ripped away the bandage on her hand. The wound was exposed, and looked septic.

                “Mother,” I went to her, “Your wound- I’ll have the nurse tend to it immediately,” I took hold of her wrist but she held me back.

                “No,” She said. “Leave me, child,” She whispered.

                I stared back at her, confused, “Mama, it’ll begin to fester if we do not bind it,” I said.

                “What are you reading, child?” She asked suddenly.

                I turned and looked back at the book sprawled before the fireplace, the golden title lighting up in the flickering light of the fire; Dracula. “It’s one of Stoker’s new books,” I said.

                “Terrible man,” She said. “You should not be reading such things,” She seemed to grow agitated, “Dark things, dark things… they only attract dark things,” She said.

                “It’s just a book, mama,” I whined, “Now come on, let me tend to your wound at least- if you won’t have the nurse look at it… at least let me,” I said

                “Don’t!” She cried out, catching me off guard. “Don’t bind it, they must see, they must… see,” She paused suddenly, and then drew her eyes to the window. The light of the moon reflected on her face and I wondered if she could at least sense its dark presence as it watched us through the window.

                “They?” I said, “And what must they see exactly?” She was silent. “Mother,” I scoffed, growing worried. “What’s the matter?”

                “My wound stays open,” She said, “It will not heal,” She murmured.

                “Of course not, not if you keep it like this,” I was getting frustrated, and wishing that one of the servants would walk in and take care of her so I could go back to day dreaming on the sheepskin. “Please, mama, what is it?”

                “I will go to bed now,” She said suddenly, turning away from me, “Will you help me up the stairs, my love?”

                With a sigh, I took hold of her hands and led her upstairs. “Yes mama,” I said.

                Mother had been prone to strange imaginings for a long time, but more recently she had been silent. Except for today I guess, ever since the trouble with the china. She was so far out of reach from the real world that I had decided long ago I would never be able to pull her back. Still, her words repeated themselves in my head, they must see, they must see. Just the way she said it made my skin crawl and my lungs tighten. Who was she talking about?

                I put her to bed, tucked her in and waited until she was asleep. In the candle light, I scanned the trinkets on her dust covered dresser. She had covered the mirror and the jewellery boxes with faded cloths embroidered with cherubs and French horns. My fingers trailed across the surface, and I could feel the stitching on my fingertips. I uncovered one small jewellery box, turning around to make sure mother was still asleep. It creaked open loudly in the quiet room and I had to glance at the bed once more.

                With a sigh of relief, I inspected the pretty things inside; pearl earrings and a black pearl necklace. They were exquisite, delicate and so rich. Quietly, I took the black pearl necklace and stuffed it down the front of my bodice. I sat the jewellery box down again, restoring it to its hidden place on the dresser. I knew mother would never miss it. Perhaps I would wear it the next time Farris and I went out together, and I would tell my friends that he purchased it for me from a Parisian vendor- how exotic. And they wouldn’t turn their noses up at the sight of him ever again. I smiled to myself, pleased at my plan.

                I studied the sheet that was draped over the mirror; it was embroidered with the Lord’s prayer, of course. I peeled it off the mirror slowly, inspecting the pretty cherubs that were stitched around the Lord’s prayer.

                “Georgina,” I heard mother’s voice suddenly and I looked up to see her standing behind me in the mirror. I gasped, turning around to face her.

                “Mama?” I stared into her milky blue eyes as she grabbed me by the wrist suddenly and tugged my hand towards her.

                “They must see, Georgina, they must see!” She screamed, hysterical.

                “Mother!” I screamed, trying to tug away from her. But I couldn’t- for the life of me. How did my frail mother suddenly become so strong? Suddenly, she unsheathed a blade from the cuff of her night dress and slashed it across the palm of my hand. I cried out in pain, and she let go so I could fall to the ground in agony and confusion.

                “They have to see we’re not like them,” She said. The maids stormed into the room then, restraining her to the bed as she screamed; like nails across a chalkboard.

                I watched in horror as the nurse entered to assist the maids with restraining my mother to the bed. I looked down at my palm and saw blood pooling to the surface and streaming down my wrist. My vision blurred as the tempo of my heartbeat and breathing soared. I looked to my mother’s bed again, and saw her screaming and kicking away the maids, she was almost possessed- in fact at that very moment I suddenly believed in demons and a place called hell. The sight was my transformation- my true baptism. Suddenly I believed. She screamed then, high-pitched and in a voice that I swore was not her own. My head hit the floorboards and my eyes slowly slid shut. I wished for Farris.

Author's Note

Man I've never created a character I honestly didn't like... Georgina is not likable right now... but I'm sure she'll grow.
I hope the narrative voice switches makes sense to you guys, let me know if it doesn't...