Exercises in style (26): à la Angela Carter

I never meant for things to end this way. The termination of our togetherness was like an arterial line being severed – he was my lifeblood, but so intrinsic to my inner workings that I took him for granted. I forgot him. Initially, the war separated us. He was away for so long, and I grew lonely. Black-pelted, gilt-masked devils, eldritch but persuasive, urged me to unsavory acts. I became addicted to opium, languished in tenebrous, amniotic dens, fell prey to all manner of ravishings by fiend and gentleman alike. My flesh, once lily-scented, came to smell of leather and earth; my sex turned stale and rank. When my love returned, I was a husk of the clean, vibrant, faithful woman he had known. He could not bear it. And he could not take me back.

So here I lie, moaning desolately, as already the memory of our embraces fades into vermilion past, and the colour of the past fades equally, bleaching due to time’s quickening pace. Time, the nonbeliever’s replacement for the gods of the religious, punishes me for my trespasses. I lie against the locked door, shivering in my white satin negligee, wailing grievously at the ceiling. I know he is able to hear the plaintive sounds that coil liquidly up through those ancient oaken cracks. Night settles into its darkness, and I feel increasingly theatrical, hysterical. There is nowhere to go and nowhere to be but here. My shift seems to phosphoresce in the gloaming, and my exposed thighs glow milky-white as the bars of moonlight fall, stripes from another realm, across my lap. I begin tumbling into a slumberous delirium, from whence it becomes impossible to cleave reality from dream.

The chamber he stands in is utterly familiar to me. I know its secrets, its power, its haunting aliveness. I foresee how jungle brambles will peel off the wallpaper into the room, followed by birds-of-paradise and myriad rainforest blooms, insects, creeping and crawling things. The air in there is humid, pungent with odors of rotting moss. The tropical forest will surround him, wrenching him from me, from his heartache, from even the round full moon lying cooked like a silver yolk in the night sky, and transport him far away. The chamber is a dark and glittering psychological labyrinth. I will never see my love again.

~ by kingzoko on July 12, 2015.

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