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| Fiction: Trust in Hell |
Posted by
Psychopixi on Friday, February 27, 2004 - 04:25 AM PST
You must understand now that when I call it murder, I do not mean that it was in any way premeditated. She was a mere serving girl in our household after all and was not even worthy of the amount of time it would have taken me to plot her death. My husband was away in London, and while he was attending to business the household staff had been reduced to cater solely to me. On this particular day the girl in question was not even due to be in the house. You can see here how her downfall came about, can you not?
As my husband had been away for a length of time I had grown restless, and had not more than a week earlier taken a lover. I was of course discreet about my activities, though I knew a few members of the staff could be trusted and so I engineered our trysts to occur only when these servants were in the house --these and no-one else. The afternoon in question however this young upstart of a girl had been presumptuous enough to come to the house and had been sneaking about upstairs when I and my partner had taken to bed.
Just after he left the house that evening I emerged from my room, and caught her watching wide-eyed, with a smug grin on her face. I was so incensed by her cheek that I flew into a fit of rage. As she tried to creep down the servant's stairs I caught her by her hair and dragged her into the nearest room, which happened to be my husband's study, tearing out her hair in handfuls and causing her to cry in pain. Therein I questioned her carefully and discovered fairly quickly that none of the other staff had seen her inside the house that day. My violent manner and harsh questioning evidently scared her, and as she again tried to dart for the staircase I grabbed by her shoulder, and though I don't know how I was possessed of such a strength, I managed to swing her around with such a force that she lost her footing and fell, her head cracking against the solid oak desk that was the centrepiece of the study.
As she lay on the floor I realised that I would need to move quickly to ensure that word would not get out --either about my affair, or of my treatment of her, for though she was unconscious I was aware of the subtle rise and fall of her chest, indicating that the infuriating little madam was still alive. Thus, I went downstairs and informed the staff that I wished to retire early that night, and that they should depart immediately.
As I watched the last of them leave, no doubt grateful for the evening off, I perused the objects in the kitchen, my eye falling upon a particularly sharp, and vicious looking knife, with a solid black handle and serrated blade. I took it from the kitchen and hastened back upstairs. She was still lying prone on the floor of the study, and I must admit then that doubt did flood my mind with regard to what I was about to do. She seemed so defenceless and innocent, but I soon remembered how sly she had been to slink about the house, and to spy on me and I gathered my resolve. Kneeling down by her I watched her for what felt like a lifetime, and I suppose in one sense it may have been, for suddenly I lent over, pressed the blade to her throat and drew it quickly across.
A line of crimson blossomed from the tip of the knife, and as her blood began to drain from her body I felt the uncontrollable urge to run my fingers through it. The sheer exhilaration of holding a person's life in your hand is incomparable to anything you will ever experience, no matter how long you live, or how exotic a location you travel to. I felt like a God, for those few moments I was knelt there with her blood pooling on the floor, and my hands coated in it. The compulsion to taste that power overwhelmed me, and I raised a hand in front of my face.
Rivulets of red silk seemed to adorn my fingers, running in curving, swirling patterns down my fingers and over my palm and the back of my hand. The vibrant red was the very embodiment of life and vitality, and the coppery scent filled my nostrils and sent my brain to an all-new level of ecstasy. I was afloat in some far distant realm, not knelt in that old, musty study when I delicately licked one of the drops from my fingertips.
If the smell had been heady then the taste was indescribable. Imagine if you will, the delightful taste of your most favourite dish; now amplify this taste so that it reaches all your senses. It brings the finest music to your ears; you can no longer hear the dull and dreary sounds of common day-to-day life. Instead you have a magnificent orchestra playing inside your head, entertaining you with your own private concert. You can no longer see the drab colours that nature saw fit to grace us with. Instead everything is a work of art, more flamboyant, more brilliant, more dazzling than the most talented artist could hope to emulate. Even the texture and touch of the things around you changes. You become entirely absorbed in the decadent and yet delightful world that is now open to you. You are floating on a cloud that is both soft, and warm and holds in its undulations a joy that you can never experience from anything man has created. I was utterly enraptured in this moment of pure bliss, for I can think of no other term for it.
I came down from this cloud, which I had described to you, both slowly and with an achingly sharp jump, for I was captivated thus for both mere seconds, and for hours upon hours. Out of this reverie I did emerge however, and by careful measures I conceived of a plan that would allow me to dispose of the wretched girl's body. Ours was an ornate manor, and its kitchen was no less grand than would befit an estate of such esteem. At the centre of this room was a great oven, big enough to roast a whole sheep, and it was therein that I decided to destroy all evidence of my unchristian deed.
It was not unusual to have a fire burning at all hours of the day, and so I took the already bloodstained knife and began my gristly task. I removed her hands, beginning with the fingers. I gripped the end of one of them, careful not to let the blood compromise my grip, and then I tore the knife through the flesh at her knuckle. Emboldened upon discovering the ease of my task I progressed to her wrists, and then finally severed her arms from the shoulders, and threw the pieces into the fire.
Watching them burn, the way her skin bubbled, and finally melted from the bones before the raging fire consumed them entirely was mesmerising and brought back memories of that fantastic place I had found within my own mind when I had tasted her blood. I found myself loathe to continue my task, though for altogether different reasons than I had been reluctant to begin it. I shook myself out of my stupor and continued with the dismemberment, and eventual consummation in the happy flames, of the serving girl.
I was not stupid, whatever you may be told. It is true that I had not been in my right mind when I slit her throat with the knife, but that does not lend itself to the belief that I was at all incapable of logic and reasoning. I knew that there would be an inquiry into her disappearance. No matter how vast our family fortunes may have been they could not buy the silence of those who had known her. Truly it was an unfortunate time to find that not all men were dishonest scoundrels.
Some four days hence there was a knock at the front door, and I found myself answering it to two stern and serious looking men of the law. When transfixed by their accusing glare I found my resolve weakening, and wondered whether it would not be better to throw myself on their mercy then and there, and pray that though they might hang me, God at least would see fit to issue forgiveness.
This I did not do; instead I chastised myself for my cowardice, and then led them through to the sitting room. I bade them sit, and poured them a drink and enquired as to the weather and their health, as any gracious hostess knows to do. My civility was cut short when the tallest of the pair rose to his feet and paced to the window, where he examined the curtains in great detail, as though they should be able to tell him the story of what had happened in the rooms above.
He turned to face me and with a small cough that belied his own discomfort, at length managed to explain to me that a young girl had gone missing, and that the last that had been seen of her was four days prior when she had headed off to work here. I must admit I had not known how convincing an actress I could be when the occasion called for it, for I managed to contrive a shocked expression and professed my sincere hopes that I would do my utmost to help with their inquiry, in any way possible.
I made sure to mention that my husband, the dear fool that he is, was away on business in London, and had been for sometime now --indeed, I did not know when to anticipate his return. Oh, I simpered, and feigned shock and disbelief that anyone could contemplate harming such a helpful and delightful young child, all the while becoming more and more caught up in the act. I found myself, more than once, believing my own lies. The brainless idiots! How quickly they became contrite and apologised for disturbing me! How ready they were to accept the superficial examination of the house that I guided them on! They left that afternoon entirely happy with what I had told them, begging my pardon for taking up so much of my time, and thanking me kindly for all the help I had provided.
Ah, but you believe my tale ends there? If only it did. I had been so delighted with my success in fooling those two fine policemen, I didn't take the time to stop and think of whom I really needed to fool. I couldn't hope to deceive myself for more than those few heavenly moments when conversing with the officers. Heaven. So interesting that I would use that word in such an idle fashion don't you think? I mention this to you because I believe I have no hope of ever reaching that place of rest. Don't be too quick to judge me; ah, I can see in your eyes that you think me some despicable creature. Pause a moment to consider your own virtue. Haven't you ever done anything you regret? Something happened which you pray to God every day that you could take back?
Sometimes I do wonder though, what God has planned for me. Can anyone on this corrupt and sordid sphere really know which direction they'll face, when all is said and done? My sins may be naught but an amplification of your own, and even I am unsure as to where my soul is destined. Heaven could not possibly want it, for even though I have wiped the blood from my hands, and scrubbed the floor till it shone, my soul is still stained. Those tarnishes are what mark me for Hell, but I don't know if I'll go there either.
You see; what could Hell possibly hold that is worse than the existence that I am now afforded? Though I found myself easily able to commit the deed, and more effortless yet was the concealment of it from society, the fact remains that I am but human. I feel the unbearable guilt weighing down upon me like a chain around my neck, and I know I can never escape it. I cannot undo the past, yet still it haunts me, plagues me whilst I wake and sleep. My dreams are of that day, and that day only. I cannot get a single night's rest without waking screaming, and looking to my hands for the blood that I can see dripping from them even with my eyes closed. I cannot eat, for even the finest of food is now dulled to my senses in comparison with her rich blood, though my hunger is truly for an absolution I can never have. I cannot pass by a mirror without seeing her face looking back at me, the expression still the loathsome one she wore when spying on me. I cannot even delight in my family, for they have forsaken me, preferring to ignore me and deny my very existence than cope with my depression and wild alterations in mood. This may not be Hell, yet I would rather face the demons that I know not of, than spent a minute more tormented by those that I have come to know as my only companions.
Forget the tales you've been told of vampyres and the like, they are but childish imaginings. We are truly the damned --you and I. I hope that my story has not only engaged you, but has taught you something I did not learn in time. It can be easier to face the monsters that lurk in the shadows than face yourself in the mirror, for while you can lie to them you can never truly deceive yourself. We all have our own demons, we are all tortured by this bitter pantomime that we call life, and my part in it is not that different from your own. Think on this as I end the show. I still have that knife; the weapon that sent her soul to Heaven shall doubtless send mine to a far graver place. My lips shall speak no more, and I shall leave you with the responsibility to carry on this tale, that others shall not follow me into the pits of Hell, and then seek to escape it through death.
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Average Rating : 5.0
Total ratings : 4
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| Trust in Hell | Login/Create an account | 11 Comments |
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Re: Trust in Hell
by Rogue (Rogue@skew.org)
on Feb 27, 2004 - 06:25 AM
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Well, you certainly put the "psycho" back in psychopixi. Your descriptions sound as if they were drawn from actual experience, very intriguing.
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Re: Trust in Hell
by Domkitten (saradevil@saradevil.com)
on Feb 27, 2004 - 10:10 PM
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http://www.saradevil.com
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This is the best thing I've seen you write. Your use of language was superb in building the setting of this piece. It reminds of Poe and the Story of O.
What is most intriguing is that your murderess is not really repenting at all is she? She luxuriates in what she's done, and in her flat admonitions to others manages to make taking a life more intriguing than her eventual pitfalls. I think she's only trying to assure herself that hell simply can't be as bad as how she punishes herself, therefore redeeming herself.
Alas, you can not hide all truths from your inevitable judgment.
Good show psychopixi.
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Re: Trust in Hell
by EyeCandyRayce (aesaraymondsdottir@yahoo.com)
on Feb 28, 2004 - 03:58 PM
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http://www.raycedesign.com/eyecandy/
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I really love this story. Well written and original. I could just picture this attractive older lady wearing an expensive robe of white silk covered in blood while trying to scrub the blood stains from the wood floors.
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Re: Trust in Hell
by Dolorosa (SixOfSwords@IU.zzn.com)
on Apr 12, 2004 - 02:26 AM
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Holy crap...
I hate vampire stories, no really...I fucking loathe them. But I liked THIS story, on a basis of writing style, flow and readability...it's damn skippy. The vampire part was even...dare I say, palatable. Extremely so...bravo yo'
Pixie, this was totally bitchin'. makes me wonder what else you can work your skills on.
If theres anything else I could say, a simple sum of all my thoughts and feelings it would be...
WRITE MORE.
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