|Sin for Salvation.
||[Feb. 22nd, 2004|10:01 pm]
|[||inside my head
|||||Wolfsheim : Heroin, She Said||]|
Sacrifice is murder.
Murder is sin.
Sometimes you begin to wonder... if sin is holy.
Sometimes I remember things differently.
I forget we were there.
We were going to get away. Rise through the ranks, and disappear. If Leonard had disappeared, it wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other. Respected. Feared. Hated.
They wouldn’t miss him.
Damien and I.
We were going to become like him, if only to get away and wash our hands of the whole dirty mess.
Sometimes I remember a little town. I remember him getting amnesia.
I forget that he was chosen.
Forget that he was a sacrifice.
Forget that the dagger than ended my life is the same one that ended his. Wielded by the same hand.
In a moment of clarity, I should write this, before I forget it again.
Damien was chosen; given a high honor. To be a sacrifice to Her, a follower of The Order is honored by this. And a training
priestess [not the word I want.] is honored to be chosen to make the sacrifice.
It is possible that they knew, and set us together as a test of faith.
It is possible that they expected me to betray myself; to betray him. To not be able to complete the ritual.
And I might’ve made it, dying inside, for the rest of my time. Rising in the ranks as I planned, and forgetting. Because there was no escape after his death.
But, sometimes, the chosen ...return.
They do not remember their lives, and they are not really living. A chosen that is...unworthy, pitched back to the earth, not quite whole. Soulless apparition, with no purpose.
The chosen are sometimes forgotten, and in the crystal world inside my head, it all cracks and fades away. The world I created for us to escape, in drifts of White Claudia and ritual, Damien and I dreamed. Dreamed of a world outside of what we knew. Dreamed of a different life that would never be.
After he died, the people in our dreamworld forgot him.
And I began the descent into madness upon his return.
Eventually, it’s probable, I was forgotten, as well.
I looked down at the liquid coming up the clear straw as I sucked at the box, my reflection eyeing me from the mirror. Tired, pallid. For some reason I expected the juice to be red. Red like the blood dripping from my hands clutched around the box. Red like the burning fire inside my head, screaming. Red like death.
I looked over from the dirt-and-gore smeared mirror to the body laying there in the blood-filled bathtub.
Why do I keep coming back here?
Because there’s no place else. No place at all in this god-forsaken town. Only a hotel and a body that isn’t always there, because sometimes it’s out roaming around. But somehow, even with me standing here next to the damn tub, I see her there. Laying there in the stinking water, rotting away, and I can’t bring myself to burn or bury her. One arm lays over the edge of the tub, slowly decaying, flesh beginning to hang off the bones. I see the razor on the floor, as though the muck in the tub weren’t enough to prove the loss. Bloated from the water, the body has swollen up to a sickening parody that no longer resembles the former occupant in the least. The girl is gone. The dream is left.
Wake up, Kate, wake up. Wake up and shoot this dream to hell.
You’re in the real world; in the hotel. There’s a whole world around you. People. Places. Not this empty shell of a ghost town.
Typical, aren’t you? Sad, sorry state; angst and woe. I can’t imagine any depth beyond the surface, can you? Just another sad little goth-sucicide case. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing in the changing memories. Nothing in your non-existent past. Because you don’t exist. Kaitlyn Devereux is no one. A name you made for yourself, a name they picked for you. Probably isn’t even legal, is it? You’ve no past to call yours, no family, no name, no one to buy the cake for your little pity-party.
I eyed the corpse in the bloodied water with disdain, and crossed from the room.
Dead. She’s dead. And it’s your fault.
It’s their fault. They’re the ones that screwed with the past; altered their memories; forgot all about him. I was left to remember the truth. To remember his arms around me, lips pressed to mine, fingers tangled in my hair. Whispered words of passion, and a feeling of completeness.
And the severing of my soul when he disappeared, Damien, my dark beauty, ripped from the face of existence as though he’d never been.
It happened slowly at first. I’d mention missing him, and Mrs. Sutton would ask me “Is that that boy you were seeing?” though we’d been together nearly a year, and she knew it. We'd known each other since childhood! “That boy you were seeing,” as though it were a passing fling, gone now. As though she’d never invited us to tea, countless times with other members of the community.
Then it was Mr. Railson, whom she’d spent countless hours with, discussing her work at the library, and pouring over books with. Damien had found her there, long hours into the night, and drug her home, protesting that she had to finish discussing the ____. Mr. Railson chuckling and telling us to “Take care, kids.” Only a month after Damien disappeared, he can’t remember any “tall dark-haired kids with silvery-blue eyes ‘round these parts, lately,” and am I “sure I’m not mis-remembering someone from my childhood?”
“No, sir. Thank you. Yes, work is fine. No, I don’t think I’d like to stay today, I’m not feeling so well. Yes, I’ll get plenty of rest. Yes, I’ll ask Mrs. Sutton if she’ll make some of her amazing chicken soup. Yes, I’ll drink plenty of fluids. It was nice seeing you, too.”
Time goes on and on like that, in my memory, everyone else’s fading away, and only I am left with the pain of his passing. I can feel it in my gut that he’s dead. The nightmares wake me screaming, and keep me from my bed.
Dreams like memory faded in with a bad horror movie reel, our own past, spliced in with the latest Freddy Krueger slasher. Don’t fall asleep, Kate. Wake up, Kate.
Damien, blood-covered, stumbling in the dark. He looks like something grotesquely disfigured, like a creature straight out of this town. Rotting flesh, and sunken eyes, stumbling blindly down the street, screaming horrible shrieks of pure anguish, I keep thinking I hear my name somewhere in the deafening silence between his agonized noises.
Kate. Save me. Kate. Help me. Kate. I need you. Kate. I love you. Kate. Go home. Kate. I’m there. Kate. Find me. Kate. Save me. Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.
Cold sweat, sheets a-shambles. I’m awake. Awake and realizing that the screaming in the dream may well have been my own, judging by the raw, painful ache in my throat.
The story that leads to the present, and the rest of the past irrelevant bridges when a man wanders into town. We’re used to tourists, but not in this area; the tourists tend to stick to town, unless they happen to know someone in the area. Even the rental houses; the summer houses are not in this particular grouping of houses.
And there he stands, outside my gate, a lost little boy look, hidden in the back of those cobalt eyes. He’s talking to Mrs. Sutton, she’s asking him if he’s lost his way. I overhear him claim amnesia, and the next thing I know, I’m running out of the house to the gate.
He turns from the older woman, gifting me with a clear view of his sharp, beautiful features. I think I might faint, but for the complete lack of recognition on his face.
“Do...I know you?”
A baritone that sends chills straight through me, and waves of desire, remembering hushed promises and heated words.
“What do you mean?” I ask him, incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”
He gives a slight shake of his head, causing his dark hair to brush past his eyes, back and forth, slightly obscuring them, added to them being partially closed, I couldn’t stop the wave of memories that threatened to cause my knees to buckle and pitch me to the ground. I grabbed the fence for support, which moved me closer to him. Closer to his scent, closer to his eyes. I could practically feel the body heat moving off of him and wrapping around me.
But it was all in my imagination. Along with the brush of his hand I swore I’d felt. Ghosts dancing in memory, nothing more.
“He says he’s got amnesia.” Mrs. Sutter’s voice carried into my thoughts, bringing reality back.
He looked to her, and again, shook his head. “I don’t remember much, but I know I’ve never seen her before,” he said. His eyes looked apologetic.
I was reeling. This was someone’s cruel joke. This was not happening.
“No. No. No. Nonononononononono.....”
Was the mantra out loud or in my head? What was that sound I was hearing? It sounded like screaming, and then like a siren in the distance.
I blacked out.
Editing to be done to the writing eventually. Major changes to possibly be made after discussion on Hope House views and views of The Order.
Beta work. Deal.