Suffering Salvation

He inspected the earthen jar, tracing the little imperfections of the design with trembling fingertips. The wax cork was unbroken, the twine still wrapped securely tied in little bows, bearing colored glass beads. She placed a goblet in his hand and pulled the cork to fill the glass. He closed his eyes, tossed back his head, to ease the chore of swallowing this nauseous potion, and drained the crystal goblet etched in elegant details of angels and devils…

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Seeing himself; standing acrest the sharpened rifts of volcanic ash, the wind arid and course bearing the rising plumes of scorched carnage. The sky blackened under this heavy cloak of death, yet the feeble rays of day randomly pierced the outer layers allowing a dimly stained gesture of light, but only to reveal the horrid truth. Somehow a shadowed figure remained calmly unmoved against this rising tide. From the distance of the valley floor, spanning the course of this unholy ravine, the butchery swept like a rising sea, waves crashing against the high cliffs and trembling the earth to the limit of human sight. Inky fumes of death stained the world, the sounds of crackling flesh as technology crumbled into the charred ash; black rain harsh and dryly searing choked the bitter breeze, smothering the will of life. A great swell of pity filled the hearts of those who remember. When the suffering of pitiable mercy is visible to witness, life becomes a torment to endure. Oblivion shall comfort the condemned, together and alone death is no longer sanctity, peaceably condoned and now humbly abandoned.

This haunting image echoed ringing through his ears from some darkness of memory yet faded as by the cloud of dream, or perverted in a ghastly fantasy of total annihilation, but what remained vividly true, the figure draped in shadow and bearing no remorse stared at him; through his own eyes. A warped reflection blurred and distorted under the lens of mind’s eye; cast back in bare contrast, extreme in negative like-ness. He paused, opening his eyes again to the gentle light of scented candles, flickering images dance transcending the dense fog, ghastly illuminated and spawned from the heaps of human carrion, haphazardly strewn across the bleakly scorched horizon. The noxious incense blackened the sky choking the air with vile soot. Charred flesh wafted among the breeze, the rancid and pungent aroma of blood boiling into the parched earth, yet he remained. A lone witness to this… He tried to turn away from the scene, but everywhere, to the limits of sight this horror consumed the landscape beyond the horizon, reaching out to the distant shores.

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Shocked horror pierced his heart, and he became suddenly aware of the cold darkness that now spread through him, growing as a living thing and threatening to smoother the willfulness of life from him. He closed his eyes tightly, and fighting back the tangible nothingness washing away the foundations of his mind, he called out with a voice unfamiliar to his ears. “Be gone, else I devour you. Be gone else I destroy you.”

Opening his burned eyes the world was as he remembered it, the pillar candles burning softly around his circle, a heavy fog of flavored smoke wafted forming images of monsters and dragons. The mirror remained before him, though different, somehow changed or charged or possibly awakened by the nightmare. The lens was now blackened and smoky, catching the glare cast by the flame it resembled a dark eye casting a piercing stare and reflecting only living images upon this infinite void. Moving closer to a candle, the mirror seemed to squint; his hand shuddered, his nerves quaking. He was unsure if this fear was his or that of the mirror. Holding the silver frame steady, he gazed into the black surface. What he saw was nothing to be expected. Staring back was not the smeared stains of make-up, the reddened and sunken eyes from countless waking hours, the matted remains of a once-proud mane, but the twisted thoughts scattered and broken within his mind. He watched the terror of his thoughts displayed with shocking clarity: murder and death and flame. Stunned he pulled back forcing his eyes to remain open and so catching a dim wink ripple the dark pool.

He covered the polished surface with a patch of blue velvet, binding it with silken cord and returned it to the center of the circle. He carefully packed the items placed within his confinement, then whispered the ancient words of forgotten masters, before extinguishing the candles to make his way back. It was getting late and the sun would rise in maybe an hour. Rushing up the concrete steps he fumbled with the rusty iron latch. His fingers knew every mark and dimple in those cool metal bars, allowing him to spare the flashlight in his backpack and avoid any unwanted attention a wandering light should cause. This was his place after all, he honored the memory for which it was constructed, and by his comings and goings reclaimed it from the forest; that which remains a constant battle.

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Synapses fired in his brain; stepping out into the cool summer breeze, an intoxicating aroma flavored with the lush sweetness of flowers, trees, and moist earth. The sod soothingly enveloped his worries and woes as he pressed toes like roots into the soft loam. Stars burned against the fading curtain of night, a last twilight before a golden tide painted the world to reflect an overlooked miracle; Life. So he paused, waiting until the first crest of day passed the canopy, basking in the first glory of a new day, offering a moment in respectful silence. A near forgotten ritual honored since the beginning of time, still practiced by few, though the memory of why lost.

There among the trees, shaded amidst moss and rising mist, he offered his apologies and gave thanks before the trek home. He carried his boots down the long path, his skateboard bound securely to the leather backpack that contained his bells, books and candles. He enjoyed the fresh feeling of the soil against his naked soles; the earth between his toes. This tickling sensation brought old memories to surface, as he thought back to when he had found this decrepit crypt, submerged among the moss and ferns. He was skating the outskirts of the old French Quarter, the forgotten remnants crumbling back into the forest, the cemetery of ancient ghosts condemned while in life and buried here outside the conventional realm, his deck floated over and around the broken patches of pavement, grinding the twisted iron rails and cracked concrete benches. He stopped under the archway, overgrown, stricken, rusted unnoticed iron, to catch his breath and smoke his pipe. A group of thugs emerged from the Hi-Tone across the street. He could not see very well under the flickering street lamps, so he paid no attention holding the Bic closer to the bowl. They were drunk, and lurched across the fractured cobblestones; the attacked mumbling about make-up and how pretty he was. The blows rattled his brain, yet he tried to defend against this merciless assault. Beaten bloody and exhausted, he ran. Charging headlong into the dark unknown, stumbling among the vines and twisted underbrush, he fell heavy upon the crumbling tombstones whose names were faded or chiseled away, tasting the bitterness of rich soil. Yet they pursued. Among the trees, he remembered, the darkness was complete. Far away from the street lamps, the passing cars, sparkling neon signs, under the heavy curtain of ancient oaks and drifting moss there was no sky, or sparsely dim lights. There was only darkness and the symphony of night. He stumbled and staggered, falling against the weather cracked marble. He could remember the blood that stained his face and soaked the earth, there at the stoop of Her evil crypt. A chill etched a painful trek down his spine at the memory of Her.

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The forest opened before him. The cars rattled bumpily beyond the tall summer weeds, as the morning ray blurred his vision. The faded terror of Her invaded the shadows of his sight, Her eyes glared like hot needles, pierced the soft, fleshy center of his inner soul with some frightening venom that spread in cold, dark waves. Even now under the morning sun, he cringed at the brightness and recoiled as if burned under the direct rays, before finding his sunglasses. His eyes cast Her reflection inside the smoky lenses, a smirk curled his lips knowing he could never escape and was unwilling to ever try. It was She that rescued him; plucked away his pain and offered another chance, yet this time he had an advantage. She had changed something deep inside, stolen away something beloved but he could not remember, yet the yearning for its return plagued him with gnawing regret. It was his blood that summoned Her, the misery of his defeat and the humiliation inflicted by a lifetime of besmirched and weak and frightened existence. When his blood poured upon Her grave, offering this failed Life of condemned torment, She listened to his sorrow reminded of her own, and tasted his suffering with those most precious and sacred drops. Unknowingly deposited upon Her alter, there at the base of the cracked marble tomb. He bled his torments and vomited his lies, because he was broken.

Reaching the concrete path, he dropped the skateboard. The plastic wheels seemed loud on this sleepy street, but with an easy glide he was off. The bearing flowed smoothly as chewed wheels hummed over the roughly weathered surfaces. His thoughts lingered upon the image of Her, even as he skillfully maneuvered through the complex labyrinth of potholes and grassy rifts, with an ollie or kick-flip. A stray horn blasted him from the day-dream, and with trained skill he ollied the guard rail to a manual grind as the angry motorist sped past shouting. But he could not hear the harsh words, lost in concentrated effort. A kick-flip carried him clear but he misjudged the distance and one truck skidded into the grass causing an instant stop. He was quick with reflex, but the influence of drugs still in his system caused an awkward landing, twisting his ankle. The suddenness of pain surged through him with volcanic furry. A smile curled his lips, and he tried to stand. Sharp needles, hot with agony seared his nerves when weight was forced upon the injury; this new misery sparked a laugh as he leapt on his deck, kicking hard with his other foot. He took pleasure in the pain surging through him; it was his awareness of being alive.

She laughed inside his mind, chiming an ethereal voice sweeter than angels, “Offer me your suffering. Grant me all your pain. I can make it all go away. Confess to me your fears, and my comfort shall welcome you.”

Fear quaked him to the core, as he skidded off the curb; the deck lifted crashing into his shin as he rolled forward, knees and forearms smacking the pavement rattling joints with violent agitation. The shock of a voice not his own, emerging from the dark recesses in his mind, speaking to him with such gentle tenderness, almost hypnotic with subtle persuasiveness, yet bearing something darkly forbidden and unknown. The curiosity of such intimate was like a splinter in his mind, a hidden frustration to demand answers and a fear of knowing the truth. With the rising tide of pain washing over him, all thoughts of Her were dismissed; blood ran from the long scrapes down his arms, he could feel the gravel under his skin moving as he tried to rise. It caused him to wonder if that is what worms felt like burrowing beneath the skin, or if he would ever know the security of the grave. He scoffed at the idea of immortality. Knowing somewhere in his brain that it would be Her to claim him, as she would not wait forever, having captured his soul with that first encounter. She lived nearly three hundred years alone before that fateful night when she was condemned for her witchery. Frightened of Her skillful abilities, the mob burned her simple cottage, while she remained trapped inside. He had done his research. Her name was scratched out of the bronze tablet; to him she was simply known as “Mistress”.

He gathered himself, sitting on the curb to investigate the severity of his wounds. Blood flowed freely from the scrapes along his forearm, glass from a broken bottle protruded from wrist, and he knew without looking that his kneecap was badly misplaced. A grim smile of morbid humor sparked his features. It was quickly replaced, and with loss of blood twilight crept across his eyes. Despite the glare of early morning, shadows veiled his vision, and somewhere in the dark a faint rhythm drummed. From the shade an image transpired, smoky and dim but growing more intense as that terrible rhythm slowly faded. Cloaked in velvet night the stranger calmly stood, patient. Just out of reach, yet so close as to be disturbing, the features of this image were hidden, but its purpose was understood. He tried to lift his head, to meet the eyes he knew glared coldly upon the fading warmth of his soul, but found his strength exhausted. The faint thunder slipped under the darkness, echoed among the absence, yet those eyes remained transfixed and burning with the coal of hell. He allowed a single tear to pass in mourning, and then another for the joy of this long awaited release, but still could not bring his gaze to meet the cloaked stranger that was masked by silence and still as death. The last of his strength failed and darkness crept through him, enveloped him, and gulped him down. Falling, tumbling down through the broken shards of dream and memory, beyond the void of nothing, falling out of time and space and mind, he fell past the falling.

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The impact jarred him. Violent tremors wracked his soul, molten rivers of flame surged through him with devastating force until at last his frail and fractured self could no longer contain the agony. With a desperate screech escaping his parched lips, empty darkness was graciously received. The earth and stone of these aged walls devoured his cries, as this forgotten tomb ushered in its new tenant. The flames of scented candles burned low, as the oil lamps had all but died casting eerie though unnatural darkness in the chamber he never left. Still on his back, the dirt and stone cool to his flushed skin, he remained within the confines of the inner circle. The silver mirror with a black, liquid metallic lens swirling upon his chest and the ancient texts scattered around his head. Accustomed now to the dimly dancing light, a ghostly image took shape that inspired fear and froze the molten torrents pulsing through his veins. He shook his head in disbelief; panicked frenzy clutched his heart and paralyzed his thoughts. She reached for him.

Torrents of images, assaulted emotions defiled by corruption, these nightmares were not his, horrible memories washed through him striking both heart and soul. He quaked with convulsive tremors, tasting bitterly burnt almonds, his muscles constricted and knotted. Lungs refused breath as unseen coils compressed his chest, the pressure in his skull mounted with deafening thunder, then suddenly silenced. A grim smile turned his lips, the trapped pressure dissipated with the cold and darkness took him. A single crimson tear rolled lazily down a white, painted cheek and poisoned cries to mercy were at last accepted.

Seizures wracked his body and pain spread with hammer strokes ringing out from some lost inner point. It pulled like dull razors, erupted in thundering explosions, and pulsed with creeping desire to offer one final chance at being alive. A slow reminder that he tuned out; bored by the pain, he was tired. Having endured enough suffering, he tried to roll his head to ease the chore of swallowing this deadly potion that swelled in the back of his throat. Fatigued from the long span of convulsive spasms, he lacked both the strength and desire to force response. The foul taste was forgotten as he wondered how long his body would lie here. Here in this crumbling tomb, away from everyone and everything, alone in the dark and unremembered beyond these grimy stone walls. He wondered if She would mourn his passing? How long would it take the insects to consume the baked and bloated corpse locked underground, but not in the ground. He watched dancing shadows under his eyelids and marveled at the colors and patterns at each dull throb that constricted his heart with barbed wires and flayed his lungs like glass. Pain offered a morbid sense of comfort, as it was all he knew and loved a seductive sadness in the beauty of suffering salvation. He smiled in the comfort of being sad; feeling at peace for his heart would no longer quake in his chest, and his final breath escaped unnoticed.

By Jozef the Dragon