Beneath the blood red moon, Catherine kissed Richard. Her eyes remained wide-open which allowed them to reflect the figure with whom she was physically engaged as the celestial body above them did the same thing with the sun. Each orb, despite the passionate fire that illuminated them, was cold and desolate, incapable of supporting the strain of love or life.
Those orbs, her eyes, averted instead of embracing the darkness, refuge that closing them might have afforded her. When taken with the lust of the moment, the act is an involuntary motion, a submission to desires. But there was a purpose to the mad dash of her eyes beyond an admission of boredom or ennui. The kiss was a sword wielded at an individual, the target of which was searched for in the immediate area. An audience was sought though not any average or run-of-the-mill passerby would do. Only one particular spectator would be acceptable, one who was invited to join the pair.
As usual Catherine had a sword on her, though she had special plans for it tonight. The woman was as well-versed in the ways of the blade as she was in the words of a witch, each providing a safety of their own. The one physically demonstrated for all to see a prowess that deterred the average ne'er-do-well from expecting more than a passing pleasantry when met, and sometimes not even that. It was the weak who were taken advantage of, not the well-armed.
But if the blade proved inadequate in discouraging the inner passions of men and women that exceeded that of civilized society, she was more than capable of hurling and wielding words considered of a disreputable nature. Of course, safety being the ideal, Catherine kept the latter a secret except in the most dire of situations. That was the reason the sword was always close by her side, among its more hidden talents.
When Catherine had suggested to Richard the addition of his friend Isabella to the outing, he protested, only in the softest manner in order to spare the acquaintance's feelings. Of ccourse, as his girlfriend pressed, Richard relented and agreed to permit Isabella to join them under the guise of attending a new play performed by a roving group in the town square. Neither Richard nor Isabella were aware of the duplicitous nature of the invitation, that information was privileged to the manipulator of the evening.
It was a special production with a start time at midnight, that magical moment when today becomes yesterday and tomorrow becomes today. With a single swipe of the second hand on the clock, a day ends and another begins, a new promise. The true spectacle would occur on the street, not in the town square as Richard and Isabella expected, once the female friend had arrived. For quite some time, Catherine had suspected more than a friendship was blossoming in the lingering looks of Isabella, along with how she tended to Richard's words as though they were a delicate garden, each one collected as though they were nourishment more important than the vegetables harvest and devoured. An added health and vigor did seem to take Isabella—the girl stood taller, her skin shone with an enviable luminescence, and she was more lively than she was at first blush. Indeed, she had become almost attractive.
They thought those furtive looks had gone unnoticed, she thought as she admired her plan to dispatch her rival. But tonight, I will show her to whom he belongs.
The corners of her lips upturned in a noticeable fashion despite the embrace of their mouths once Isabella was spotted. Claim jumpers leaped to mind. That's what Isabella was, wasn't it? Trying to lay claim to something that belonged to someone else. Something valuable, even if Catherine didn't place the same value upon it.
Sure
enough, shock had halted the interloper's steps as the friend gawked at
the open display, an opening volley, simultaneously appalled and
jealous, the two more often than not being siblings.
A
new dress. Of course she'd have one. The better to impress the one
she adored, Richard. The new garment was fitted to accentuate every
curve she had to offer, the bodice's neckline sinking lower than the
woman it adorned. Despite the sight which met her eyes, Isabella did
not bow, the strength remained in her body. The breath may have been
knocked from her as though punched, but she refused to be broken or
battered by such a display.
Spurred
on by that thought, though truthfully there wasn't a single
circumstance under which she could envision a change of mind, Catherine
silently slid the sword from its sheath with the stealth of an
assassin. Neither the man nor the friend invited to accompany the pair
were privy to the movement, enthralled by the distraction of a seemingly
never-ending kiss.
Some,
when driven to such measures by those desired, would weep at the
boundaries to which they were pushed, knowing what they had to do, but
feeling the remorse of those irreversible actions before the twitch of a
muscle set the consequences in motion. No tears spilt forth from
Catherine's eyes, as dry as the moon.
Catherine's
eyes were affixed to the woman who she considered an interloper as she
drove the dagger deep into the man's chest, so deep and forcefully that
it cracked and broke Richard's breastbone, piercing his heart. The
sound of bone being splintered could be heard, the crunch and
shattering. Very little resistance could be felt by the new home for
the sword. Surprise, ever so fleeting, was carved upon the man's face
as only the chisel of betrayal by love can—fleeting due to the fact the
hand of death came almost immediately.
Almost.
His
lips parted from Catherine, an end to the kiss, the desire had come to
an end in an instant. As with most acts of betrayal, but especially
those committed under the auspices of Cupid, there was a moment wherein
his lips functioned long enough to pose the oft-asked question—why?
Why?
Catherine
smirked at Isabella. Richard girlfriend, his murderer, had
relinquished her grip on the sword, allowed it to go to the cobblestone
with his body. Richard had slumped into her arms, but the weight of his
body, much like the weight of his love, was not a burden she wished to
bear. Perhaps, still blinded by love, the man had mistakenly believed
there had been an accident, that he would find comfort during his dying
breaths in her arms.
Why?
The
word resounded throughout the alley, echoed in Catherine's ear
incessantly. If there was an answer forthcoming, the man was not a
benefactor of the information—his opportunities to claim it as part of
his accumulated knowledge were gone for he had already succumbed and
fallen into the abyss of death, slumped to the ground in a lifeless
heap. Looking down upon the body, the cobblestone surrounding the body
gave an illusion of an impenetrable and unsolvable puzzle, one a sphinx
would envy for its simplicity and complexity.
Why?
A
one word puzzle that continued to reverberate, but louder now, not
receding into the darkness in search of its answer elsewhere as an echo
normally would.
It was no echo.
The woman defiantly held up a hand to signal her rival to stop. Such was the imperious air of Catherine that the simple act was heeded as though it were a royal decree with the strictest of repercussions for disobeying. Something deeper than an imperious nature inhabited the motion, however, a motion that was as effortless as the destructive one that had embedded the blade in its new fleshly prison. There was a magical force borne of an incantation within those fingertips that now controlled the feet of Isabella as easily as a puppeteer would.
Despite the fear that resulted from the loss of bodily influence, it was not the concern of the spectator. Isabella's eyes were taken by the man, as she gulped when tears began to stream down her face. “Admit it, you wanted him,” Catherine hissed even while the gaze already gave more information than any simple words ever could. It is in those looks, the ones most overlook or take for granted,
where answers to such questions can be found. More often than not, words are used to form a subterfuge of protection.
That gaze was what drove the sword deeper than Catherine's petite frame could have thrust it even if she had performed a spell to double or triple her strength. The only enhancement she needed to her natural abilities was that gaze. That gaze, not the man, was what she sought to kill. A look, even when Richard and Catherine were first introduced, she had never known or felt—something she wished to attain through proximity to the man. That gaze was what she wanted to posses and knew she could not.
“Even now, as he lays dead at my feet, you want him!” the woman demanded.
“Please,” the rival begged as she dared to advance another step, the repercussions be damned. Isabella had found the strength to resist the powerful force of the woman, although it was limited to a single step. Like the seconds of time accumulate to form minutes which in turn become hours, so it is with distance, inches transform into feet which transmute into miles. Isabella savored the distance she had progressed, becoming closer to the man in body, if not in spirit and heart.
“You ask why. You want to know the reason?” A professorial arrogance possessed Catherine as deeply as love had done so to Isabella. There was a lesson to be taught here, one carefully orchestrated. “He's mine. That's the answer. He is mine.”
Pointing at the dead body, Isabella protested, “Now he is neither mine nor yours. You've killed him!”
As Cathering hunched over the body, the woman ran her fingers across the wound. “You think his blood is on my hands?” A layer of viscuous liquid clung to her flesh. “No, not mine.” Moving to Isabella, she took her by the wrist and smeared that essence of life across her palm. “Your hands, not mine.”
Isabella looked down at her hand in orror as she made a passionate defense. “You stabbed him!”
“Because you tried to steal what is mine. There are punishments for theft.” There was a coldness to the woman's words, as chilled as a winter's breath, a cold-hearted calculation as though she had performed the act countless other times and was indifferent to the pain and suffering it inflicted.
But of course the woman's calculation was blind to the single most important fact regarding matters of the heart—there is no such crime as theft. If a heart is truly another's, it cannot be moved by anyone else, firmly ensconced in the ground. One would have more luck in altering the course of the planets.
“How could you do it?” Isabella could not move her eyes from Richard, the scene bringing to the forefront the same question with a different selection of words.
“Admit you love him!” Catherine demanded.
Emboldened by the fact her declaration of love would fall on dead ears, having been afraid of the immensity of the emotion and the possibility of rejection when Richard was capable of doing so, Isabella proclaimed the truth proudly. It was loud, not the whispers into the dark she had permitted herself when no one else was around, a secret now loosed upon the world, like those monsters from Pandora's box. Surely, if ever such a box existed, the destructive force of love was unleashed from that prison as well. “Yes, I loved him.”
Retreating to the body in a fit of rage, as though the words unexpectedly offended her, Catherine kicked the body. The body rose and fell with the violence, providing no resistance or defense to the assault which extinquished any misconceived glimmer of hope Isabella might have held. “So you admit you want what is mine?”
Afraid the assault on the corpse would continue, Isabella stood silent, did not so much as breathe. With her foot, the lover who betrayed the man rolled him onto his back, the sword protruding at an angle. Each time Catherine had committed the atrocity of interring the blade into her lover, the act became easier, not that it was ever difficult or caused a crisis of conscience. Not once did a doubt ever stay her hand, not for the merest second.
Catherine reached out for the hilt of the sword, her fingers dancing on the end of the blade. While the pain Richard had encountered was short-lived, that of Isabella was a torment on the scale of Hell for the most reviled of sinners. Fire and brimstone would have been a welcomed respite from what Isabella had endured. Internal flames licked away at her heart and stomach, yet she perservered, strengthened by the practice of being in the presence of the lvoers in spite of her growing affections.
Should I withdraw the sword, the woman contemplated. A quick glance at Catherine gave the answer. That gaze, that one she despised so thoroughly, was still alight in those eyes, an appalling occurrence to the sensibilities of the woman. It would be extinguished soon.
But now?
No, not yet.
As she stood there, looming over the husk of the man she had professed to love even as she slid the knife into him, Catherine smiled at her position between Isabella and Richard, a position of power. She relished her duality—angel of life, angel of death, one and the same.
Pointing at Richard, a friend from whom she desired so much more, Isabella asked, “Why punish him?”
Her hand withdrew from the blade, circling the deceased. Her heels clicked against the cobblestone, establishing the mocking cadence of a heartbeat, one at rest, lacking the excitement of living to the fullest. Ever sicne Isabella and Richard had made first contact, a most taking of the hand into his own, her heart would never know that quiet, barely alive rhythm of the heart again.
“You think he's the punished party?” There was an unbearable lightness to the words, a mockery of a eulogy to the man at her feet, a man who deserved so much more.
Catherine's eyes finally found those of her unspoken rival. “Me? You did this to punish me?”
“To teach you a lesson, yes.”
“By killing him! Are you mad?” Isabella's anger boiled over as her voice grew louder. Usually when pressed to such extremes, the girl's voice would collapse on itself and she would assume the demeanor of meek pliability, accepting of what came her way. Those days were behind her.
“Mad? No, not at all. Only by piercing his heart could I do the same to yours. Yet that gaze, that gaze still persists.”
Isabella clutched at her chest, afraid of the curses and magical swords she had heard to exist in the world. “My heart?” she gulped. Was there a chance this sword was enchanted with the ability to drain her life while embedded in the heart of another?
“You sense the sword is cursed?” the woman asked. That sinister smile never evaporated from her lips.
“I sense you are evil enough to know a curse or two and have no issue wiedling them indiscriminately at those who surround you.”
“I know more than a few.” Catherine laughed as her hand found the sword once more. “But yes, you are correct. There is more to the sword than meets the eye. You see, it can only be removed by his true love—me. Once it is, he will be restored to life, at which point you will realize he is utterly and completely mine.” Prepared to withdraw the sword from its resting place, Catherine better positioned herself to observe the expected reaction of her rival. “Only love can drive the sword so deeply, only love can remove the pain.”
With those words, the woman yanked on the sword, but to no avail as the body was hoisted with it. The blade and body, despite the woman's promise, remained an immutable one, inseparable. Her smile, seemingly a permanent fixture, was driven from her face.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice more she tried to pull the sword from his chest and all three met with the same result—abject failure. The blade didn't so much as slip a centimeter from its resting spot.
“It worked before!” Catherine screeched. She placed a foot upon the man's chest in an effort to gain leverage but with no added advantage in result having been gained.
Turning to her rival, Catherine screamed, “You! This is your fault!” Whatever spell had been cast appeared to have failed, Isabella took a step forward only to be admonished by the woman. “He is not yours!”
“I can save him,” the admirer begged.
“You save him? I'd prefer him to stay dead for the worms and maggots to feast upon.” The bitterness was not borne of lost love, but of a lost possession someone else had laid claim to, the two not being the same. “He's mine!”
A constable, attracted by the commotion, approached the pair of women. “What's going on here?”
Seeing an opportunity, Catherine ran to the arbiter and imposer of the law. “Thank goodness you're here. She attacked my boyfriend and me. She killed him!” Indicating Isabella, she suggested, “Look at her hands, the evidence is there.”
His eyes fell upon the hands of Richard's friend as directed, eclipsing the sight of the same evidence smeared across Catherine's palms as well. An ease of reaction overcame the constable as he withdrew his weapon. “Is this true?”
Backing away several steps, Isabella said, “No, not in the least.” Her hands were up, exposed to the man in their full glory, though they were intended to indicate for the constable to stop. Unlike Catherine's gesture, however, it did not have the same outcome, as the lawman continued to approach. Blood dripped down her hands, having formed rivulets.
“That's a lot of blood on yoru hands.”
“She has blood on her hands, too.”
“Kill her,” Catherine insisted. “She's a thief.”
“I can prove it,” the friend said as she rushed toward Richard.
“Halt!” Catherine exclaimed again, this time the word had no effect. “HALT!” Again the word was impotent. Impatient, she implored the constable, “Stop her!”
But the distance was already covered by the sprint of Isabella, spurred on by the love of Richard. No longer would fear still her tongue or actions. Not feaer of rejection. Not fear of of the law. Not fear of a curse.
Her hand laid claim to the hilt of the sword as she said a silent prayer. With a deep breath, she gingerly tugged at the metal protruding from the man, wishing to do no additional harm. As Arthur was able to lay claim to his kingdom by withdrawing the sword of Excalibur from a stone, Isabella through the removal of the sword from Richard was able to proclaim dominion over his heart, an everlasting covenant formed in the breach of the last one.
“Hold there,” the constable directed as he approached. “You can't disturb the body.”
“Who would know the guilty party more than the deceased?” Isabella asked. The sword was freed from the flesh, blood dripped from the tip to the cobblestone. Freed from the flesh, the soul was freed from the prison of death, normally an eternal sentence of condemnation.
True to the words of Catherine, though not as she had planned, true love had parted the two from one another. The wound had already sewn itself together and shut, soon followed by convulsions of the body, twisting and turning violently. Succumbing to death is an agonizing occurrence, but it is easily outdone by the reawakening of life. Twitches of the various muscles, a reaction to the blood flowing once more, alerted all to a rebirth.
“What have you done?” the constable demanded even as he backpedaled from the resurrection.
“It's working!” Isabella joyously
proclaimed. “It's working!”
“I told you to kill her!” the
woman hissed at the lawman, but the vision of such sorcery,
regardless of being in the name of life, good and love, stilled his
advancement.
“I'm not going near her. She's
bewitched.”
Grabbing the sword from the constable,
Catherine muttered to herself, “Then I shall do it myself.”
Catherine moved toward the emotional
trespasser, assured in her advantage in skills at wielding a blade.
The challenge was met calmly, allowing the excitement for Richard's
return to health to be submerged. Isabella stared at the blade in
her hand, the one that only a moment ago was impaled in the man she
loved.
“After I kill you, I will finish his
miserable existence as well. There will not be a third chance at
life for him,” Catherine warned.
“That shouldn't be your concern,”
Isabella chided.
With that taunt, Catherine was blinded
into a fury, a fury which pushed her feet forward. Both women swung
their weapons blindly, but only one found its mark. The villagers to
this day say the balance of the sword, far different from her
personal blade, prevented Catherine from acting with the precision
she would have otherwise. Others say Isabella's weapon was guided by
a greater power.
Either way, the cursed sword was now
sheathed in Catherine's flesh. Her body still rests in the town
square, awaiting one who would be so bold as to lay claim to her
heart.
As for Isabella and Richard, he, after
several moments of rattling back to life on the ground, sat up in a
confused daze. Isabella sat on the ground by his side, lying his
head in her lap. “What happened?” he asked.
“Shh. Lay down and I'll tell you
all about it.”
She gently pressed her lips to his as
the early morning fingers of the dawn's first rays claimed the world
and she lay claim to his heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment