The Virgin and The Whore: Chapter One
The Virgin and The Whore
I come from places and times where hysteria and beauty go hand in hand. Times books aren't meant to repeat. Places dead poets dragged with them to their silent graves.
Was it
Was it the 16th Century? 17th? 18th? Or was it the 19th?
I cannot recall. But then again, does it matter where you come from?
The only thing that matters is where you end up…
~Chapter One ~
I had… I have three mothers and two fathers.
My "real" ones? What do you mean by that?
Biological? The ones that conceived me?
They lived in the darkest of streets; the heartbeat of the moon children, the beings of darkness. Drugs, alcohol, sex, rape, murder, theft, assault and prostitution were the divine rituals of their damned religion. When the moon shines, they shine. When the darkness dances, they dance. And my "real" parents too joined in these dark dances each day and night of their lives.
I learned the steps of these damned dances at a very young age. And my "real" parents were my first teachers.
Their tango:
Father returns home.
Father drinks from his bottle of rum.
Mother yells.
Father yells back.
He throws the bottle against the wall.
She gasps.
He steps strong towards her with the aggression of a hunter.
She continues yelling.
Yet she steps back, in sync with his steps towards her.
Her tattered dress moves like a matador cape.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Her shoes on the floor.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She presses her spine against the wall, heaving as her bosom expanded with every breath.
His turn; left foot forward.
Then right.
Left.
Right.
Left again.
The yelling stops.
He is an arms length away from her.
His right hand rises up and falls upon her cheeks.
The contact.
She falls on the wooden floor.
The thud.
He picks up a stool that stood conveniently nearby.
She cries "no, no, no".
He steps towards her.
Left foot. Right foot. Left.
She crawls away from him, dragging herself with her hands.
Left hand. Right hand. Left.
Now the stool dances its solo dance; singing with the swishing of the wind, with each rise and fall.
Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.
The thud.
Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.
The thud.
Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.
The thud.
Up to the ceiling. Swish. Down to her skull. Swish.
The thud.
Up to the Heavens. Down to Hell.
The curtain of crimson blood falls.
End.
That was last their tango. Their last ballet. No more encore.
I can still remember the tiny specks of flesh and meat from her skull, scattered upon the pool of brilliant red. They were like little stars in a sky of red, I thought then. It was like a painting conceived by an artist with skills we know not of; God came to mind.
The awkward, rag doll limpness of the limbs and neck. The blank dead stare of the eyes. The open skull giving birth to the red which grew with every second you kept your eyes upon it. It made me weep. I was in awe not sorrow.
I must have been too young for loss then. Or maybe, I just did not care. He sure did not.
He disposed off her body. Then, he sold me away to
posted by FifthHorcrux at 5:38 PM
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