Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Hello!
This is a short story I wrote for my American Literature class. In this project we were supposed to emulate Gothic American writers such as Edgar Allen Poe, Washington Irving, and Charles B. Brown. I figured I would share it with all of you guys as well! I may share more short stories that I write, or even excerpts of any of the novels I am working on, but I make no promises because I am a bit self-conscious about my writing. I share this only because I realize that stories should be shared and not kept too tightly to the breast
Without further ado, here is "In the Mirror of Man"
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When my Ophelia was ripped so wretchedly from my fingers, it seemed that the world itself began to cry.
It was a loss that the world had not readied itself for, but the weeping heart that was buried deep within my bosom felt the tragedy of her absence far more than the world could ever hope to feel. She was the like the stars that shone in the deep black of the night, glittering against the dark blanket that, if not for their light, would consume us all. The flickering candle light in the dead of night, intimate and warm. What was she, if not perfect? A woman that was lacking only in blemishes, and abundant in all things beautiful and good. A beauty that seemed so fragile that it seemed that the gentle winds from the words of a sinner would be enough end her. But she had proved to be so pure, so good, so virtuous that Satan in all his wretchedness would fall to his knees before her.
How could any man not kneel before her holy light? How could they not be brought to their knees by one breath that escaped her gentle lips? Every word was beautiful, every thought that went through her head would make the most studious of scholars press their lips to her pale toes. And even in that beautiful mind that so eloquently can take the very truth that was mankind and press it into one singular piece of art that was her words.
But no more does she speak.
I remember her, lying within our bed. Like a halo, her dark hair was played across the pillow, so light and airy that there seemed to be no contact between it and the silken white of the sheet that had been pulled over the pillow. Her eyes were closed, the sharp pale blue gaze of hers was never to touch me again. Was never to touch anyone again. Was never to touch anything again. Her face, the skin that was stretched across her cheekbones was more pure than even the loveliest of marble. Pale and free of any blemish, her face was gentle, unusually serene, free of thought. Free of life.
Her lips were forever stilled. Pale and full, they remained unmoving, even when my hand came so harshly to her shoulder, came so lovingly to her cheek. Down the gentle slope of her neck, there I saw a blemish to have marred that perfect skin. The blue hands that encircled her neck like a chain. Large and heretical, they overcame her. Down, down, down further. Her bosom, pale and soft, rose no more, rather protruding from her body was the blasphemous blade. It must have been God himself that buried that blade in her breast, for it was too perfectly wedged into her. Too perfectly was the cold blade pressed into the fire that had been her heart. Too much did she bleed. The crimson that had once colored her cheeks now colored her pale skin, now painted her white sleeping gown, now stained the white of the silken bedsheets. And now it painted my hands, that so desperately clawed at that blade. But that blade, that vile and ugly blade, twisted deep within her body.
Was it envy that caused God to take her from me? No. Why would he destroy the most beautiful thing that he has ever created? Why would he rip from this wretched world the only thing that brought it light? He is the King of creators, the first poet if there ever was one. When he said "let there be light" it was Ophelia that he had created. What else? She had shone brighter than the sun! So what man could have been so wretched, so heretical, so bastardly and twisted that he would take away this one piece of beauty that brought light to the overwhelming blanket of the night‽
To think such a wretch could ever exist is almost unimaginable, yet here she lies. Eyes forever closed! Lips no longer able to tell me the secrets of mankind! Mind now forever lost from this world, the beauty of her thoughts no longer able to grace the pages of my works! If there be a wretch so evil that even a gift sent down to us, sent down to me, straight from the heavens is taken for a piece of flesh that can be abused and passed on. That could be so dethatched from himself and mankind that he would take away such a gift for his own sick pleasures! Why such a man must not breathe in another breath of air!
Out I went, out into the cold air of the night. If Ophelia were to die, on this day she would not die alone. If the most beautiful thing was to be taken from the world on this day, then the most wretched would have to be taken away from it as well. The tears of the very Earth poured upon me as I ran out into the woods. The droplets running through my hair, my brow, falling into my eye and then blinding me. But they could not hold me. Even blinded I could sense that evil which still creeped through the night. How could I not feel his very spirit? The pounding of his heart as he realized what it was that he did. The mistake that he made and how dearly he was to pay for it.
A cry of anguish and despair escaped the woods. Was that me or was that he? Could it have been both of us at this time? Both feeling the loss of the beautiful Ophelia? No. No, it must have been I that let out the anguished cry. And in turn he had let out a cry of fear and despair at having been found in his wretched act. For if he was a man of any such merit, the mere thought of committing such an act would leave him so anguished that he would do nothing more than fall upon his own blade.
He was close. I could hear the patter of his feet against the ground. The crunch of the leaves beneath his feet. The rustle of the branches as he ran against the arms of the trees that tried with their own might to contain him. I could hear his ragged breaths as he ran faster. Faster. Faster. Never stopping. Never escaping. How could he? How could he escape the righteous blade of justice that was to rain down upon his sinner's spirit? In his heart he must have known. I could hear the thumping of his guilty heart deep within his bosom. Almost as though it was mine own, I could hear it. And oh, how harshly it pumped. The beating heart of a guilty man.
There!
There!
The glimmer of the silver moonlight against his pale hair. There! I see him. I see him! He has turned, his wretched face looking back at mine. His eyes so wide that I can see the whites of them, even from here. His mouth agape, face stricken with horror. He knows! He must be the guilty man! His heart beat has risen to such a powerful crescendo that it nearly deafens me. His breathing so ragged that I myself nearly choke on air.
He stumbles back, but I lunge! Feral and searching, I fly through the air. He cannot escape! And he does not! I fall on him with the animosity of a wolf, the strength of a thousand men is behind me!
Yet when I blink, when I pull back, I am not on the forest floor. No. Where is it that he and I have fallen?
My gaze shifts, and the pale light of the moon streams through the window. Illuminates the small room that I had become so familiar with. The bed that I had laid my had in so many times. But there was no Ophelia in that bed. Her pale body was absent, as though it had never been there before now.
Again, I look down, in search of the wretch that had taken her from me. And there I find him, trapped in the broken mirror. Down, down, down, I look. Within his bosom, I see it. The crimson blooming from his chest. The gentle trickle of the red, slowly staining his chest. His own knife resides in him, buried deep in his bosom. No better justice has ever been served than the one before me now.
I looked up again, hearing a gentle moan fall from lips that were close. There! There she was! My gentle Ophelia! My beautiful Ophelia! She stood before me. Her blue eyes were on me again! Her soft lips were parted, silent words falling from them as she wavered, her gown flickering about her. The crimson still trickles from the hole in her heart, running down her pale gown, staining the silken cloth. She steps forward, her body wavering, her arms extended. I reach out for her. Reach out to meet her touch, her gentle touch. Just one more time.
One more time.
This is a short story I wrote for my American Literature class. In this project we were supposed to emulate Gothic American writers such as Edgar Allen Poe, Washington Irving, and Charles B. Brown. I figured I would share it with all of you guys as well! I may share more short stories that I write, or even excerpts of any of the novels I am working on, but I make no promises because I am a bit self-conscious about my writing. I share this only because I realize that stories should be shared and not kept too tightly to the breast
Without further ado, here is "In the Mirror of Man"
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In the Mirror of a Man
When my Ophelia was ripped so wretchedly from my fingers, it seemed that the world itself began to cry.
It was a loss that the world had not readied itself for, but the weeping heart that was buried deep within my bosom felt the tragedy of her absence far more than the world could ever hope to feel. She was the like the stars that shone in the deep black of the night, glittering against the dark blanket that, if not for their light, would consume us all. The flickering candle light in the dead of night, intimate and warm. What was she, if not perfect? A woman that was lacking only in blemishes, and abundant in all things beautiful and good. A beauty that seemed so fragile that it seemed that the gentle winds from the words of a sinner would be enough end her. But she had proved to be so pure, so good, so virtuous that Satan in all his wretchedness would fall to his knees before her.
How could any man not kneel before her holy light? How could they not be brought to their knees by one breath that escaped her gentle lips? Every word was beautiful, every thought that went through her head would make the most studious of scholars press their lips to her pale toes. And even in that beautiful mind that so eloquently can take the very truth that was mankind and press it into one singular piece of art that was her words.
But no more does she speak.
I remember her, lying within our bed. Like a halo, her dark hair was played across the pillow, so light and airy that there seemed to be no contact between it and the silken white of the sheet that had been pulled over the pillow. Her eyes were closed, the sharp pale blue gaze of hers was never to touch me again. Was never to touch anyone again. Was never to touch anything again. Her face, the skin that was stretched across her cheekbones was more pure than even the loveliest of marble. Pale and free of any blemish, her face was gentle, unusually serene, free of thought. Free of life.
Her lips were forever stilled. Pale and full, they remained unmoving, even when my hand came so harshly to her shoulder, came so lovingly to her cheek. Down the gentle slope of her neck, there I saw a blemish to have marred that perfect skin. The blue hands that encircled her neck like a chain. Large and heretical, they overcame her. Down, down, down further. Her bosom, pale and soft, rose no more, rather protruding from her body was the blasphemous blade. It must have been God himself that buried that blade in her breast, for it was too perfectly wedged into her. Too perfectly was the cold blade pressed into the fire that had been her heart. Too much did she bleed. The crimson that had once colored her cheeks now colored her pale skin, now painted her white sleeping gown, now stained the white of the silken bedsheets. And now it painted my hands, that so desperately clawed at that blade. But that blade, that vile and ugly blade, twisted deep within her body.
Was it envy that caused God to take her from me? No. Why would he destroy the most beautiful thing that he has ever created? Why would he rip from this wretched world the only thing that brought it light? He is the King of creators, the first poet if there ever was one. When he said "let there be light" it was Ophelia that he had created. What else? She had shone brighter than the sun! So what man could have been so wretched, so heretical, so bastardly and twisted that he would take away this one piece of beauty that brought light to the overwhelming blanket of the night‽
To think such a wretch could ever exist is almost unimaginable, yet here she lies. Eyes forever closed! Lips no longer able to tell me the secrets of mankind! Mind now forever lost from this world, the beauty of her thoughts no longer able to grace the pages of my works! If there be a wretch so evil that even a gift sent down to us, sent down to me, straight from the heavens is taken for a piece of flesh that can be abused and passed on. That could be so dethatched from himself and mankind that he would take away such a gift for his own sick pleasures! Why such a man must not breathe in another breath of air!
Out I went, out into the cold air of the night. If Ophelia were to die, on this day she would not die alone. If the most beautiful thing was to be taken from the world on this day, then the most wretched would have to be taken away from it as well. The tears of the very Earth poured upon me as I ran out into the woods. The droplets running through my hair, my brow, falling into my eye and then blinding me. But they could not hold me. Even blinded I could sense that evil which still creeped through the night. How could I not feel his very spirit? The pounding of his heart as he realized what it was that he did. The mistake that he made and how dearly he was to pay for it.
A cry of anguish and despair escaped the woods. Was that me or was that he? Could it have been both of us at this time? Both feeling the loss of the beautiful Ophelia? No. No, it must have been I that let out the anguished cry. And in turn he had let out a cry of fear and despair at having been found in his wretched act. For if he was a man of any such merit, the mere thought of committing such an act would leave him so anguished that he would do nothing more than fall upon his own blade.
He was close. I could hear the patter of his feet against the ground. The crunch of the leaves beneath his feet. The rustle of the branches as he ran against the arms of the trees that tried with their own might to contain him. I could hear his ragged breaths as he ran faster. Faster. Faster. Never stopping. Never escaping. How could he? How could he escape the righteous blade of justice that was to rain down upon his sinner's spirit? In his heart he must have known. I could hear the thumping of his guilty heart deep within his bosom. Almost as though it was mine own, I could hear it. And oh, how harshly it pumped. The beating heart of a guilty man.
There!
There!
The glimmer of the silver moonlight against his pale hair. There! I see him. I see him! He has turned, his wretched face looking back at mine. His eyes so wide that I can see the whites of them, even from here. His mouth agape, face stricken with horror. He knows! He must be the guilty man! His heart beat has risen to such a powerful crescendo that it nearly deafens me. His breathing so ragged that I myself nearly choke on air.
He stumbles back, but I lunge! Feral and searching, I fly through the air. He cannot escape! And he does not! I fall on him with the animosity of a wolf, the strength of a thousand men is behind me!
Yet when I blink, when I pull back, I am not on the forest floor. No. Where is it that he and I have fallen?
My gaze shifts, and the pale light of the moon streams through the window. Illuminates the small room that I had become so familiar with. The bed that I had laid my had in so many times. But there was no Ophelia in that bed. Her pale body was absent, as though it had never been there before now.
Again, I look down, in search of the wretch that had taken her from me. And there I find him, trapped in the broken mirror. Down, down, down, I look. Within his bosom, I see it. The crimson blooming from his chest. The gentle trickle of the red, slowly staining his chest. His own knife resides in him, buried deep in his bosom. No better justice has ever been served than the one before me now.
I looked up again, hearing a gentle moan fall from lips that were close. There! There she was! My gentle Ophelia! My beautiful Ophelia! She stood before me. Her blue eyes were on me again! Her soft lips were parted, silent words falling from them as she wavered, her gown flickering about her. The crimson still trickles from the hole in her heart, running down her pale gown, staining the silken cloth. She steps forward, her body wavering, her arms extended. I reach out for her. Reach out to meet her touch, her gentle touch. Just one more time.
One more time.
