Monomaniac

Chapter 1

Ophelia

DARKNESS, SHELTER ME IN THE WARMTH OF YOUR WOMB, for people are strangers, even to themselves.

With the passing of years, many have died and lived by the shivering candlelight. Some have endured the unsaid under the faint glimmer of a detached moon, mirrored in a secretive sea. While most have worn a beautiful lie sewn into a coat they forgot to take off since childhood. It’s all the same.

Unrequited lovers wait, abandoned in cafés, no longer looking at the clock; their ash-stained lungs and ink-licked fingers, yearning only for their cold muse. Devotion.

Despairing mothers weep over their vanished children in the void of a night like any other, replaying their last words like a sickly well-oiled instrument built only for self-inflicted torture. Desperation.

Fathers scar their own flesh and blood by repeating the same wound of their own unhealed history. Since, even after decades, they cannot understand the sharp thing crawling under their skin. Avoidance.

Men, alone in their kitchens at three in the morning, eat their regrets with a slotted spoon, because the past remembers while they desperately try to forget. Shame.

Women consumed by a loneliness so great it has grown teeth, curl into themselves in an unmade bed, imagining in secret how would it feel to be loved, not just desired. Longing.

People simply are. Exhausted with want, alone while surrounded by many and carrying souls with a hunger that begs to be unshackled. All of them united by the inescapable. Fear .

Hermits, each in their own wounded way, from the womb of their beginning to the end of their bones that will inevitably turn to ash.

And I am one of them, yet I am not. I have never truly been.

Pretending has become a second skin, and I may not be naked in the visible sense, but I can feel it peeling off my flesh with each floor the elevator travels; my fissured self slowly emerging to the surface. I barely have the strength to fight it anymore, and why should I?

The stage is empty, there is no audience to hide from. No tightly woven web on which I must carefully balance on in order to remain undetected in plain sight, while the gaping mouth of the world awaits at the bottom for my downfall.

"Through the darkened path tonight, let my soul heal in the moonlight," I whisper absently the mantra my grandmother used to murmur in my ear as a child, trying in vain to banish the nightmares that came to haunt me in the middle of the day with religious promptitude.

I say it out of habit, out of the need to feign a shred of normalcy. Perhaps from a place that craves comfort rather than spiritual conviction. Both my soul and mind are too tender at the moment; logic can remain trapped here, surrounded by mirrors marked by two sets of overlapping handprints and the stained linoleum at my feet.

Elevators. A space that people care little about, not realizing that often, this little pocket of time may be preparing them to face yet another hour in their lives that could add a layer of monotony or a calamity. Some even secretly wish for the latter, just so they can drown out the other.

Still, in the confines of the one taking me home at this very moment someone loved not long ago, either the soul or simply the flesh. They felt something of substance nonetheless.

Unimportant as it may be, I must dissect the invisible; my soul diet demands it, especially at this crucial time in my recovery. Distortion is my drug of choice lately anyway, so why should I forsake it in the name of a sterile kind of sanity?

I count the seconds with each floor the creaky cabin goes up, my broken nails tracing the lines in my palm. I know these carvings by heart - they are a graveyard resting under my bruised fingertips, foreshadowing a life I have yet to truly live.

Though I can't help but wonder, what's the purpose of palmistry if there is no future for a woman like me?

For the moment, it is of little importance. Anything will do, if it can distract my thoughts from the aftermath of what happened, even for the briefest of seconds.

Escapism, why am I so fond of you?

Sharp, off-white claws make their way into the opening of my wool coat, revealing a furless paw in search of warmth and safety. Just as I do.

My familiar and beloved cat senses we are close to home. She's desperate to finally find some rest within the safety of the walls I've built around us and how I understand her need. How I recognize it.

I couldn't find it in my heart to let her spend another night with my cousin, though I felt drained even at the prospect of leaving the confines of the cab.

Being seen became an afterthought, all because I knew she was not at ease with the ghostly inhabitants of the family funeral home, nor with the still living unfortunates, who cross its threshold on a daily basis.

From what I've heard and seen, most of them aren't too keen on her furless skin and soul-gripping gaze.

They call her abnormal, odd. How easy is to judge the unfamiliar.

But they don't know how her unique beauty and watchful eyes provide me with immense comfort. How her atypical appearance resembles how I truly view the world surrounding me – peculiar and unapproachable; frail and tender to the touch, bony.

And today I need her tacit support more than in the last five years combined. The crisis of the spirit will always flow more easily toward redemption while accompanied by another soul.

I will let myself be vulnerable, bare and weak; reduced to nothing but feeling when I reach my sanctuary, my home. It's a part of the healing process I dread, but one I find necessary if I want to fully return to myself. At the end of the day, it's all I have left.

As isolating as it is, there is solace in that.

"Coblina, my sweet girl, be patient," I croon as I gather her delicate body to my chest, trying to calm her visible nerves. She is usually a serene being, but her empathetic spirit probably sensed my distress and took crumbs of it for her own.

I sigh, closing my eyes, not wanting to delve into the recent past that marks me far deeper than the lingering bruises on my body do. Not that evading it would solve anything, but because I'm not fully prepared to admit how close to the end of all endings I've been in the midst of floating through existence.

Little did I knew that just because I faced the prospect of death in the flesh a long time ago, it didn't mean I was fully reconciled with it or what it might entail later in life. Albeit much earlier than I dared to predict.

Now, it's just another bitter pill I have to swallow. One, I'll let slide down my throat with little to no water, for I'm still here. Barely breathing, but enduring it all the same.

I do not take pride in my suffering, nor do I amplify it for the sake of cheap dramatics. But I must face it in the days to come if I am to have any semblance of peace in the ones to follow. Whether I am standing or not.

"Coblina?" my voice quivers as I lower my head, "I refuse to even contemplate it, but when your time eventually comes to cross over, will you wait for me?" I ask my sapphire-eyed sphynx cat, not expecting an answer, but even so seeking one in her restless irises.

In response, she digs her claws into my shoulder, an inch away from drawing blood. That's how she loves, my feline mirror.

Removed from everything and everyone, a blue smile settles like a visitor on my face, with the kind of absent emotion that doesn't touch the corners of my eyes. One that will fade in a blink, for life is fickle. Because I'm alone and tired, the sort that a month of deep sleep wouldn't cure because the soul is drained.

Everything around me suffocates; the feeling so bizarre, given that my feet are always treading the thin surface between unseen worlds.

The here and now is rarely poignant enough to either tame or subdue my wild inclination towards the unseen and all that it entails. I suppose this is a side of being forced to be present I hadn't yet fully acclimated to.

It will pass, everything eventually does.

I take a deep breath as I wait for the signal for the eleventh floor. When the cabin halts, I absently push the heavy manual door into the wall, its deafening sound jolting me back to reality with a violence that cannot be ignored.

Lost in search of my keys and with Coblina's claws digging into my thighs as she makes her way down, I almost lose my balance at the sight that awaits me at the hand-carved wooden entrance of my apartment.

An arrangement of dead burgundy roses rests solemnly on the floor, as if my door were a funeral stone.

I count perhaps more than a dozen as I reluctantly move towards it, my abused knees protesting in pain as I bend to inspect the long stems held tightly together by a ribbon. Instinctively, I try to detect a scent, but it's apparent they smell of nothing. Of everything that once has been.

A detail that generally appeals to me in theory, but does little to undo my inherent fear that they might be poisoned or spiritually charged with something that will ultimately harm me through the mirage of their undeniable beauty.

The large bouquet is fine like poetry, dark and ominous, just the way I prefer it. Someone who knows a thing or two about me must have sent them. But who and, most of all, why?

No one has ever offered me such a peculiar gift in the past. There is no occasion to celebrate, and besides, how would they even know my address? I guard my privacy with the ferocity a mother would protect her first newborn.

My logic concludes they must be a simple misunderstanding, but my intuition tells me to look more closely at the ribbon and, as per usual, I indulge it. With limp fingers I grasp it loosely, not knowing what to expect.

When I turn it over, something is written in elegant calligraphy on the faded beige silk in what appears to be black ink. I read it once, twice, my mind too hazy and still partially wrapped up in events that I have not yet digested to fully understand the ambiguous message.

'Dead roses for the one who gave me life.'

It makes no sense. Who and bizarrely enough, why would they write something of such intensity? There must be some mistake. Then why does it seem so deliberate?

I fiddle with the smooth fabric between my fingers, trying to find meaning behind the words, but I come up empty. All I know and sense with certainty is that there is no malicious motive on the part of the sender, which eases my worries now that I have come into direct contact with them.

My tarot cards will perhaps give me more answers if I can find the energy to delve into it later in the night. But, as of now, I'm too spent to let my energy flow in that direction. I need rest and a glass of wine.

With the keys finally found, I enter my personal haven, where I am free to breathe without the incessant noise of the outside world.

The familiar creak of my door brings me immense comfort, a soothing product of my refusal to grease its hinges even after all these years.

My bruised lips curl into a genuine smile this time as I feel Coblina walk past me and head for the kitchen.

"I'm back," I whisper in the dark hallway to no one, to myself.

I don't turn on the lights, basking in the familiarity of uninterrupted night. My sensitive eyes yearn for the intimacy offered by the candlelight that never fails to transport me directly into the catacombs of 19th century Paris. I will always prefer it over the white, sterile light that these times embrace so easily.

Sighing, I bend down, pick up the roses and lock the door behind me with a gentle flick of my still gauze wrapped wrist.

I wonder if the sight of it will be a reminder from now on, if I will ever look at it the same way again. Even so, I refuse to be a slave of fear. I will never go back there ever again. The sixteen-year-old me, has made this promise to myself, and I will be true to it for as long as I can.

Nothing but deathly silence shrouds me as my abused stilettos click ominously on the hardwood floors of my three-bedroom apartment.

I sweep my eyes absently over the shadowed surface of my marble seraphim statues that occupy the corners of the narrow hallway, trying to discern if something is amiss with the energy in the rest of my house.

Fortunately, nothing is out of the ordinary. The invisible sigils on the walls made sure of that.

I open the double doors all the way and enter my sitting room decorated from top to bottom with antique solid wood furniture, an oriental rug, a burgundy sofa and my rattan rocking chair, which is now swallowed by the faux furs I left behind four nights ago before I left. I was supposed to be back in less than three hours.

I roam my gaze over the dusky mauve walls that have seen me through my worst moments. That have tasted the pure bliss of transient peace found in the unseen and untranslatable.

The room encapsulates an intimate glimpse into my soul, every vacant space being filled with stacks of books older than me. Anywhere I look, I find memorabilia I've collected over the years from old haunts and pre-loved vintage pieces that run a ghostly finger over my wounded soul every time I lay eyes on them; they all have a history of their own, one independent of mine.

Finally, after what feels like a year of grueling soul labor, I rest my beaten body on the couch, choosing to remain still for the next few minutes, even if inwardly I crawl. To where, I do not know.

My breathing is reduced to a silent prayer, exhaling what simmers beneath the controlled fire within.

And so, my mind goes blank. I feel nothing.

The illusion of the void envelops me, but I know it far too well to allow another lie to slip through the veil of my consciousness. The inevitable storm will come, and so it should, if I am to sleep somewhat peacefully and stay off anxiety pills for the months to come.

Determined not to let what has been control my emotions any further, I decide to let them slowly creep out, but without allowing them complete reign over my being. There is no one here to hold me by the elbow, to undress me, feed me, and put me to bed.

I have known this profound lack from an early age. When you are all alone and there is not a soul to care for you, the left hand becomes nurturing like a mother whilst the left one is attentive like a devoted father.

I do not dream anymore.

Dazed, I slip off my heels, followed by the coat, soft wool pants and silk blouse, pretending it's just another day; even though the pile at my feet doesn’t belong to me save for the lingerie.

Thus, suspended in time and wearing only my lace bra and thong, I watch life pass through me like a passive spirit. The eerie chill touches the insides of my thighs and arms, licking at my resolve. Back and forth, a pendulum of inconsistent emotions envelopes me like a cloak.

There is no peace.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of what's eating me up from the inside, but it's becoming increasingly difficult without the distractions of the outside world.

How easy, how bittersweet it is to forget for even a second, through a dog's bark, the private antics of a graying couple, a doorman asking if you're alright with a smile that seems so genuine, so practiced you almost believe it to be real. Then comes the silence.

I put on my floor-length black robe, unbutton the puff silk sleeves and leave it open at the front. I feel suffocated as it is.

My fingers search blindly in the dark for the kitchen light switch and in a blink I find myself opening a pouch of wet food and reaching for the wine opener. Who would have thought I would find solace in the domesticity of the mundane? But now I do.

Coblina's dark shadow circles my ankles, trailing my every move as soon as she hears her favorite sound while watching me with eyes far more tranquil than I assume mine are at the moment.

I open a bottle of dry cherry and oak flavored wine, needing the strong aromas to ease my troubled mind and, also, to provide the much-needed relief my aching muscles seek.

Tired bones sigh with heaviness as I settle into my peacock rattan chair to the right of the massive wooden table. I light a wild rose candle in silence, followed by a long-awaited cigarette.

I take a long drag, exhaling towards the ceiling as I sip numbly on the dark juice of fermented grapes. I'd like to pretend they've been stomped by a group of jovial people celebrating the end of the harvest season somewhere in the heart of Spain, all drenched in the mirage of eternal youth and sweat. Instead, all the wine tastes the same; tastes like nothing.

"I'm alive," I muse in the darkened room, silently thanking the now blackened sky for the priceless gift it has once again given me.

As always, gratitude, with its soft fingers, helps me gradually return to my now conscious and lethargic body.

The mention of this word spoken out loud reminds me of the enigmatic message from earlier and what it might bring on the horizon, if it even means anything at all.

I can't place why, but my senses perceive the sender as a male figure – someone who fully embodies the archetype, while the energy surrounding him seems implicitly dark and hidden in nature. The handwriting, though elegant, speaks of an individual who is the epitome of red-blooded vehemence. There was nothing fragile or wavering about it.

"For the one who gave me life," I murmur the words, trying to find the meaning behind their abstract message.

Could it be someone close to a victim whose disappearance I solved in the recent past? Then why wouldn't they have signed it, given that I know the confidential details of every case I've worked on?

No, it doesn't make any sense, because it seems almost...intimate.

The anonymity part makes me pause; leaving me to suspect it might have something to do with what happened this weekend.

The coincidence seems too great, and my intuition rarely strays from the truth. But, while this path seems possible in itself, I find myself unable to merge the two worlds in this current reality.

If I am right in my suspicion, the danger that I chose to believe remained only a stain on my history is far from over. That means they now know my address, and nothing is more frightening than feeling unsafe in your own home.

Perhaps if it had been just another day, when my mind was clear and unaffected, the elements would have aligned on their own. But as of now, my troubled mind cannot discern between reality and paranoia.

I swallow the last sip of wine and finish my cigarette, snuffing out the candle with my fingertips. The familiarity of the burn comforts and reminds me that the present is mine and so are the shadows hidden where only I can see them.

My bare soles hum with pleasure at the feel of the cold hardwood floor as I walk down the hall and pick up the fragile bouquet, careful not to tear any of the dried petals. They're too lovely to be discarded and left to exist all alone, no matter who the sender is. They were once alive and plucked from their home just for someone’s visual pleasure. The least I can do is offer them my own.

Sore toes curl into the thick carpet, as I walk past my guest room, which over the years has become more of a study, considering I am not particularly fond of company.

I arrange the flowers on top of the chest attached to the narrow hallway wall, where I keep a solitary photograph, which speaks of a time when an uncertain hope prevailed over my days. Above it lays a still-life painting with muted colors, enclosed by a gold frame I found tossed in an attic while searching for answers, or rather for someone in my early investigative years.

Little did I know back then that I was destined to spend a lifetime doing precisely that. In this regard, I am a fortunate woman.

The moment I step into my bedroom with its en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet, I light all the candlesticks on my low armoire and turn on the Victorian lamp to the right of my canopy bed.

Above the intricately detailed hardwood of the oak headboard is a life-size replica of Dante and Virgil by Bouguereau. I chose it mainly for the brutality of the act depicted by the two damned souls, reminding me every night as I lay still, of the cruel realities of which humanity is capable of while we simply watch, silently praying our turn won't come. Thus, I manage to keep myself grounded every time I close my eyes from having survived another day among the living.

But the most significant reason I have such a close connection with this depiction is because something called me to it, for a reason unknown to me to this day.

The opaque burgundy drapes attached to the dark frame reach all the way down to the cherry wood floor, the wide bed taking up a large portion of my bedroom and creating an intimate and somber ambiance. It harmoniously complements the intricate velvet-accented wallpaper in a shade of faded midnight, embracing a myriad of ominous hues as the candlelight flickers, though the air is still and the windows are closed.

My antique vanity is positioned in the left corner, near the heavy curtains that keep out the unwelcomed light, as a lone picture frame I haven't directly looked at since I placed it there beckons me to come closer. I can't.

Statues of angels and gargoyles of various sizes stand watch at each corner, arrangements of dried roses and mythological-themed paintings depicting death and life as it is no more covering most of the surfaces.

As I make my way to the bathroom, the perfume emanating from the blend of rare flowers and essential oils I bought last fall in Tibet brings me a sense of warmth.

The candlestick in my hand does little to illuminate the dark purple walls, but the ice cold black marble floor is a sensory miracle for my abused feet.

I sweep my hand through the rapidly warming water that pools at the base of the slating brass bathtub, the echoing sound translating as white noise in the recesses of my mind as I sprinkle salts and oils around the basin. All becomes muted as my fingertips swirl around the water in the same pattern I did as a child, the harsh reality of that time becoming nothing more than a myth.

I rise to my full height, deciding the time has finally come to remove my makeup and put my hair up in a quick updo since I’m too tired to wash my waist-length raven hair.

As I pin it in place, my eyes wander on their own volition to the freshly stitched scar running from my left cheek to my temple. While it may seem disturbing, it serves me as a reminder that I survived, that it could have ended much worse. I was told it would fully heal in a month at most, but deep down I know the memory will stay with me just the same.

I can't help but notice that I've visibly lost weight from the stress. My already carved cheekbones are more prominent than ever, the arch of my dark eyebrows making my grey irises appear larger, matching the now bruised lips my mother told me were too big for my heart-shaped face. More often than not, they were cracked from dehydration as she wandered off into the night.

With a steady hand I carefully remove the concealer and foundation, hissing in pain with each swipe across the sensitive skin. My face slowly gains color, but not the healthy kind. Shades of dark purple and green dress my pale complexion and, no doubt, the rest of my body.

I look the way I feel inside. Fatigued, exhausted with everything.

My palms rest on my stomach as I turn my back to the reflection in the mirror, letting the silk robe fall to the floor along with my underwear.

I refuse to look at the visual evidence of what he has done to me, too afraid to discover any further reminders of his vile hands; of the violence, the need to disappear and not being able to.

Silently, I step into the scalding hot water, shivering as the vapors rise to the ceiling in tight ropes, as if a potion were slowly brewing; beckoning me to let the burning take over and turn the pain into something more bearable.

I let myself sink neck deep as I close my eyes. Shrouded in darkness and silence, I brave myself to look into the recent past, unblinking and unafraid.

The salts are relaxing enough to help me unearth that night, which I carefully buried beyond my consciousness not long ago.

Achieving a meditative state has been ingrained in me for a very long time, which I have practiced since early childhood, courtesy of my grandmother.

So naturally, welcoming the sickness, the mud, the blood is a given. And I remember. Everything.

I inhale deeply as I count from ten to one, methodically slipping into the mental space from the second I woke up in the middle of a living nightmare four nights ago.

"Take me away," I whisper. But no one comes.

Not a living soul ever did.