Chapter 12
Ophelia
THE DAYS CAME AND PASSED, the house remaining quiet and empty except for my footsteps and Coblina's. Only the two of us haunted the cold floors in our quiet nights, which I find more difficult by the hour to distinguish as I drift in and out of consciousness.
In my adult life there had been entire weeks I can’t remember. Years that feel like an echo or have a certain scent rather than a palpable quality about them.
Looking back, I think I had become a ghost myself in some aspects, more absent than present; transparent in subtler ways than what meets the eye.
Bleak and solitary as it may sound, I wouldn’t change it for the world. Not when I chose this existence for myself; not when Dante created such a passionate contrast when he entered my world and gave it that crimson tint in the otherwise noir film of my scenery.
Tossing and turning have become a pattern, and so, as I've come to do religiously every night when sleep eludes me, I touch his blood pendant, finally finding that buttery place of uninterrupted blackness. But in truth, am I drifting off or am I being dragged?
And most importantly, are dreams ever just dreams or perhaps, in some instances, more substantial than reality?
* * *
"I like your hair. I would’ve loved to grow mine up to my ankles and dye it this shade of black, dark like the nights when I was camping with my friends in the middle of spring break. I wish I'd known then what I know now and stayed by the tent, listened to the cicadas and accepted the cigarette from Mark. Maybe he would have tried to kiss me in the moonlight, and the next morning I would have woken up with a smile on my face and a headache instead of a clear mind and untouched lips."
"Soon, one by one, they will all forget about me and move on with their lives as if I never existed."
"Tell me Ophelia, will I still be here when they’ll be old and grey? Will I ever get to see the light no one here dares talk about?"
"Penelope?" I ask, through a voice that feels dense like hardened molasses, my mouth fighting against itself to utter her name.
"You are the only one that talks to me and I don’t even know who you are. How come a stranger can and my own father cries himself to sleep while sobbing my name into his pillow?"
"I’m so sorry darling, believe me. I don’t have an answer to your questions; matters of the soul are never that simple, not even on the other side. But I do think you will find your peace by helping me find the one who did this to you and save another girl that might suffer a similar fate."
Suddenly, the energy shifts and I am reduced to a statue that can only observe the suffering of this poor soul. What am I to do?
"I am drained, all alone...abandoned. I want out!" she chants in a voice that gradually gets darker and heavier, circling me with levitating limbs; I suddenly feel powerless.
A crawling feeling, like spiders dipped in oil fall down my spine until they reach my paralyzed soles followed by a stabbing pain. It resembles the sharpest of iron nails, hammered, one by one, between the bones of my feet. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do…
An agonized scream shakes me to the core yet not a sound leaves my mouth as Penelope faces me once more. Silent as a thomb, she takes my cheeks between her decayed hands, looking through me with glassy, slowly decomposing eyes.
"Find him before he finds you, but don’t do it alone. The man with the skull will help you. Trust him," she says, getting gradually closer until we are nose to nose before letting out a soul shattering howl that punctures my bones.
The pain, unbearable… I feel it in my gums, I can’t contain it, I can’t –
"Shh, I have you tesoro," a dark voice whispers in my ear.
Tabacco and the crisp scent of perdition envelop me from behind with protective arms in a cocoon of safety as I sink deeper into the tangled sheets. Lost and unwilling to be found yet, I float between unconsciousness and a reality that at the moment seems but a dream.
Vaguely, I feel a cold hand spread possessively on my bare stomach, a warm breath coating the nape of my neck like burned sugar; long, powerful legs keeping my ankles in place. Could it be?
My beloved opium, is that you?
"Breathe for me, Ombra," he whispers in my hair before I feel cotton covered lips pressing on the shell of my ear.
Relived for what seems to be the first time in days, I follow his words without question; not realizing I had been holding my breath like I always seem to, in the first seconds I feel him close to me. At first it was out of latent fear, but now it has morphed into the knowledge that I will be willingly consumed, to the point of tears.
I nestle further into the arm he has placed under my head, finding comfort in the way he holds me tightly, his forearm securing me to him. Although his muscles are relaxed, yet still firm and unyielding, he embodies the most comfortable pillow I've ever rested on.
For twenty-nine years I slept without him holding me to his chest, without knowing the vibrations of his taciturn warmth on the back of my neck, utterly deprived of the feeling of being surrounded by absolute safety. Still, now that I know life can taste as sweet as cherry liquor, I fear that all my nights will be filled with insomnia in his absence.
However, the future seems weak-kneed and feeble in its potential impediments when in the present moment he is here – gloveless and closely pressed to my body like an extension of myself.
I soar under the feel of his hand, passing agonizingly slow between the valley of my breasts – savoring the feel of my skin with the reverence of a man on death row, eager to have one final taste of freedom’s mirage in the image of the only woman he has ever adored.
It is so painfully erotic.
His long fingers, which I now know are inked, play a soundless tune along my skin. Ever the patient animal of prey, he traces a sole line on my collarbone with a languid touch, reaching his favored destination and resting place on my neck; he takes a second to relish it before squeezing in a way that softens my tongue and fastens my pulse, drowning us both with little effort.
Our aligned breaths become louder, heavier, as I lift my hand to his arm. At the contact, to my disbelief, I feel skin dusted with fine hair up to his rolled up sleeve, instead of his usual covered arms.
I lace my fingers with his, beyond thankful that he had foregone the leather, the organic sensation of him around me making me feel small as a pearl encased by the hardest of shells.
Should I pray for my soul for letting him possess me in such a way?
We stay entwined like this for a while, the sound of our synced breaths and the pouring rain outside keeping me half awake. Eventually, when the urge to see him becomes almost unbearable, I take his hand and kiss it before pulling it away from my shoulders and trying to turn in his arms.
He must have thought I wanted to get away from him as he curls it tighter around my waist, not knowing that for me it is already too late for that.
"I want back into your eyes," I plead in the dark, his grasp loosening some at my confession.
Slowly, I turn around, our noses brushing as I settle along the firm ridges of his chest, our legs tangling ever so naturally.
The second I wrap my arms around his neck and lace my fingers into his soft curls, I separate from my own body for a split second. There is a suffocating tightness like a rope around my neck, a stabbing sensation in my heart that makes me unable to breathe deeply.
Flooded with foreign grief, I follow his dark contours; feeling certain that what I have just experienced is only a fraction of what Dante is going through right now.
"What happened?" I ask on a quivering whisper over his covered lips, brushing my fingers over them; not in a sensual manner, but in a way that wants to be closer to his breath, to his truth.
After a few charged seconds, he sighs deeply, the entirety of his body trembling at the question or rather at what the answer implies for him on a soul level.
Whatever it may be, I can’t bear to see him like this. Let me in.
I can physically feel the invisible noose around his neck getting tighter with each passing second – a soul crushing sensation snapping me in two as I feel his walls slowly dissolving, piece by mourning piece.
"My love," the moment that follows after these two short, humble words could feed with emotion entire lifetimes.
They are the truest ones that may have ever come out of my lips, emerging of their own volition from an unexplored place deep inside me, in a hurried attempt to ease both our anguish; as well as the only catalyst I needed to remove his mask.
And by that only, the world as I knew it stills and quiets.
My lips crush into his scarred ones with untamed desperation, soaked up with undying want, want, want for more…
A groan of darkened pleasure mirroring my own echoes and shakes us both at the first taste of his lips consuming mine for the first time. I will never be the same.
I will always be his ruin.
A willing victim when it comes to him.
He tastes like coffee, cigarettes, a dash of doom. The perfect blend of all my favorite things, hedonistic vices and innermost secrets… my opium.
I become mad, inundated with desire as our teeth clash in a dangerous dance of power and control, of eating and being eaten as his tongue pushes against the seam of my half open mouth; invading my spirit as he explores me with a passion on the brink of violence.
When our tongues collide, I can only feel the inner lava of his soul spreading from the tips of my hair all the way to my toes, although the feeling in the rest of my body becomes an afterthought. It’s as if I had become part of him, the idea of ever being separated too painful to even grasp.
I exist only where he touches me and that’s how I want to live for the rest of my days. Yes.
The moment he retracts and bites my lower lip, sucking the blood of the freshly formed wound, I can no longer form one single sane thought. He leaves me no choice but to curve my spine, push my breasts into his chest in unrestrained need and fall into the abyss of him, even though the mattress never stopped touching the back of my knees.
Not a second passes before he resurrects me back just as effortlessly, like he somehow always does while snaking his fingers into my long strands and cupping my ass, bringing me infinitely closer to him and implicitly to the edge.
His mouth, so possessive, so hungry for all my milk and honey…
Our gasps and moans coat the walls of my room even after he forcefully rips his lips away and trails them along my jaw and neck, eclipsing any rational thought I might conjure, although there is abounding poetry; my racing heart now beating where his hand decides to settle next, following him blindly.
"You’re killing me," he groans as if in pain, trailing a path of fallen dreams along my collarbones and tracing their shape with his teeth. "Never stop," he continues breathlessly, brushing his richly textured lips on my inner breast and stealing away the little lucidity I have left with those two short words.
"Tell me about the thing that drowns your heart," I persist while I bite back a moan, collapsing back to reality when his head finds its resting place on my chest.
Dante shakes his head almost imperceptibly and I have the feeling it has little to do with sharing what weights him down and everything with him feeling drained to the bone because of it.
"I need you," I continue, draping his imposing body that now feels tenderer than ever on top of me, before reaching for the lamp, slow enough for him to prevent me from banishing the night.
The moment has finally come.
I take a long second before pulling the chain, binding our time before another wall will crumble at our feet as I finally switch on the light.
Instinctively I close my eyes at the intrusion before I slowly turn my head and meet him, exposed and raw under the naked lamplight.
This moment, I will always remember as being the most soul gripping one I had the privilege to ever experience in this life of mine.
I should have known that nothing in this world or my imagination could’ve prepared me for the dramatic beauty standing still as a statue above me.
Through misty eyes, I raise my hand and rest it on his jaw, sharp like the edge of a cathedral’s gothic roof, those inked lips that had just devoured me – two dark pillows I predict will be my devotional ground until the very end.
Enthralled, my fingers travel over the roman column of his nose, giving his face a regal signature, even though it appears like it’s been broken at least once. Those bottomless coal eyes I've grown to seek in the dark, being shadowed by strong eyebrows, in perfect harmony with the inimitable character of his face.
My skin prickles with fascination as I canvas the sheer artistry of the lower half of his face, intricately tattooed, in the same note like his arms and hands, portraying the image of a skull’s jawline ; the outline of teeth that covers the sides of his cheekbones, reminding me of the renaissance charcoal sketches I have plastered on the walls in my study.
Shivering with visual pleasure, I follow the outlines of his face; the shading of the hallow spaces where the bones meet, contouring his cheeks with realistic dark hues and making him appear like living, breathing art.
As intriguing and unusually striking as the artwork on his skin is, I get the sense that Dante is not the kind of man searching for attention through his outer appearance and neither the sort that would intimidate by emulating a certain kind of danger by adopting a persona.
No, he's the kind of man capable of commanding a room with his sharp gaze alone, without even having to lift a finger. His energy possesses such potency that it could strip souls without them even being aware of the fact, until it’s already too late.
This was not an artistic choice but a result, a consequence.
That’s why my heart squeezes when I see that, in fact, what I felt all this time beneath his mask are deep, healed but equally present scars that cover the entirety of his lower face in a web of lines and ridges.
Whose monstrous hand could’ve done such a thing to him?
I fight back tears, collecting my pain and setting it aside for the time being, because this man deserves to be seen and admired for who he truly is beyond what has been done to him. For I have never seen a sight more haunting in its beauty, more intimidating in its imperfect perfection.
Feeling hungrier than ever, I meet his eyes that have waited patiently for me to explore him; all vulnerable and raw.
"Beautiful like death," I whisper, ghosting my lips over the smooth skin of his under eye.
"Hmm," he gives me a weak, indulgent smirk. "Only you," he adds tiredly, planting his mouth just below my own.
"One would be blind not to recognize it," I whisper, drowning in the intimacy of the moment as I seek his lips, drunk on the feel of their pillowy texture, their warm wetness. His molten taste.
"Sometimes I wonder if I made you up inside my head," he says, resting his forehead against mine and closing his eyes.
"Even if we were only a figment of the imagination, having your soul so deeply entwined in mine cannot be anything but real, at least in our world," I murmur in his hair, my fingers wandering over his nape.
"My woman made for and of metaphors," he croons affectionately while running his fingers over my ribcage and pausing on the curve of my waist before settling on my thigh.
How I adore that lyrical mouth of his and the way it always tries to distract me from my crusade for answers.
"Tell me about what consumes you, there’s no need to hide anymore," I say softly as I massage his shoulders, trying to relax him further into me.
"I should’ve stayed away today. I didn’t want you to see me like this," he responds heavily, grinding his teeth back and forth.
"Like what?" I ask, curling my fingers in his hair.
"Grieving. Weak, for lack of a better word," he says absently, not moving a muscle.
"What happened?" I ask, my heart dropping in my stomach at the thought that in the days we’ve been apart he might have lost someone close to him and went through the loss alone.
"Nothing," he says, kissing the space between my neck and shoulder. "Everything," he adds ambiguously.
"You can trust me with your pain. There is no scenario in this world where I will break it. I promise," I assure him.
"It’s a heavy cross to carry, Ombra. I know you are strong and stubborn in the way you are so willing to absorb everything as if it were your own. But burdening you like that…this early on, might be too heavy and I don’t want to weight you down," he says, taking my face between his large hands, his piercing eyes warning me with a silent look.
"Give me your truth; I’ll be the ear to your grief as it wails its buried secrets, the shoulder to rest your head on when the cross gets too heavy, the feet that will follow you into the darkest of nights. I am not afraid to dance with your demons or drain the life out of them, if that’s what you need in order to move forward," I declare solemnly, running my fingers over his tense temples, which have gradually softened at the sound of my words.
A funereal silence envelops us entirely, the sound of his ragged exhale, as though he had resurfaced after a lifetime of holding his breath underwater, breaking the stillness.
"My Ophelia…" he mentions my name like a prayer, as if I were his sole salvation in the middle of damnation. "Once I begin, there's no turning back and the way you perceive me will be forever altered once I'm finished," he cautions, rubbing his thumb over my cheek as if to sooth ahead of time the pain that is to come.
"I will not fear or forsake anything of yours. Let us not be alone anymore," I say without a trace of a doubt lacing my words.
I look at him while he looks at me, his eyes burning my essence into a naked secret with their soul eating mystery; as if he were preparing my world for a cataclysm and promising me imminent devastation mere seconds before inhaling deeply and letting the floodgates open.