The Tale Of a Violet Mind

PART II- Dusk Of The Muse's Light


“SHUT UP!”

Myself who was now displaying a grimace exclaimed. I was startled beyond regaining my composure. I lay still on the warm wooden floor, to the left of the fire. As my mind raced searching for reason in the absurdity of an experience to hinge onto in an order to keep me from falling into a deeper insanity, I heard footsteps descending the squeaking stairs leading from the third floor. My god, it was Amelia and she had heard me! What was I to do? Was I even still in her house? Was I visible to her? Would I be caught in the midst of my actions? For I could not move, but there were not one, but two of me to hide. I would undoubtedly be seized in some form either by the authorities or by her manipulative coaxing for every detail of “why, why, why?”

This task had to go unbotched, for I could not afford this reprise to be anything less than masterful in essence. The footsteps stopped. It was quiet as I watched myself, unresponsive; sit, once again with a very satisfied smile upon my face. I heard one last squeak on what sounded to be the third, possibly the second to last step before standing on the very floor on which I lay. After ten, maybe fifteen seconds, she ascended the staircase and I heard her steps overhead walk across back to whatever pre occupation what detained her.

I looked one last time into my eyes as I heard Amelia’s voice; muffled by the floor between us, begin to hum those haunting notes. Within seconds it seemed, the eyes hypnotized me and the song from her mouth grew louder while the eyes grew larger, larger and brighter, beyond any hue of blue the father had given me. As the eyes grew in size and clarity, so did the melody until they meshed completely into one thing. It is hard to explain the realization of two senses, a sight and sound transfering into one feeling, but I proclaim, it evokes a most poignant emotion.

I lost gaze with these glowing eyes for the last time, I faltered in my stare due to the sensation of a gripping type of pressure on my right knee. I was anxious at the thought of what next twist this night might take, knowing that I was fully responsible, but may have lacked the sense to combat any further progression. When I looked upon my knee to see what had touched it, it was in fact my own hand. I had come back into my own body! With that, I suddenly felt completely at ease, I felt satisfied and the only other feeling I had was an urgency to say goodbye to Amelia. It was now as though my worried, feeble body and mind had become one with the malevolent being whom I’d spent a good deal of this evening with. Upon realizing this, I felt an unyielding flood of a sense of invincibility, words could not describe the feeling of capacity I had to change what, in the world I so despised. With that I screamed, “Come hear!”

She had put on that record, she was listening to Uncle Sander’s record again, which was now adopting quite a peeved sound of resonance on account of it’s age. She couldn’t hear me. I screamed once more “Come down here this instant!” The record player stopped as she ran to the stairwell. My heart began to beat almost out of my chest, my veins were pulsating with anger, adrenaline and boiling blood. In the last seconds before we met, I recall a monotonous chant in my mind of a phrase fueling my disdain for her.

'Tonever forgivher is Together fornever'

“Hello? Is someone down there?”
“Amelia, come down here young lady, I have something for you.” I had not seen her in close to a year, for she would be at quite a loss for words when she saw me. That would be good enough for her, well, at least good for me. The last thing I wished to hear was her voice before I silenced that tongue which was sharpened to a dangerous point on my heart just before it plunged through it. She began once again down the stairs, this time my heart pounded with eagerness, my palms began to sweat as she came closer to the foot of the steps, the creak of the wooden planks grew louder and my entire body began to shake, I began to snicker in a tone most evocative of craze, although I made myself uneasy this wicked laugh, I could not stop it.

As she neared the second floor I lost all reserve of belting out the loudest laugh, it escaped my throat just as her foot came into view, it came like a flood, and so did the rest of the ominous happenings of the night. She stepped down from the last stair and just as quickly, her head peered around the doorway into the sitting room that was just adjacent of the stare case and almost simultaneously cringed at my thunderous voice. When she saw me sitting in that upright position, eyes wide open, head straight forward and with, apparently that very same grin that so deeply frightened myself earlier that night, her face flushed of all blood, her head began to tremble, her hands covered her mouth and she let out a scream almost matching my laugh in volume.

At that split second I stood, moved towards her with swiftness while still maintaining a sense of class about my stride and with maniacal laughter, gripped the shaving blade I’d hidden strapped under my watch, opened the blade and held it straight out pointing to her face boasting a pretentious perfection.

As she quivered in uncertainty and fear, I, for the last time that our eyes ever would meet, in my mind, recalled the very first time our eyes met. I heard the piano that played that afternoon of the wedding between our mutual friends who’d joined bonds in Holy matrimony. Played by her dear old uncle Sander was that enchanting score, a piece written by one of his very own life long friends. I saw her white gown, her beguiling smile and deep blue eyes that matched mine perfectly, that piano played, played loudly; with perfect clarity. Then, I saw the look on her good man’s face when I burst into this very same room exactly one year ago come midnight with flowers in hand and a ring in my pocket. He was angry, defensive and hostile. He held her with familiar hands, as though I was as much of an intrusion as he to myself.

As the words she spoke that night rang loudly in my mind, I swung the polished blade once from right to left, across the beautiful, supple skin on her neck. As deeply as the blade sank into her throat, it will never equal the depth at which she wounded me. I will never be able to dress her every morning with the yolk that she has cast on me. She fell to the floor. I thought one cut to be far to conservative for someone of her nature. For she was cut and blood already soaked one shoulder, yet she was still more beautiful than any I’d laid eyes on.

Taking one knee, I commenced to slash her a second time, this time across the face, making sure to catch an eye, for once I wanted to see more of her than she could see of me. It’s a sad thing for a grown man to feel so childlike in the eyes of his love interest, to feel as though his most earnest efforts at maintaining a sense of manhood still leave him cowering to her. This creature of endless intuition could easily know where I had gone, who I had seen, what I had read and read my dreams for me. As much as I would have wanted this in a wife, the gift was not mutual and now I had decided to take back my virtue of individualism, my peace.

At two strikes she still lie breathing, but she lie still. I thought that this could take a while; I ventured up the stairs, and put back on our wonderful song. Her uncle Sander was always a queer old man, there was something deviant about him and as I looked on the back of the record sleeve, I suddenly understood why. A composer gone by the name of Leonard Samvel wrote this score so beloved by Amelia and myself. Although a famed composer of scores commanding deep adulation from followers of delicate fringe genres and obscure composing fashions, he was rumored to have been involved in questionable acts as a younger man and tended to act queerly upon a release of new pieces. Leonard Samvel had retired several years ago from his auditory concoctions of Heaven knows what due to supposed libel overrunning publications that, in earlier years held his name and work in high regard despite the lack of evidence to support such outlandish claims.

The paper insert inside the canister which held the record had printed on it a synopsis of the work on that particular record as well as an image, rare as this was, of a bald man seemingly in his early fifties and wearing a long thick beard dated some 15 years previous to that present time. This, I declare, was the first case of such extravagant garnishing to adorn a record canister that I had seen, at least dated so as it was and was Samvel’s very first syndicated compilation of work. “His left eye would have just matched Amelia’s uncle Sander’s injured eye. The eyelid drooped to the outside of the face on both men.”

It then dawned on me as I listened to the record proceed that these men were one. Uncle Sander was clean-shaven, but with short thick, gray hair. “I cannot believe I had never made the connection!” This all made perfect sense to me now; this man is indeed an enigma buried beneath a lifetime of shadows! I knew this name from books that I had studied. Revered as a pioneer of raising evil things to walk with us on the earth, he was known to the religious as “The Devil’s Catalyst”. As I reset the record, I was visited by a voice that seemed to be all about me; it was the very essence of the room and likewise filled my head. It instructed me to play backward the song from the end. In haste, I did so. As I spun the record backward, I was spoken to. The lights began to flicker.

In my research of demonology and names, which identify diverse entities, the name ‘Leonard’ belongs to the demon that is the master of sorcery. The name ‘Samvel’ or correctly written ‘SamAel’ refers to the angel of death and the prince of the power of the air. It seemed quite accurate at this junction to concede perhaps this man riddled into all things macabre was in fact infested with at least two entities that have preached their name into our mortal reality by way of his compositions and blatantly named themselves through his tongue. This, to me, at the time, was nothing to be of company with despite an odd yearning to stay in it's precense.

I left the record to play.

When I returned to the second floor Amelia was no longer a blonde, but now a red head. With one last strike of resentment, I swung once more at her neck. The Lister knife was now to be employed. But then I thought it a shame to dirty two utensils for such a small task. This had not taken much time at all, I was quite wrong to assume the contrary.

I then washed my tool in the sink as I thought of making my way down the stairs. With record still playing and a sense of freedom and accomplishment, I stoked the fire a last time and took the chance to have a seat on the sofa to have a good look at the sitting room one more time. As she lay maybe a yard from my feet, the feeling of invincibility slowly began to subside, I glanced at my watch and discovered which was now nigh onto three A.M. The wind was beating furiously against the house and the first morning light would be within a few hours coming close to a peak over the horizon. Within an instant, all feelings of sedation and glee drained from me. Oh my god, what had I done? What was this horrible mess at my feet? What had possessed me to do such a thing? My job! My family! My friends! What would they think? Would they know? Of course they would! The whole world will know when that old hag comes by to commence her weekly cleaning! Ms. Vanderbreght will be at the paper’s doorstep in no time. What am I to do? What am I to do with this mess?

I began trying to rationalize the whole evening’s occurrence. Yet, at the time barely had the memory to piece together what had happened or why. It took me sometime to remember in such detail that I’m telling you the events of that night, I don’t believe my mind allowed me to recall for sake of permanent insanity. I suppose my mind is in fact an advocate of time to be the best healer.

The next, and one of the most haunting episodes of the night was after I had realized, at least in part what I’d done, I made way to the door just down the stairs as quickly as I could, Just as I reached for the doorknob of the door I’d left cracked open upon entry, the door slammed shut! As if someone from outside were attempting to trap me inside. There was not a soul around that door, save my own.

I fought furiously to open the door, beating at it, pushing, pulling, jiggling the lock, but to no avail. I ran up the stairs and took a half turn to the left to the window that overlooked that strange fern I’d noticed earlier in the night. I was going to shimmy down the side of the house and hopefully make a soft landing into the bush. I had the window opened and just as I was about to leap I remembered something. I had to go back for the Lister knife and blade! I stormed through the kitchen and into the room where there was now a most disturbing crime scene to retain my things, I hesitated to glance at what I had done; I could not fight the temptation. Oh, we humans are curious creatures and sometimes so much that it seems it is bad for us. I looked down upon my deed and when I cast my sight upon that hideous spectacle, my stomach rose to my throat, my heartbeat reverberated throughout my body with furious rage and caused my focus to blur, with every beat I became more disoriented, it sickened me to the point of fainting. The last thing that I remember before a knock on the door was my head meeting ever so abruptly with the wooden planks that she lie on, now, with me.

So there we were, one last time. To lie together in the sitting room, blazing fire crackling. As I fell, my hand came to rest in hers as she lay on her back and I on mine. Hand in hand, side by side as the sun rose.