Page 42 of Fragile Wicked Things

On the first sign of daylight, my skin burned, my veins blackened, and I was forced to hide in a hollow furrowed deep within the brown moor, wading knee-deep in its dark growth, the crag protecting me from the sun above.

In a short time, I understood how to sleep during daylight and travel at night.

My sense of vision was impeccable, and I was able to see distances I never could before.

Smells were strong. Farm hands reeked of the animals they tended to, the wheat they harvested, and the beer they drank.

The women smelled of rosewater dabbed on the hollow of their necks, on the cleavage of their breasts and of the men they were with.

The scent I most cherished was fear. The delicious smell of sweat intoxicated me, and when I would corner a young woman in the alley behind a tavern, it seemed I could make time almost stand still, listen to her heart thump loudly, watch her pupils dilate, the hairs of her arms flick up.

And the moment I knew she was mine, the moment she was aware of her imminent death that I held in my hands, was the most intoxicating of all.

When I sank my teeth into her flesh and drank the life from her, I could feel her heart beating against my own still heart, her blood pulsating into my veins and it brought me back from death.

The monster was to blame for the dogs who forced me to head north, farther away from civilization and my kind.

But it struck me that they were no longer my kind.

The dogs long gone, I continued north where the sun wasn't as brilliant, a place where continual rain moistened the ground, soiling my shoes.

My funeral suit was already tattered when I was laid to rest, but now it was caked in mud and blood.

At some point, I had crossed into Scotland.

I could hear the ocean waves pound against the cliffs three, maybe four miles away.

After a long time, when I was far enough away from the last hamlet I had passed and when I found myself in an area where I knew the population would be thin, I came to rest in a clearing in the forest. I fell to my knees, buried my head in my hands and wept.

We know that God is everywhere; we feel His presence, but at that moment, His words were silent, lost to the likes of me, a soulless creature of the night.

I begged for mercy, but He could not save what He did not create.

Not one tie held me to human civilization.

Society would have not one kind thought or a good wish for me.

I was lost with nowhere to turn and, with day approaching, had dug a grave with my bare hands and buried myself in the dirt.

Worms squirmed around me, and insects burrowed.

Nature! I will seek her breast and ask for repose.

Mother seemed benign and good; I thought She loved me, outcast as I was, and I, who from Man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, and fear, clung to Her with filial fondness.

As I was Her child, I would be Her guest: my Mother would lodge me without money or price.

In Her bosom, I was free—from civilization, the monster and the murderous trail I left behind.

To my delight and dismay, I discovered I could feed off the forest animals and although they did not give me the strength that I desired it was enough to temper the pain and help bring me back, subduing the monster within me, albeit temporarily.

For a long time now, I have tried to return to the man I used to be, but I've never been whole.

Feeding off the animals sufficed for a period, but then my body weakened, sick with the instinctual cravings the demon desired.

I was not rid of him. My solitude was no solitude; my rest was no rest as long as the monster was still with me.

I wandered the forest like a lost, starving dog, my strength failing me, making it difficult to trap and kill animals.

An intense pain shot through my body from my core to the tips of my fingers. My body doubled over, convulsing on the mossy ground while something unknown ripped out my insides.

"I want to die!" I shouted.

Even He, who was no longer my Creator, would not take pity on me and release me from my anguish.

Over the days and nights that followed, my mumblings became incoherent even to myself.

There were moments when I shouted out loud and other times when I whimpered as a child.

Days, I remained hidden, and nights I would speak to the darkness believing it would answer and one day, in delirium, it did.

A voice called out. For a moment, I thought my Creator had not abandoned me after all, that He would not leave me in this world as a beast, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled.

"Are you in need of a doctor?"

I lay on the ground, smiling at the heavens hidden behind the blackness of night, when a face appeared, peering over me, upside down.

Had I not been writhing in pain, I would have heard him as his horse galloped through the woods; I would have smelled him from some distance away, smelled the blood that ran through his veins rushing to his heart; would have heard the sound of it racing against his chest and the smell of fear.

One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Then there were no more.

My teeth sunk deeper into his neck, his blood now mine, flowing freely in my veins. No, my Creator had not abandoned me. The dark one who made me was determined that I should not suffer and that I should not wish to die any longer. My prayers were answered.

The blood. It fed me. It strengthened me. But the real power did not come from that rush. No, it was not in the blood. The kill was where the real power lay. Death fed the darkness.

The man lay on the ground dead. He was dressed in fine fabrics, his hair light in color and his complexion, once warm and rosy, had lost that hint of youth and natural appearance.

Yes, I felt alive again, but now burdened with the weight of despair and remorse pressed against my still heart.

When I had run deep into the woods, I swore I would take no life and yet there he lay, his body lifeless at my hands, from my inability to control the beast within me.

Truth be told, the beast was me and could never be separated.

I had to choose—my life or theirs. I chose Man and swore to never fall again.

Later in the night, I carried his limp body to his horse and threw him over, his hands flung over his head, swinging as the horse reared away from me.

Grabbing hold of the reins, I led the horse astray through the forest until we neared the ocean where I determined to throw his body.

A second thought entered my mind. The dead man must have been a Christian, thereby, entitled to receive the grace and sanctification of a proper burial.

Who would do it? Certainly not me. Who was I to say a prayer to carry his soul over the threshold into the heavens?

During that time of questioning, I saw a castle high above the steep cliffs that dropped to the North Sea fifty meters below.

Its tower showed signs of cannon bombardment from a different era.

I peered over the jagged cliff to the ocean below; its waves struck against the Earth for centuries, forming the rocks.

No, this man who made the unfortunate decision to help me would not perish against the rocks lost to the sea.

I led the horse to a spot twenty meters from the castle and smacked its behind.

The animal neighed and ran. A few meters from the stone gatehouse, the body fell with a thud to the ground.

The horse, frightened by my striking hand, made such a noise that a rumbling appeared within the castle walls.

Voices shouted. Moments later, the gate opened, and men walked out, torches in hand to light their way.

"Tha's Rochester's' horse," one man shouted. "Master Rochester, where you be?"

The men called out to him again until, in horror, they found his body on the ground, one leg bent at the knee, arms flung about, and skin devoid of color.

One man kneeled by the one they called Rochester and muttered a Christian prayer.

Content he would be provided with a proper burial, I turned to leave but stopped when another man called out from inside, his voice weak and shaky.

The men begged him not to leave the shelter of his castle, but he disobeyed and stepped out where I could see him.

He looked to be in his sixties, clothed in a white robe, feet bare and a servant boy stood near him steadying a candle in his hands.

The old man descended the stairs, advanced at a slow pace and groped at the men who stood near him.

"You called my son's name. Where is he?" His hand tightened on the cloth of the man he held.

"My Prodigal Son has returned." Then the old man paused a moment, cocked his head to the side and listened.

He lifted his gaze my way and stared in my direction and I feared he could see me hiding behind the tree, but his eyes were cloudy, grayish in color and he could see nothing.

His lips parted, a somber look on his face.

"Take me to him."

The cowards did not step forward, did not look at the old man and stood mute.

The young servant boy took the old man's hand into his, led him to his dead son's body and whispered for him to kneel.

His hands, dry and cracked, searched the ground around him, fingers running over leaves and twigs until he found his boy's arm broken in the fall, and what followed was a horrific wail of severe suffering.

Soon, a sound emanated from my body and merged with the old man's: the anguished cry of a parent over the loss of a child.

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