Mutilated. Crypt of the Seven Angels

She was also offered to illustrate the» The mermaid from Colonsay» and «Tom Tit-Tot». And another number of fairy tales collected from both folk English and from Scottish and Irish folklores. All of them were rather curious and gave a lot of ideas for her artistic fantasy. But Tamlin turned out to be closest to her, so she so clearly drew every detail, every rose flower on a bush, every hair in a luxurious braid of Janet, every tiny flaw in a perfect figure of semi-elf. Tamlin was a man, but he was a captive of the elves. Claire made with the pencil a lot of hints on the fact that this young man has stopped for a long time yo be a human. So he kisses the hand of his lady, and he himself hides ugly claws behind his back. So he hides the webbed fingers under cuffs. Here, from his beautiful mouth, the snake crawls exactly the same as the one that crawls along thebush of roses.

You need to think about what colors it is all coloring. Claire threw sheets on the table and went to fill the bath. She did not find lavender petals, but she found only half an empty jar with a sea salt and a fiber-oil bottle. It will come down. The drum smell just calm the nerves.

Claire rummaged in the shelf behind the mirror, and suddenly something burned her fingers. As if the jellyfish clutched into the skin and burned her through. The feeling was stuck and terrible. It seems she came across the razor blade. Claire herself did not notice how she was cut. Not average, but somewhere in the depths of the soul, she looked like this long ago.

The first cut. Accident! The kiss of the cold blade turned out to be burning. The wound was burning and bleeding, as if the bloody lips were revealed on the skin. And together with the wound, some forbidden gates were opened. Gate to the past. Gate to horror and pleasure. Gateway to heaven, for some reason strikingly similar to the room torture.

Blood dripped on the floor: thick and allay. The drops loose about the tiled plates, smeared on them, excited the interest of some insects crawling in deep crements. In the head of Claire mixed in one kaleidoscope: creatures, thirsty of spilled blood, a long and twisted labyrinth of memories, blood color, similar to crushed roses. This color was simultaneously dirty and delightful.

Crushed roses! Where did this comparison come from. Roses, spikes, needles. They dug into the skin, and blood poured, as it happened to her now. Claire looked at the thick scarlet juice set up and frightened. It suddenly woke up persistent interest to her own bleeding wounds, and it struck her. She looked at the opened cut and vaguely saw many agony of many people. How scary, how attractively!

Her hand expires blood like once a long time ago. In consciousness, stabbing acute needle popped up. She stuck under the skin, and blood ran on a white cloth. Scarlet on white! Claire had a headache from blood loss and outbreaks in memory. Someone was near and squeezed her wounded hand. Like now. Someone grabbed her bleeding hand and raised gently to his lips. Someone with a disheveled face. Clare saw the burned lips, but she did not have the strength to scream. And when they appeared, a mutilated face was so close. She could touch him it she wanted. But for some reason it seemed to her that it should not be as she sees it.

Claire came to herself. There was only a blue tile around it. Walls and floor around were laid out with small square tiles. This is still a bathroom. So why she had a feeling that she was now somewhere else. The mirror without a frame on its wall seemed to have turned into a luxurious thing for a moment. Claire looked at it and saw someone’s outrageous person. It twisted from anger and pain. But it was not her face. The reflections simply lay down on each other. A man watched her from the mirror. Very nice man. Only his eyes flooded with blood. He looked at the blade in her hand, as if warning.

«Do not dare to do it anymore!»

Claire was surprised by the fact that he was completely not frightened. Probably because she was frightened. But the red streams have flowed with thin streams along the elbow. They stained the skin and burned. It turns out, pain from cuts may be such burning. Claire herself would be fainted, if she did not see fear and pain in his eyes. In the eyes pntently looking at her on the other side of the mirror. It comes out, even the creature living behind the mirror, is able to be afraid of something.

Blood drops on silk

Venice, 1570

She was invited to this luxury palace as a modest seamstress. Is it only possible to call a modest girl with delicious golden curls and eyes of the colors of the spring sky. She can wear a white starched cap and a strict apron, has a rough basket for sewing and takes up the door for servants, but you didn’t call her modest and common.

True, Cordelia was warned that it is better to always hold on to the shade when you go to the ownership of the devil. No matter how magnificent and rich was the Palazzo around, and the rumors overlooking these splittings are not at all so seductive as their appearance. Whoever owned all this magnificence, he also owns and bad reputations. Too bad to talk about it out loud. And too scary to not be alarmed.

Cordelia was alerted only slightly. She did not believe that the owner of all this could drink the blood of young virgins and cut cats under black candles. And it is unlikely that his French roots and a recent trip to France could have something in common with obtaining witchcraft skills, as many claimed. She did not believe in magic at all. And even more so in rumors about those who are too influential and rich. There are many envious people. Many poor people need an item for gossip. So they compose stories themselves. All this is just slander. Still, at the entrance to a luxury house, for some reason fear pierced her.

She timidly looked around for the silk on the walls, gilded ceilings and crystal chandeliers, and the cold trembling chain covered her body. It sometimes seemed that this dexterous spider was sprawled around her web and now she can neither move nor breathe.

Strange comparison for the seamstress. After all, she must feel herself a spider, weaving a gorgeous fabric.This time her work promises to be very exciting, because it will have to weave the wedding dress. The wedding web should remain durable and inseparable. For life. For all eternity. That is why Cordelia called here. Everyone knew how durable and beautiful are her works. A wedding dress for Angela Guinchioleli should have merged both of these qualities. The aforementioned Signora was not married for the first time, but it was this marriage that she wanted to keep for life. Cordelia specially paid for it to read one of her prayers about the marriage. The young devout seamstress knew how to do it. Everyone saw her on services in the cathedrals so often, that she was considered as a special e; ectrd of Madonna. Everyone believed that her prayers, sung during her work – this is a sign of a good future. Only Cordelia herself would rather call it a spell. She drove a needle and sank quietly:

«So that the thread does not break, and the fate would fit into it. So that thet will be for ever.»

Her beautiful soprano was echoed in a mirror room. White dress on the mannequin was becoming more luxurious and solemn. She did not spare not the gold edge, nor gentle lace, no beads for embroidery. That will be an outfit. Already now it made the impression of something magical.

Cordelia stopped singing, because she heard some kind of knock at the window. Her words broke off on the semi-note when she realized that no one could knock at the window. It is too high above the ground. And indeed, there was only a bird. A raven black, like night. And it looked at her with such evil eyes, as if it was going to burn her with its eyes through.

Cordelia was so afraid that for a moment she lost vigilance and pricked her finger with the needle. Blood drops fell on a white wedding dress over which she worked.

Luxurious dress. To wear this! Probably the bride is very good. Yes, what to guess there… in such a magnificent outfit, any girl will become a real beauty. It’s all about these silks, weave gold threads, brocade inserts and minor diamonds on the granted upper and lower skirts. Everyone will look at the elegant corset, on delightful sleeves with bulbs, on the golden sewing around the shoulders and elbows. The yards of dear fabric are attracted all attention, and what woman will put them on, everyone is.

«What if you become this woman?»

A voice or a fantasy? Cordelia shuddered and broke away from work. At the fine binding of the window, someone attached. It seems a black bird. It was not capable of saying words, but the flakes of her wings scared Cordelia. Together with the fright the finger was pierced by pain. The needle, which Cordelia carelessly squeezed in her hand, dug her right under the skin. It was terribly painful, and the bird seemed to laugh. Flapping with wings, it flew off the window. It seems that it was a black raven. Cordelia seen how they nest on the roofs. But never one of them was knock at the window.

Blood ran out of the finger. The injection turned out to be much more deeply than she decided at the beginning. It was worth looking for a handkerchief or some kind of rag so that nothing would be swollen, but it was too late. Blood droplets fell on a wedding dress and diverged on a white atlas with brightly aluminum spots. As if bloody flowers were bloomed. Red on white. This is no longer dismissed and not washed away. Cordelia was afraid. What she did.

And at this very moment, someone intercepted her hand. Cordelia strained. Someone’s fingers kept her gently and tightly just over her wrist. And the blood continued to drip out of the wound down on a beautiful white fabric.

«I am glad to meet Mademoiselle,» a pleasant velvety voice said.

Cordelia watched and could not take eye. She has never seen such a beautiful face. A man next to her really reminded of an angel. Beautiful, blonde, with pleasant features of the face and gently outlined mouth. The blue eyes slightly shone and, it seemed that you were drowning in them, like while flying to heaven. And he was luxuriously dressed. Aristocrat, not servant. She wonder how many seamstresses worked the nights after nights over his rolling and short cloak? But Cordelia looked only on his face. How is he beautiful! He must be the owner of the house. Judging by the description, yes.

He looked at her as intently as she was on him. And, despite the sharp pain in the finger, this moment seemed to her magic.

«I am Donatien,» she already knew his name.

«Cordelia.»

«How beautiful it sounds!»

Beautifully, like blood on a wedding dress, flashed in thoughts from Cordelia, and he suddenly raised her hand to his lips and kissed. No one did not do that. Cordelia is not accustomed to the fact that they cared for her. She was born not in a society where exquisite manners were taken, but he looked at her as if she was higher than others, but not lower. As if she was a princess here, and not he is the owner of the house.

He as if he did not notice the wound on her finger, although slightly smeared his lips with blood. He was too pale, and the smear of blood on the lips gave his appearance a little brightness. Cordelia looked at his reddened lips, and for some reason, a comparison with an crushed rose came to mind. She suddenly realized that she would like to kiss these lips at least just to test the taste of blood and fallen pink petals.

Anatomy of pain

Claire woke up, as if from sleep. For a few moments, she blinked and confused on the ranks of books on the shelves. Where did she read all this? When? What for? From the story she was drowning with gravestone cold, blood and aroma of cemetery roses. She did not want to remember this. The cold statues in the crypt, the gondola is on the cold water of the canal. There is a kissing couple in the gondola, the lady gives her hand to a man, he cuts her palm with stiletto, and immediately kissed the wound.

All this nonsense in the style of Marquis de Sad or Lord Bairon, who became a vampire. So why is it disturbing all this? Why strange plots pursue her like hallucinations? After all, no one ordered her drawings to such stories. Otherwise, she would certainly remember.

Claire treated the cut with iodine, but it still hurt himself. Blood stained her favorite top. On the skin there was a slim scar a little higher wrist. Scars it is so ugly. The cut can be sealed with a plaster, but the curved white strip on the site of a crushed wound will look very unattractive. It seems that Shanna said something about the fact that the scars can be easily removed by a laser. She herself withdrawn only boring tattoos, but it seems to be successful. Claire carefully looked at the ugly strip with torn edges.

How the flesh is vulnerable! How easy to disobey it with a touch of blades. Even if a person is perfect, as a statue, in contrast to the statue, he is so definitely. It is enough just to take the blade on the skin, and there will be no trace of beauty.

Perhaps the creature in the mirror was right. You should cherish your beauty, as some fragile jewel, which is very easy to destroy. When the beauty is, it is not too appreciated, because it is used to it, but the threat of what you can lose it, suddenly leads to a panic. Only in this case you realize how it is important to you. Beauty face. Beauty body. The beauty of untouched flesh.

A disheveled creature in the mirror of all this was completely devoid. If it existed at all. Suddenly the burnt and rugged face is just the fruit of a rich fantasy of Claire. And what about the pleasant youthful person, which sometimes looked at her from the same mirror. It seemed to be the hostage of another ugly creating. It manifes and waited.

Claire suddenly remembered the story about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Can beauty and ugliness be only two sides of the same creation? In English literature, yes. But in life. Rather, in troubled visions.

Claire put into a pink cosmetic bag her brushes and pencils and suddenly noticed the sharp object that flashed among them. Blade! Where is it here? She did not remember that ever in life had something like that. This is a completely sharp knife. Thin sharpened stylet with carved handle. In life, Clare saw something similar for the first time, but in dreams…

She took out the object from the handbag carefully as if it was a living snake.

The thing was clearly old as an exhibit or relic, borrowed from a museum. Only it is surprisingly well preserved. Stiletto was even newer and cleaner than the goods just received from the store. Claire involuntarily was captivated by her reflection in the sparkling blade. How beautiful! And how easily the same blade can destroy all the beauty.

Her suddenly pierced a strange perverse desire. To cut down! Just take the blade on the skin so that blood performed. It was terribly unpleasant and at the same time incredibly seductive. Again feel the hipping burning in the skin. Again to see how the blood droplets perform that the dew on the flower. The desire was so passionate that Clair was barely kept.

It seems to be burned from the inside. The idea is to inflict some kind of wound or injury, has become almost marked.

Claire seemed to sleep. Can it be a reasonable person to come on such thoughts. We must think rationally. In the end, she is an adult with refined taste and pleasant manners. So where did this craving for blood come from in her, to death, to violence? And most importantly to self-dispersion. Why the thought that herself began to seem much more seductive than to draw something with a brush on canvas.

All this was so unusual. Claire felt like in a dream. So she brought the blade to her own skin slightly lowering the elbow and gently spent them a thin line across the hand. The pain immediately defended how the coals were smoldering on the hand, but the feeling still was somehow fascinating. The blade drained a thin neat drawing. This could not be repeated on paper or canvas. This art required an extremely live flesh as a canvas. Unique art. Claire could not tear the eye from a thin wound, immediately pouring scarlet color. This cut was like a line of perfection. Absolutely perfect feature on the perfect canvas of its lily skin.

This time the cut did not seem to her dropping like greedy lips. It was like a straight road, carrying her into the labyrinth of memories. Claire saw bleeding black candles, knives, dead female bodies on the table and someone standing on them, someone in a coat. She saw her own palms, pricked by spiked roses, and folds of her own wedding dress. She heard the question:

«Why did you come here?»

And immediately something negligent:

«Well, okay, since you came, stay! Look! It will be your fishery ever…»

And the scalpel in his hand sank on the chest of a dead woman. Cuffs were painted blood.

Blooded lips kissed Claire, and she felt this kiss. It was sweet, and terrible at the same time.

Claire came to her senses only a few minutes later. Bloody trickles have already become so thick that they painted the entire hand. Blood ran out on the carpet. Claire took the wound with her fingers, and they immediately painted in a scarlet color.

What a strong pain! It is strange that the pain has come only now. When she applied a cut, she did not feel almost nothing. So people do something in a trance or under the influence of hypnosis. And then there comes a painful awakening.

Now the pain pulps in her hand, as a separate living being, a living being, which was suiced to you and requires suffering. Claire did not remember where the first-aid kit with bandages and ointments. She grabbed the first towel in the bathroom to scorch her hand to them, but her gaze was supervised in the mirror.

Rather, something from the mirror intercepted her view. Something that dwells in the mirror. Blood continued to flow through her hand, and her fingers frantically clung to the marble border. The nails became red from the blood, the pain was stabbed, but the consciousness was burning more.

«Who are you?» She wanted to ask. «What do you want from me? Why do you kill people around me? Why why why…»

So many questions have accumulated from her, just did not make sense to pronounce them out loud, because Claire knew that he would not answer any one. If he wanted, he would have answered long ago because he could read in her mind, as in the opened book. But instead of giving her at least a tiny hope that she does not go crazy, he just grinned. Clare saw his sinister grin, heard laughter. And the bloody blade in his hand. She saw it. On the other side of the mirror. A strange blade. Almost the same as what she found in her own bag, only with some emblem on the handle.

Claire caught her breath. She looked into the mirror as intently as a creature stared at her. It lived there, in the looking glass, or just hiding? She imagined him or is it true? Claire tried to find answers herself, but everything was so confused.

The mirror also suddenly twisted the misty haze. And it is cold there is no steam or hot water. Claire pulled out to rub the glass and only then remembered that her hand was still in the blood. But it was already late to stop. On the mirror remained a long bloody trail. As if after the murder, when someone was slaughtered near someone, and thick juggling blood spattered glass. Do mirrors remember murders?

Somewhere far in the room called the phone. Probably, Shanna again wanted to share the last news about the disaster. Or Brad called to ask for a visit or on a date. The call came, as if completely from the other world. From ordinary earthly world. And here in front of the mirror in the bathroom, as if the whole space was revealed, covered only by reflective amalgam. Now Claire saw only her wary reflection, but she knew that a whole universe could be revealed for any moment, a whole universe, filled with incomprehensible horrors, as in the works of Lafcraft.

«Who are you and what do you want from me?» She did not utter these words, but the questions hung in consciousness, as a smoke from the fire. Claire wanted to know everything. She needed something to remember. Something that happened a long time ago and not at all with her. However, events were strangely familiar to her. It was necessary only to strain the memory. But she could not make an effort herself. It was much easier to cut herself. After all, physical pain is very often not as terrible as pain covered deep in the subconscious.

Act of irreversibility

Memories like sleeping dragon. They hid somewhere deep into the brain and wrap it with their claws and tentacles. Total instant and they die fire. For a whole fiery explosion, only a tiny match is enough. A subtle hint, carelessly abandoned words or some randomly noticed thing, which suddenly awakened pain in memory, again made it active. In this moment, the awkward dragon becomes unproduction, he will burn your whole mind and everything will be able to reach it through him.

Claire understood it. Whether her goodwill, she would prefer not to remember anything. But the memories came to themselves. They did not belong to her, but scrolled like pictures on the screen. As in a gothic film. Garden with luxurious fragrant roses, under which the corpses were in the ground. Blood in cups on the table. The bodies cut with the knife almost to the unrecognizable state. But Claire knew who were these dead. Once they were her enemies. Now they were mutilated corpses. Always mutilated. Because once the same people mutilated him. Him… Claire looked on the flame of candles. She could not restore the face in her memory. She saw only black candles and blood. Candles for witchcraft. She knew this ritual, but did not remember its sense.

She was sitting at the oak table for a feast. The room was absolutely empty, not counting someone who sat on the other side of her. And his face was hiding in the shade. Although it is strange where the shadows come from if there are so many candles around. Is he beautiful or ugly? She saw only his hands lying on the table. Rather, only the cuffs around these hands and shine of expensive rings. On her fingers were also expensive rings, which in life she never wore, and lush cuffs around the palms, and gentle sleeves with pearl threads. The forehead also pressed the severity of pearls. Pearls were like living creatures taken away from the dead oysters. Certificates of their death. And Claire felt with every cell of the skin, how are they heavy.

And on the exquisite plates in front of it really lay dead worms and pieces of flesh. She knew that this flesh was human. She felt as if she had died. And this is not at all due to the fact that the corset on the whale mustache stood the chest so that it intercepted the breath. She felt like a shadow. Shadow in white on a disgusting feast. And he waited. He waited for her to decide. And she took one of the gilded forks.

It seems she fell into the trance or just thought too much. The phone was ringing without stopping. It was Brad. Claire did not want to take the phone at all, but, thinking, still decided that it would be impolite. Since when did she start to show politeness towards Brad? Since she realized that she needs to have at least some company in order not to stay alone with ghosts. She was already in captivity of some illusions. The presence of a living person near could change it. When someone is near, all fears are becoming less, and the dependence on the otherworldly weakens. Of course, a creative person needs to be sometimes alone with her own thoughts to create her works. But you need to have friends. There were always everywhere many guys and girls who would like to make friends with her. It was a rare quality worthy in order to envy it. Claire did not have to do anything at all so that people were fond of her.

Probably her amazingly beautiful appearance or mysteriousness attracted them. Or maybe a tempting combination of both in general. In any case, when Claire gave it to understand that she did not want to communicate too often with someone, these people were very offended at her. She herself knows why she sought to solitude. Probably, she was right and it was not worth respecting people, which of all possible qualities attracted only her too bright appearance. Is it possible to choose yourself friends in appearance?

Together with the question of consciousness immediately the mysterious hoarse voice said: