A Song of Random Writing

I know I've been quiet lately. I started a new job in retail at the beginning of June, and it's been taxing to go from having so much free time to working an average of 35 hours a week. And while I enjoy having the money I'm earning, since I can now actually afford the supplies I need to write, I've had to make some compromises on my time.

I am still writing, don't worry about that. I've actually had the funds to get the things I need to organize my writing stuff, and I've taken advantage of back to school to stock up on notebooks and other supplies. That said, I have begun work on a massive project involving journals for various characters at various points in their lives. While the majority of the contents of these journals will only be used as reference, I will be using some parts in my actual stories, and I'll make sure to share some with you all.

I just wanted to let you all know that I'm not dead.

Through the dim haze that was his constant companion since Jolene's death, he slowly became aware of her. She moved through the edges of his awareness, never coming too close but never fully vanishing either. Simply....there.

Her face was always a mystery; the haze wouldn't allow him to hold onto a clear picture of her. Little details, nothing more. A green eye here, an auburn braid there. A smile, a gentle touch. In his foggy state he simply came to believe that she was an angel, though he couldn't understand what an angel would want with him.

On occasion, he would recall a name. Selynia. Other times, vague snippets of conversation. Some days, he awoke to her gentle hands tracing the scars on his back, his arms, his chest. Other days he would swear that he'd dreamed her completely.

The one thing he didn't understand was why she had chosen him. He was convinced she was an angel, and he'd done nothing to deserve her. Yet she'd chosen him, saved him, all the same. No matter what the haze took from him, he recalled their first meeting clearly.

The morning was bright, clear and cold, as his finished the grueling climb to the top of the cliff. Spirit's Bluff, the locals had called it; a place haunted by the restless spirits of those who'd flung themselves from the top into the waters below. In his sadness, Radames had every intention of joining them.

He rested a moment after finishing the climb, then began to inch slowly towards the edge of the cliff. It was a good drop, straight down several hundred feet and into the churning whirlpool below where bodies would smash against unseen rocks. If they were lucky enough to survive the fall and avoid the rocks, they would drown long before they were able to struggle to the surface of the pool. It was a perfect place to end it all, because once someone jumped, there was no going back.

Standing on the edge for a few moments, gazing into the pool, he had a brief moment of hesitation. It was brief, though; he could think of no one he was hurting by jumping. No one cared enough about him to grieve his death. The thought resolved him, and he lifted a foot, ready to step over the edge.

“No!” He heard the woman's cry a split-second before a hand yanked him away from the edge. He tried to jerk away, and they both stumbled to the ground. He was up in an instant, ready to try his leap again, and she grabbed his ankle. “Don't do this. It isn't worth it.”

He turned to her then. Her slender face was pale, her wide green eyes frantic as she scrambled to her feet and moved around behind him to stand between him and the empty air.

He spun. He couldn't stand having people at his back. “I've made up my mind, and nothing you say can change it.”

She shook her head, reaching out to cup his cheek. He instinctively flinched away, and her hand dropped. “So young. What could possibly have driven you to the edge?”

“I'm older than you think.” His voice was defensive; this woman looked no older than him, and it wasn't his fault that elves aged slowly. He felt older than his six decades, that was certain.

“You are young for one of our race.” She smiled then, and he felt a faint fluttering of hope in his chest.

He pushed it away angrily. “Why do you care if I die? You don't know me. You don't want to.”

Her smile faded. “Surely there is someone you would hurt by doing this.” “I have no one.” He glanced away. “No one would mourn me. No one would care. No one would even know.”

“I would know.” She touched his cheek gingerly, and this time, he didn't pull back. “I would care. Isn't that enough?”

He shook his head. “I have nothing left. No one to mourn me, no reason to try anymore.”

Her hand dropped to find his. “Come with me. Let me change your mind. Let me show you that even one person cares about you.”

He never questioned his decision to follow her back to her home. He never understood what prompted him to do it, but he never questioned it. He lived with his angel for three years before he realized she was mortal. An elf, like him, but mortal. She provided him with the tools and the encouragement, and he spent his days building a new house, never questioning that he would be living in it with her. He just accepted her presence and her role in his life.

And one day he woke up from the haze and realized that he loved her. She'd given him a reason to live, and in return, he'd trusted her with his heart. She'd guided him from the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, and he'd repaid her kindness and care with the most precious and intimate thing he could give someone: himself.

He told her everything about his past: how he'd been conscripted into the assassin's life, how his relationship with his father spiraled from warm and loving to cold and abusive, his sister's sacrifice. She never judged, only listened.  Within three years, they were engaged. Another year passed and she was pregnant with his child, and he spent his days preparing for its arrival.

Six months later, he was burying her along with their unborn baby. She'd died in his arms, murdered for no reason. This time, he kept the haze at bay, refused to succumb to it. He'd made a promise to her as she died that he would live for them both. He intended to keep that promise.

(This was written as a response to a prompt supplied by writeworld.tumblr.com. They are an excellent source for prompts and advice. The title of the piece is the prompt.)

The sound of metal striking metal rang through the forest, deafening in the stillness. It was punctuated by a girl's giggles, and a male voice issuing orders.

“Focus. I feint left. You should anticipate it and meet me right. Don't watch my sword, watch my face. There are clues that I intend to feint. Dalia, focus! Now I strike low. You parry low. Block the sword. No, Dalia, not like that!” The point of the blade leveled at her throat. Radames sighed. “In a real battled, Vidalia, you would be dead. You aren't focusing.”

“I'm trying.” Dalia dropped her sword, pouting. “I am, really. I just can't seem to get it. You go left, so I do. And suddenly you're on the right. I don't get it.”

“I feint left, Dalia. Watch my face.” He demonstrated the movie. “See how my eyes flick right?”

“No. That's just it, Daddy. I watch your face, but you don't give any signs of what you're thinking.”

“Dalia!” He glanced around quickly. “What did I say about calling me that?”

“That I'm not supposed to. But why? You never minded before.”

“It doesn't matter. You call me Uncle, understood?” He picked up her sword. “Again. Watch my face, keep the sword in your sight.”

Dalia nodded. “I'm ready.”

Radames raised his sword. “Good. Watch carefully. I'll go slowly.”

They began their routine. Radames steadily increased the pace. “Okay, now, you go high, and I parry, like so. Good. Focus now. I feint right. Watch carefully. No, don't go right with me. Go left.”

Dalia growled in frustration. “I can't do this!”

“Come here.” Radames took her arm. “You're holding the blade wrong, for a start. This is a scimitar. It's meant for fluid motion, slashing. You're holding it like a longsword. You don't stab with this unless you know you can get a hit.” He arranged her hand on the hilt. “like so. It's a natural extension of your arm. Use it as such.”

Dalia nodded, her eyes fixed on something behind him. Expecting Ryenna, he turned.

“Bravo, Radames. I should have hired you to teach swordplay to my children years ago.”

Radames went ashen. “Larone. We didn't expect you until tomorrow at least.”

“Surprise.” Larone smiled mockingly. “We shaved a few days from our trip. Traveled by river. I was anxious to see my lovely wife again. I'm rather surprised to see you here, though. Tell me, why are you here?”

“As you said, I'm tutoring the girls in swordplay.”

Dalia hid behind him, peeking up at Larone. She tugged at Radames' sleeve and whispered “Who's he?”

Radames glanced at her. “Your father. Larone. Vidalia, why don't you run and find Elle? It's time for her lesson.”

“But I thought...” She looked confused. “Elle had her lesson already.”

“River, then.” Radames clenched his teeth. “Go fetch River.”

“Come now, Radames., surely she can have you a bit longer?” Larone chuckled. “Tell you what? Let's you and I show the girl a proper duel?”

I'd rather pull teeth from a dragon. Radames closed his eyes for a moment. “As you wish, my lord. Dalia, please go over where Larone is standing, out of the way. Put the sword back in the cabinet. My lord, if you'll select a weapon?”

Larone smirked. “Of course. Shall I go easy on you, for the girl's sake?”

“No.” Radames glared. “A real duel. Pull back only on a potentially fatal blow. Dalia, watch carefully.”

Dalia nodded, her eyes wide, as Larone chose a wicked-looking longsword and swung it experimentally. “This will do nicely, I think.”

“Fine.” Radames lifted his blade. “Then let's begin.”

“Ah ah ah. Where are your manners, Radames? We bow to one another first.”

Radames frowned. “In a real fight, there is no bowing.”

“Ah, but we're showing...Dalia, was it? We're showing Dalia a proper duel. So we bow.” Larone dipped an exaggerated courtly bow to him. “Now you.”

What game is he playing? Radames frowned and bowed slightly.

Larone's smile faded. “A proper bow, Radames. You do remember how to bow to your betters, I hope?”

I'd sooner bow to a snake. Glaring, Radames matched the exaggerated bow Larone had given. “Better?”

“Attitude, Radames.” Larone tsked at him. “But it'll do. Now, begin.”

Radames lifted his blade and began to circle Larone. Larone tsked again. “Always on the defensive, Radames. How predictable.”

Predict this. Radames swung his blade suddenly, slicing a gash in Larone's side. “Not defensive, my lord. Looking for an opening. You seem rusty, however. You left that wide open.”

Larone yawned. “And you've let your guard down.” His blade flashed, and Radames hissed at the sudden pain in his abdomen.

He glanced down to check the damage, barely lifting his sword in time to block another swing. Larone laughed. “You've been too long without a real opponent, boy.”

Radames growled and brought his sword around, the blade biting deep into Larone's bicep. He didn't slow, scoring two successive hits to Larone's ribs before Larone finally lifted his blade to block.

He laughed, bringing the blade around and hitting Radames in the chest with the flat side. Without missing a beat, the edge found its way to Radames' hips, opening a deep gash on either side and then back to his chest, opening another deep gash.

Radames knocked the sword away, managing a glancing blow to Larone's shoulder blade, but he was slowly. Blood poured from the deep gashes, too quickly, and his vision was beginning to tunnel. He heard Dalia gasp and brought his blade up, but too late. The point of Larone's blade found his throat, pressing in just slightly and drawing a bead of blood.

He dropped his scimitar. “I yield.”

“Of course you do.” Larone laughed and lowered his blade. “You've never bested me in combat. Never.” He glanced at Dalia. “You'll learn nothing from him. Except perhaps how to bleed.”

Radames dropped to one knee, and Larone glanced back. “Dear me, that looks awful. Vidalia, be a dear. Make sure he doesn't die before the healers arrive. I'll send them in.” He flung the sword aside and strode out.

Dalia rushed over. “Daddy!”

Radames winced. “Don't call me that. I'm fine, Dalia. Just a flesh wound.”

“Just a flesh wound?” Dalia tore his shirt off, ripping off pieces and holding them to the wounds. “You're gushing blood!”

“I've had worse.” He took the strip of cloth she offered him, holding it to his left hip. It soaked through quickly. “Okay, so I can't actually think of anything off the top of my head at the moment, but I'm certain I've had worse. That is an awful lot of blood, though.”

“Da..Uncle!” Dalia flinched. “You're white as snow. And as cold.” She frowned and replaced the soiled cloths with clean ones.

“Mmmhmm.” Radames nodded. “I'm going to pass out, I think. Everything has gone slightly hazy.”

“Be serious! You're hurt badly.”

“I'm painfully aware of that, actually. And I'm being serious.” He smiled slightly. “Obviously, training is canceled for a few days. I'm rather useless as a teacher at the moment.”

A tear slipped down Dalia's cheek. “Daddy...”

“Relax, Dalia. I'm not planning on dying on you. If Death shows up I plan to tell him that he's wasting his time.” He squeezed her hand. “I'm not leaving you, shardia kos, not for a very long time. I am, however, going to pass out now.”

She squeezed his hand. “Where is the healer?”

Radames laughed bitterly. “I highly doubt Larone is sending one. You'll have to fetch one. I won't to bleed to death while you're gone.”

Dalia smiled slightly. “You'd better not. Mama will kill you.”

“No bleeding out. I will probably pass out, though.” His eyes closed. “I love you, shardia kos.”

He vaguely heard her whisper “I love you too, Daddy,” before he slid into darkness.

(This piece was written as the Phantom's repsonse to the premise of Love Never DIes. Needless to say, neither he nor I were pleased with it. Please note that I had not seen the show at the time of writing, and though I've since seen it, I'm still not fond of it. This is just a fictional piece to express frustrations.)

The rose fell to the snow, its petals crushed by his gloved hand. Steam rose with each breath he took, deep inhalations followed by sharp exhalations. In the hand that hadn't held the rose, he held an envelope, the letter within sticking out.

Dear Monsieur Phantom, it began. He'd read the note several times over, each time feeling a curious and growing sensation that could only be described as pure, unadulterated rage. He placed the letter back into a cloak pocket and picked up the rose that had come with it.

In a fit of madness, he flung the rose from the rooftop. The small shreds of what had been tickets were scattered after them. The letter he kept. He would need it to ensure that this night ended his way.

Straightening his mask, he made his way back down to the catacombs of his Opera House. The few people wandering around scurried to get out of his way. His temper was legendary, and none of them wanted to be the target for his wrath.

Once he was safely ensconced in the Opera House, he pulled the letter out again and smoothed it in front if him. He needed to read it one last time, to make sure he wasn't missing anything.

Dear Monsieur Phantom,

Your story has touched the hearts of millions. Whether it be the book, the films, or the stage musical, your fans are numerous. There are many who seemed disappointed in the ending, though. I've had numerous letters from fans asking why Christine didn't choose you.

In response to this overwhelming fan base, I have created a second chapter in your story. Please find enclosed a description of the plot to “Love Never Dies” and two free tickets. I do hope you will join us for a performance and give it your official stamp of approval.

Best Wishes,

Andrew Lloyd Webber

With a groan, he re-read the plot description that followed the greeting. Moved to Coney Island, running a circus? What was wrong with this man? He'd allowed Webber to make the original musical because he was impressed with the script, but this left a bad taste in his mouth.

And through it all, there was the ever-present plotline that ended with Christine choosing him, then dying in his arms. There was something....no, everything wrong with that. Little Meg Giry had never touched a gun beyond the wooden props used in the Opera House. And like hell he'd allow her to become a topless dancer or a prostitute. Especially not for him.

One other thing was bothering him about the sham of a plot. Christine had left him, never to return. He accepted that. Apparently Webber did not, seeing as how he had written a song to describe a “last night of passion” between the two.

Suddenly angry again, he pulled a sheet of parchment towards him and inked his quill. This travesty called for drastic measures, and if need be, he would take them. First, a warning.

Dear Monsieur Webber,

“It's over now, the music of the night”. What happened to this, monsieur? This was the ending of the original musical, was it not?

I have read and re-read the plot to your newest....well, I use musical in the lightest sense of the word, truly, and I must regretfully inform you that I cannot accept your invitation to view it. You see, the plot makes absolutely no sense.

First of all, I would never move to this place you call Coney Island. Have you seen my Opera House, monsieur? Why would you think I would give this up?

Second, what you have done to little Meg Giry is a violation in every sense of the word. You must know, monsieur, that I would never allow Meg to do some of the things you have described her doing. I said I would make Meg Giry an empress, not an Oh La La girl.

Third, Christine left me, monsieur. For good. She loves the Vicomte, I see that now. She did not come back to me before her wedding, and we did not have a night of passion “beneath a moonless sky”. She certainly did not bear my son.

Fourth, your slander of the Vicomte de Chagny is repulsive. I have nothing but the utmost respect for this man you deem my “rival”. I knew he was bound to love her, and I let her go, if you recall, monsieur. The only ill-will I bear towards Raoul is that he dared to sit in my box.

Monsieur, this whole “play” reads as though you showed a young child the original and then told him to write a new version. Frankly, I am offended that you thought I would consider giving my approval to this sham.

Furthermore, the manner in which your letter was delivered was quite appalling. The rose is my calling card, and only to Christine. That you turned it against me was shocking and offensive. Please see that this never happens again.

If this “musical” is not stopped, monsieur, drastic measures will be taken. You recall what I did to the Opera House. Please try to remember that your version was drastically toned down from what actually happened. I will not hesitate to arrange a similar fate for all those involved in this “production”. Unless you wish to find yourself on the business end of the lasso, I suggest you do as I say.

Remember, monsieur: “It's over now, the music of the night”. You wrote these words, not I. Pay them heed.

With regards,

O.G.

Re-reading his letter, he nodded in approval before carefully folding the parchment into an envelope. He carefully copied the address onto the front before sealing it with his red skull. Satisfied, he slipped the letter into the outgoing post and returned to his catacombs. Slowly, he picked up the original letter and held it over a candle, burning all the offensive words.

If Webber was smart, he would stop the travesty and they would be done. If he read the letter and still insisted on going through with his sham, Erik was ready.  He would declare war on all who involved themselves with it, and his wrath would be terrible, the likes of which the world had never seen.

The lecture droned on, but she wasn't paying that much attention. It was all stuff she'd heard before, given her extensive work with Valerius Magnus, Zarek of Moesia, and Acheron Parthenopaeus. It was a normal writing time for her, but none of her favorites were really speaking at the moment. The plan had been to play around with Louis de Pointe du Lac, but like usual, things weren't going according to plan.

“Lya, we need to talk.”

She turned to face the blond man sitting in the chair next to her and shook her head. “Not now, Liam. I'm in class.”

“Please, babe, it's important.” Liam propped his chin on his hand, effectively positioning himself so that his shadow blocked her laptop screen. “Besides, you know all this stuff, and if you miss something, just ask Val.”

Lya sighed; she never could resist when Liam called her “babe”. Anyone else would be in deep shit, but Liam had a way of doing it that was just endearing. Closing her notes document and opening a fresh one, she nodded. “What's up, LiLi?”

He blinked a few times; LiLi was a nickname only Lya was allowed to use, but it threw him whenever she did. Finally, he nodded. “You've got the wrong story, babe.”

“What do you mean?” Lya tried to keep looking like she was paying attention to the class, but she kept glancing his way. “I don't have your story yet, LiLi. You're on the schedule for tonight's work session. Right now is supposed to be Louis' time with me.”

“But he's not talking, and you do have my story.” Liam gestured to an old manuscript sitting next to the laptop. “At least, you have the middle, and you got it wrong.”

“Well, I don't have time to fix it now, LiLi. That's why I was going to work with you later.” Lya turned her eyes back to the front of the room; the notes came back up on her screen. Most of her characters took the dismissal and returned later; Liam, however, would not be swayed easily.

“Damn it, Lya, you ignored me for two years to focus on others, and I shut the hell up and took it. I backed off because Radames wanted face time with you. But I won't be dismissed now, okay?” He reached over and closed her document. “Lock it. Make sure you can't split your focus while I'm talking. Please?”

Lya sighed, but password protected the document. Closing her eyes, she let him type it; she wouldn't be able to cheat that way.  “God, I hate when any of you get pushy, you know. If you were anyone else...”

“Except Ash.” Satisfied, Liam reached over and stole the chips from her lunch bag. “You never ignore him.”

“He doesn't talk to me as much, and you damn well know it.” Lyagrabbed the chips back and shoved them away. Sometimes the boys would take a few too many liberties with her shit. Thank the gods most of the girls didn't eat human food. “Only when he has something important to say.”

“Well, I have something important to say, so pretend I'm Ash.” Liam chewed a fingernail. “And the next time you have the urge to tell someone I'm a stereotypical drunken Irishman, don't.”

“It's true, though. You have a habit of drinking like, well, an Irishman.” Lya held a hand to him to stop him for a moment; she had to answer a question from the teacher. After a second, she nodded. “It is amazing that y'all haven't had me hauled to the loony bin yet. You know nobody can see you, right?”

“Do you care?” Liam shrugged. “Why does every history teacher feel the need to focus so much time on the damn Romans?”

“Careful.” Lya chuckled. “You'll piss off Val, and I'm not refereeing this time. Besides, most of this lecture has been the Greeks. She barely started on Rome.”

“Call it the Celt in me.” Liam grinned. “So, I think you need to start at a different time in my life. Starting right before the father dies is just...well, eh. You spend so much time focusing on Radames' backstory. Why not mine?”

Lya rolled her eyes. “Call me crazy, but I don't want to try and focus on two abusive families right now. It's hard enough doing Radames and Zoser's stuff. Notice I haven't worked on it since November.”

“But you plan to, eventually. And you said yourself, Zoser was an intriguing character.”

“That's just it.” Lya closed her eyes. She was starting to get a headache. “I started out hating him, remember? I only had Radames' side of the story, and it took Kayla's insistence to get me to even talk to Zoser. Now that I have both sides, I want to know.” She looked back at Liam. “You, on the other hand, your father I cannot stand. I know for a fact that Joshua was abusive, I spent enough time with him to get what I already had down.”

“I know he's an asshole, but couldn't you try?” Liam leaned forward. His shaggy blond hair fell into his face, shading his green eyes and making them more piercing. “Since you like to get both sides of every story. That's why you work with Val and Z, isn't it?”

“I work with both because I chose Zarek first.” Lya turned her gaze back to the laptop. “He was my first choice to role play. But when I started with the group, he was supposed to be taken. Val was my next favorite character.”

“He didn't choose you?”

“Most of you don't choose me.” Lya looked back at him. Blue eyes met green ones. “Radames chose me. I believe that's it. The rest of you started as ideas, and developed through careful cultivation.”

“Mama Lo chose you.” Liam pulled a pencil from her backpack and chewed the eraser; he was in dire need of nicotine and she knew it.

“Don't ever let her hear you call her Mama Lo, cher.” Lya winced a bit; she knew she only used the French endearment when Nicolette Peltier was hovering close to the surface. “You're neither family nor friend to her, and she won't stand it. “It's Nicolette to you, if anything at all.”

“Either way, she chose you.”

Lya nodded. Liam was right. Nicolette had chosen her, due to their similar personalities. Frankly, they were both mama bears, and as such, incredibly bitchy. “Ok, so Radames and Mama Bear. That's it.”

A thought occurred to her as she packed up the laptop to leave class. “Why are we discussing this anyway? I know you didn't come pester me in class to discuss which characters picked me and which didn't. And do me a favor. Have a cigarette. You're shaking.”

He nodded, fumbling in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. Sighing, Lya reached over and pulled it out for him. He plucked one from the box and lit it, inhaling deeply. “Thanks, babe. I'd go completely crazy without you, you know.”

“You're already crazy, LiLi.” Lya smiled at him; she was teasing him. Leaning against the wall, she set her backpack down and watched him. “You don't remember what it was you wanted, do you?”

He shook his head. “Honestly, no I don't. I guess I'll bother you later then.” He pushed himself off of the wall he had been leaning on and smiled at her. “Sorry babe. I wasted your time again, didn't I?”

Lya shook her head and picked up her stuff. “Nah. I was zoning out anyway. I would have had to ask Ash or Val to fill me in no matter what.”

Liam crushed the cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “Well, if you say so. I'll bother you later, ok? I know you're dying to get back to the theater hallway and hang out with your friends.” He kissed her cheek. “Say hi to  everyone for me." 

Lya laughed. “You say that like they won't chuck me in the asylum for that. They barely know who you are, LiLi.”

He grinned. “I know. I just enjoy messing with you.” He turned away from her. “I'll see you later, babe.”

Lya nodded as he started to walk away. “Later, LiLi. Don't kill yourself.”

“You know I will!” He didn't turn, just called over his shoulder before vanishing down the stairs. Shaking her head, Lya turned and walked to the Fine Arts department of the college. One of these days the people she worked with would drive her completely insane. It wasn't that far a drive, to be honest. Her friends were going to think she was nuts, but as soon as she sat down in the hallway, she began scribbling notes about the conversation. It would make for good material later.

(This was an experimental piece I wrote for a short story class. It's a conversation-within-a-atory, between author and narrator)

We descended, as Dante, into hell. An eerie silence greeted us, as though the spirits of the damned were allowed a moment's rest to watch us pass.

  Ok, wait a minute. This is no way to start a story. Why are you going to Hell? Are you dead, or just visiting? People need to know these things.

  Um..I'm sorry, but who are you?

  I'm the writer. I'm the instrument through which you as a character are able to flow and create your story.

  I'm not in a story.

Yeah, you are. By the way, who might you be? You've been driving me crazy all day.

Aiden. Aiden O'Connell.

Great. And just when the fuck did you move into my brain? You know, this is bullshit. You're starting in the middle, and I have no idea why I should give a fuck about you.

Well, I'm not entirely sure who you are, either, sister, but can I get back to you? I'm telling a story here.

Yeah, I know. You're doing it in my head. And you're doing it wrong.

Do you know how I'm telling my story?

No, but you can't start in the middle, Aiden. It doesn't work that way.

I'm going to go back to the beginning, but I have to set it up first. Can you just go with me on this one, please?

Yeah, alright. I've got nothing better to do. Go for it.

Thank you.

You better fucking do this right or I'll be back.

...Right. Ok. Shut up now.

Sorry.

~Aiden's Story: The Beginning~

We descended, as Dante, into Hell. An eerie silence greeted us, as though the spirits of the damned were allowed a moment's rest to watch us pass. The silent ferryman regarded us, the living, as mere nuisances. We could not go that way, so he cared not for us. We had to tread the path of Dante, the route of the living, with the dead as our guides.

We had no pious Aeneas to point our way, no repentant Pontius Pilate in Purgatory to advise us. We relied on those darker spirits, those who truly belonged in Hell, for only they could show us the path we needed. We relied on handsome Paris through Lust, poisonous Lucretia Borgia through Greed. Through Violence, the darkest figure of all, that unnamed, unnaturally handsome Jack. Yes, I, Aiden O'Connell, have gazed upon the form of the Ripper, he who murdered for no reason other than to murder.

I get ahead of myself. The experience was painful, dark, but necessary. I will go back to the beginning, but you'll forgive me if I muddle things.

It began simply enough. I am a poet, you see, and a writer. I have always written on dark subject matter; a few years ago I captured the last words of a murderer and turned them to a novel.

I was gripped, months ago, to write something on the nature of Hell. Nothing as Dante, oh no. I had no designs on traveling in my mind through a fictional tableau of the damned. I had no belief in the existence of Hell, yet I couldn't get the damn subject out of my mind. It haunted my sleep; I began to dream of Satan imprisoned in the ice of Judecca.

I began to write snippets of the Inferno, perhaps to ease my mind on the subject. I wrote the entirety of Canto 32, and become even more obsessed with the idea. I began to draft a piece. It seemed as though from the mouth of Satan himself, some days. I started to wonder if there was more than the Bible's side to this story. I wanted-no, needed-to write Satan's story.

My sister began to visit the flat frequently. Lily was worried to death about me, about my sudden obsession with Satan and the occult. I started spending hours reading old manuscripts, treaties on the nature of evil, on the innocence of Satan.

I could write novels on what happened, fictionalize and bastardize my experiences. Perhaps some day, but for now, I will skip ahead to the events that led us to hell.

May I interject here, Aiden?

Must you? Fine, go ahead.

You have a strong beginning, giving teasing remarks about Hell, but you lose steam in the explanations.

Well, I'm summarizing, not writing the novel. I'll add details as I need to later.

I'm just worried that you might lose readers, especially religious ones. They may decide you're crazy, or a Satanist, or such nonsense.

Risk of being a writer. You know it as well as me. I'll get to it when the time comes. You know, one of these days, you and I need to write this Innocence of Satan thing. It could be a good read.

I thought that's what you were getting at with this. No thanks, I'll pass. I'm not interested in the semantics of a God versus Satan debate.

Suit yourself.

Just get back to the story.

~Aiden's Story: Descent~

  After a few months of my insanity, Lily decided enough was enough. She was tired of seeing her usually sensible, if not slightly eccentric, big brother acting like a psycho freak. Every time she dropped in, I was obsessing on some new piece of information I had found, some new theory as to why Satan was truly innocent of the crimes he was accused of.  In my mind, the little snippets made sense to me, but to Lily, it was evidence that my sanity was slipping. Perhaps it was.

I dragged her on obsessive searches for the entrance to Hell. Every cave I found, every hole in the ground, was a potential way into my delusions.

We finally found what I was searching for, one stormy night. Lily had decided that I needed to be committed. I begged her for one last chance, and if we found nothing, I would go willingly and get help. She wasn't happy, but she agreed.

I'd searched the cave many times prior. It was...pure chance, that we found the entrance that night. It was almost as if Satan had decided tonight was the night to reveal himself to me. The opening was subtle at first, almost impossible to find, but as I poked the rocks around it, they fell in and revealed an opening large enough for us to pass through.

Lily balked at it. In her mind, there was no way I could be right. And yet, here was the proof. Without waiting for her decision, I dropped down into the opening.

It sloped sharply, nearly seventy degrees. I kept a hand on the wall to stay balanced, and I could hear Lily fumbling around behind me.

Gradually, the slope evened out. The dead silence was replaced by the the steady flow of water. We could hear tides ebbing and flowing. Beyond that, though, was a funereal silence, as though a constant respect to the dead was being maintained.

So....now we're caught up.

Yep. Is there a reason you're interrupting me?

Mainly to annoy you, right now. I hate when I can't follow what's going on in my pieces.

My piece, thank you. I'm the one who suffered for the art.

  Please, I suffer daily for it. You haven't met Al yet, have you? And I'm fairly certain one of you is the reason I'm sick....

Ok, great. Whatever. Can I get back to Hell now?

Yeah, sure. I'll attempt to catch up later.

~Aiden's Story: Journey~

We found ourselves in Purgatory, a hellish place if there ever was one. Our guide was Daelyne, one of the “virtuous pagans.” She was a quiet slip of a thing, though in her day she must have been pretty. She spoke not a word, but led us down the path, tiptoeing past Pilate, who watched with a cunning eye.

At the entrance to Lust, she left us in the hands of Paris of Troy, his once-luxurious blond hair hanging tattered in his eyes. He would not meet our gaze, but mumbled about foolish recklessness. Down the path, separated by a river, stood lovely Helen, forever reaching out to the lover she could not embrace.

I remember about halfway through the journey, Paris turned to meet. His brilliant blue eyes met mine. “Why did you come here? Do you come to mock those of us who knew no better ways?”

I shook my head. “No, good Paris. I came seeking to end this compulsion I feel, this plaguing desire to show Satan himself sympathy.”

Paris pressed his lips together. “Living creatures may not pass into that realm. The evil one will require a sacrifice, and even then no good can come of seeing him.” I felt Lily latch onto my arm then. “Aiden,” she whispered. “Let's just go back. You've made your point.”

Paris and I said “No” at the same time. I looked at him, confused. “Why do you say no, good Paris?”

“There is no way back.” Paris stood taller, intently turning his back on us. “You can only go forward. Only upon reaching Judecca may you prove yourself worthy of leaving.”

He strode forward, indicating that the conversation was over. I took Lily's hand and followed him, ready to be rid of our erstwhile guide.

He paused at the entrance to Gluttony. “I can go no further, and you will not have a guide through this waste.” He voice was grim; he did not expect us to succeed. I nodded and stepped forward, ready to proceed, but his hand on my shoulder stopped me. “Take care to remain on the golden path, friend. Do not stray and you will be fine.”

He glanced at Lily. “Care for your woman. Protect her. He is always watching. Prove yourself virtuous.” I nodded. “Thank you, good Paris.”

He said nothing further, but paused and smiled wryly before vanishing into the mists of Lust. The purples of the sky faded behind me, and ahead was the droll yellow of Gluttony. It looked like there really was no turning back.

Lily squeezed my hand. She was scared, I knew it, but we had no other choice. I took a tentative step forward, trying to recall how Dante passed safely through this circle. I did not fear the gluttonous damned; they sat, unaware of our passage through their eternity. No, the thing that frightened me was the guard of the circle.

As we moved slowly forward, an unearthly howl reached my ears from somewhere in front of us. Lily froze behind me; her breathing was heavy, full of fear. I could feel my own heart beating rapidly, but I kept a brave facade for my sister.

We turned a corner, and there it was. The monster, Cerberus, three heads intently staring at us. I took a small step forward, and the middle head snapped at me. I had no idea how we were to pass unhindered. The creature would devour us before we could.

Lily whimpered behind me. The creature turned all six eyes open her. I stepped further in front of her, blocking her from view. As I did so, the mud shifted beneath my feet. It hit me then, how Dante had managed to bypass this fate. I moved, slightly, attracting the monster's gaze. I stepped forward, just beyond a sucking mud puddle, and the heads snapped forward.

As soon as all three heads were down, we ran. The monster struggled against the sucking mud, but it was useless. By the time it freed even one head, we were well beyond his reach and back on the path Paris had pointed out.

The stink of sulfur permeated the air of this circle; I determined that sulfur was to blame for the yellow of the clouds. Upon the golden path, we passed through Gluttony within two hours. It was the fastest we would pass through any of Hell.

Well, here we are.

Yep. Sorry about the pause, but damn I need a break from this one.

I can imagine. I'm getting a headache just from the thought of sulfur. So, what's next? Greed, right?

Yeah. Next up I'll document the guidance of Lucretia Borgia.

Sounds fun. Tell me, was she as much of a bitch as history makes her seem?

You'll find out when I get there. I'm done for now, though. I need some time to think and sort events. And I don't know about you, but I could use a cigarette.

I don't smoke.

  Liar. Suit yourself. You should think about eating soon, by the by. The growling of your stomach is reminding me of that fucking dog.

I'll get right on that. Until next time, then?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Oh, don't worry, I won't go to Hell for it. I'm not Catholic. I just needed to talk to someone. Will you hear me, Father?

Jesus Christ, I hate that word. Father. For most people, it invokes a wonderful feeling. Hell, other men, they're close to their fathers. They have fond memories of all the usual male bonding: camping, hunting, fishing, sports. Not me. My old man beat the living hell out of me. Fuck, my fondest memories of the man are, in this order: That day he didn't take the belt to me for no apparent reason, and a month ago, when the old fucker was forced from this life. Honestly, I don't think he'd have gone any other way.

Sure. You'll say I'm a bad son. You don't understand what it was like, living with the old bastard. Every day, we would get whatever chores around the house done. I'd do my homework; I'd help Emilie with hers. We made sure that dinner was waiting, hot of course, and that he had a cold beer in hand the minute his boots were off. Didn't help most nights. He'd find something wrong with it. Off would come the belt. I took the worst of it; he could beat me to death, I didn't care, but I'd kill the fucker if he ever laid a hand on Emilie.

I wanted to turn down NYU last year, when they gave me the scholarship. I couldn't stand the idea of leaving Emile alone with him. I knew what he wanted to do to her. He tried to do it to me. I fought back, protected her, but I knew that if I left, she wouldn't be able to protect herself. I couldn't...they gave me six weeks to decide. Emilie finally convinced me to do it.

I knew he was going to go after her. Within a week, I got a phone call from Em. She was crying, she wanted me to come home. I was ready to board the next plane. Hell, I would have hitchhiked back if I could. But just as I was ready to book the flight, she changed her mind. Told me “I'll be ok. Don't worry about me. Whatever happens, remember that I love you.” She hung up after that.

I called back right away. His voice came over the line, said she was going to a friend's house, and dropped the receiver. I thought about calling the cops, but they were always fucking useless. Don't look at me like that. You know it's true. I put the incident out of my mind, but made plans to get Emilie with me on my next break.

When my phone rang again, two hours later, there was silence when I opened it. That's a fucking lie. There was the sound of someone being hit; I know that sound. Crying, pleading, a scream, another scream. What sounded like something being stabbed. I yelled my sister's name into the phone. The line went dead. There was no answer when I picked up.

I was on the next plane. Back in Texas in seven hours. Renting a car, speeding to the house. I called the cops on the way and they laughed at me. They fucking laughed. They weren't laughing when I called back from the house. Nobody was.

They said she was raped and murdered. They've been running tests on the evidence, but it's been two months. Besides, they just don't want to admit the truth. My old man was a model citizen, after all.

We were allowed to bury her last month. The dirt wasn't even over the coffin before my old man's body was found. They say he put up a good fight, that it looked like he fought back with whoever killed him. It was a pretty gory scene. There was blood everywhere. He'd been shot, stabbed, strangled. Whoever killed him was obviously wanting him to suffer.

You know the saddest part? They arrested my uncle two days ago, charged him with both murders. It's depressing, really. The cops really are incompetent, aren't they? Everyone knows who killed Em, and everyone knows I killed the killer.

I guess they won't get around to arresting me. I've confessed my sins, but they won't get the pleasure of ending my life. The last thing I'll do is deny them that.

I've got nothing left to live for. 

Kat scowled at her. “Shut up and let me think for a minute, okay?” She ran her hands through her hair as she tried to come up with a solution.

“Why don't we just call the cops?” Michelle arched a brow. “I mean, it was an accident. There's no way they can arrest us for murder, is there?”

“I don't fucking know, okay Michelle?” Kat took a deep breath to calm herself. “I mean, yeah, it was an accident, but what about manslaughter charges? I mean, they can hit us with anything if they choose to.”

“So what, we get rid of the body?”

“Michelle, you're a genius. An absolute bloody genius.”

Michelle flipped her hair and grinned. “I know,” she said. “That's why you're so in love with me.”

Kat rolled her eyes and knelt before the body. “Help me get him loaded into the car.”

“We should at least check for id. Money, even. Not like he's gonna need it, poor bastard.”

Kat nodded and Michelle knelt beside her. They both searched wordlessly for a moment before Michelle produced a wallet. “Jackpot!”

“I've got jewelry and a blank check for $18,000 dollars,” Kat said. “Man, this bastard was loaded.”

Michelle opened the wallet. “Credit cards and lots of cash.” She pulled the cash out and thumbed through it. “Damn, it's all fifties and hundreds, and there's like, a hundred bills here. Let's see what else this rich fucker has.”

Kat dove back into his pockets, coming up with a wad of bills secured with a rubber band. She opened it eagerly. “More hundreds.” She counted them quickly. “He carried $2,000 dollars in cash in his pockets? Bastard must have been loaded to be willing to carry this around with him.”

“Maybe he was a drug dealer,” Michelle said. “They carry lots of cash and are generally pretty fucking rich.” She went back into his pockets, but they were empty. “Damn, that's everything.”

“What's this?” Kat pulled a folded piece of paper from the wallet Michelle had tossed at her. Opening it, she read it and her brow crinkled. “Holy fuck, Michelle, this guy was gonna off himself. It's a suicide note.”

“Let me see that.” Michelle grabbed the note and read it. “Shit, Kat. He was going to donate all this stuff and put this in his mailbox. We can totally get away with this. All we have to do is deliver the note.”

“And they won't question the cash and everything missing because he would have donated it before jumping or whatever.” Kat beamed at her girlfriend. “All we've got to do is take what we need out of his wallet and throw him off a bridge somewhere.”

“We'll have to leave the credit cards. That would look suspicious. But there's an ATM card in here and he wrote his pin on the back. If he was planning to donate all of his money, it won't look bad if we pull it out of the ATM.”

Kat nodded and dumped everything into her purse. “What's the plan, then?”

“We're not too far from the old Clark bridge. Help me carry him, and we can get rid of this before anyone knows. We'll hit the ATM and drop the note in his mailbox after, and then we'll get the fuck out of this state. Maybe even the country.”

Kat nodded and kissed Michelle. “You're brilliant, baby. I love you.”