Mind Over Muerta
By Kristy Nicolle
I stare into the monochrome whirls of the makeup that lies atop my skin. Shedding the veil of flesh that makes mortals so comfortable, I have watched many blanch before me, disgusted by what lies within. A single tear falls down my left cheek from the almond round of my chocolate iris, my heart heavy as lead and twice as dull.
The smell of gardenias twists through the air, a sweet serpentine vice that chokes me on my own suffering as I think of his face, the man Yama and I have just sentenced to fight in The Ashen Waste for the rest of his afterlife. He had shot his wife, and her lover, after catching them in his bed together. I had looked into his aura and seen sin, but also great passion.
Against my volition, my heart aches for the kind of adoration and love that would drive such a creature to these drastic acts. My empathy smothers me, and I struggle for breath as more tears spill down my face in a torrent, smudging black and white face paint into a muted, ambivalent grey.
The door opens and closes, and I wipe my wet cheeks upon the rosy silk of the shawl draped over my spindled form, which juts without softness or mercy from within my tight bodice.
I look up and find him, the melancholy periwinkle blue of his skin causing my heart to sink.
“Why are you crying?” he asks, tone impatient as he strides over to the bookcase on the opposite wall without pause for my sadness.
I take in him, his monochrome robes, and then the stark difference between my side of the room and his. His side of the bed is primly made, sheets pulled tight and unforgiving, while mine is dishevelled, strewn with burgundy and violet pillows and crumpled velvet throws.
The side of the room belonging to my husband is orderly, is exact in every regard. From the way in which he orders his most valued legal texts, to the way his sock draw is divided exactly so that his black socks lie on the left, his white on the right.
“It’s nothing,” I respond as he looks back over one shoulder, no doubt anticipating my reply on a timelier schedule.
“Do I have to pretend I believe that?” He cocks one eyebrow, turning precisely one hundred and eighty degrees on the ball of his foot after selecting the volume he came in for, and closing the distance between us. His black robes flutter around him, stark and uncompromising. Black stays within swirling borders, and white remains but a shroud of it’s other, contrasting without falter.
His fingers come to my chin, lifting my eyes at measured speed to meet his golden gaze, the gilded locks of his braided hair turned fiery in the light from the flickering candles scattered around my vanity.
I search his face, heart stuttering.
Has he heard my silent prayers, the cries of a fallen Goddess longing for change within the one man she vowed to love forever without falter?
He gives a gentle sigh, moving his fingers from my jawline and letting my gaze drop. He lays a small kiss on my forehead and my heart sputters out, extinguishing like the dying embers of a once ferocious fire.
More tears slip from me, but my beloved doesn’t seem to notice as he walks from the room, leaving me alone with my own discontent.
His face comes to me then, young, boyish, a creative glimmer born like a star behind the dark onyx velvet of his pupils that consume all other light and give nothing back.
My heart pounds against my consent, a prisoner beneath the corseted cage that binds my wanton, lonely flesh. It rattles the bars, shaking my soul along with it.
I glance back over one shoulder, finding my reflection once again, the truth I don’t want to admit staring back at me in a kaleidoscope of colour.
Bloody red, like that which spatters upon the chill skin of a jealous lover. The cool blues of ocean water in which I was once held, made whole as Yama and I made cosmic vows beneath the infinite skies of The Higher Plains. Glimmering canary, the colour of the pure joy I had once gleaned each and every time his golden pupils settled on my face, like twin suns illuminating the beauty of my world below. Deep emerald greens, the colour of Daedalus’ soul, his aura reflecting luscious fields of youthful creativity and optimism that grow within the pastures of his beautiful mind.
I had once been so in love with Yama, so passionately enamoured…
Was he always this way, coming across so unfeeling, so unceasingly logical, but I was too much in love to notice? Have I tinted his monochromatic aura passionate fuchsia with my own desire to be loved?
My hands tremble as I let the shawl draped over my skeletal frame fall, pooling in a rose-pink puddle at my feet.
Rage builds deep in my chest, my long raven locks tremoring and tickling my shoulders as I grit my teeth, trying to shove down this emptiness that has taken root inside.
My hands ball into fists, my eyes closing, taking deep breaths which do nothing but stoke the fire of my rage.
My eyelids snap wide, my hands staring into the diminishing vivacity of my aura’s reflection.
He did this to me.
He killed my soul.
I lurch forward, bony hands clutching the mirror and wrenching it from the varnished mahogany of my vanity. I knock several candles askew, still burning, and they fall, wax spilling out over the surface as the light cast from them dies.
I twirl, patchwork petticoats flaring around my body, a spinning top that’s been wound tight by my own repression. I am now then unleashed, whirling and abandoning my grasp of the mirror in my palms, letting my grasp on the reflective surface slip just as it has done upon the mask of my composure.
The mirror flies through the air, toward the fireplace that smoulders at the far end of the room, meeting with the black and white marble of the floor and shattering into a million jagged pieces.
The sound of the mirror breaking is like ecstasy, like climax, as I sink to my knees, breath coming in heavy waves as I steal the surrounding air for myself.
What is it about that man, the one who had killed his wife at gunpoint, that has catalysed this chain reaction of chemicals and chaos inside my heart?
Tears spill onto the floor, spattering atop the contrasting stone but leaving it unchanged. I bring my hand to my chest, feeling the rising and falling like the swell of a stormy tide.
Such discontent, such pain, for one who is divine.
Why is it that I cannot find my peace? Cannot surrender to who Yama is, instead of craving who I dream he could become.
I know the answer.
I know it is because if Yama found me in bed with another, found me entwined in the limbs of someone who was not him, he wouldn’t pull out a gun. He wouldn’t fight. He would merely walk away, never to return.
Where there is no passion, no fight, can there ever truly be love?
Did you enjoy Muerta’s narrative?
Click on the covers below to discover More about her story in The Ashen Touch Trilogy!
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Check out my books-
BOOKS CURRENTLY AVAILABLE FROM KRISTY NICOLLE
THE TIDAL KISS TRILOGY- A MERMAID FANTASY ROMANCE
TIDAL KISS SHORTS AND NOVELLAS
THE ASHEN TOUCH TRILOGY- A DARK FANTASY ROMANCE