In the Deep (open)

Who I am... What I am. Why I am. Whowhatwhy I am. I am Who and What I want to be.

Muted blue light filtered into the otherwise darkened room, catching small pinpoints of dust as it wafted through the stale air and mingled with the lazy curls of incense smoke that danced in and out of the weak beams. A lone bare lightbulb struggled to fill the dreary room with its weak power, but it fell pathetically short of any such accomplishment. Instead, it lit a small patch of ground and wall, falling on an overstuffed armchair that had once been gloriously upholstered in black leather and studded with handsome brass details on the arms and edges. Now the leather was torn and faded in areas, yellowed stuffing gaping from those wounds as if indignant about being exposed to the musty air as such.

A figure reclined in the chair, her heavily lidded eyes focused on the tortured little bulb as it flickered and strained. Though her mouth remained slack and her movements were minimal, there was a strange look of accomplishment in those thousand-mile eyes of hers as her lids trembled and the light winked out, then blared to life again. The light remained steady for a while as her interest moved on, vision rolling across the dismal, undefined room as she imitated an owl's lazy neck oscillation. Her nails clicked in rapid secession against the stiffened end of the chair's arm, dark and dangerously pointed claws gleaming with an almost poisonous sheen in the half-light.

Slowly and languidly the figure stretched her long legs and pushed something unceremoniously off her lap, standing up with the slow, sure movements of a lioness just rising from a satisfying nap. The click of her heels rang as a sinister metallic chime against the raw concrete flooring- a nerve-tingling sound in the otherwise muted and silent room. Even in the apparent loneliness of the dismal space, she towered at nearly seven feet tall, shoulders squared and chin held high, looking regally over her strange little kingdom. Even in the deeply concealing shadows, here and there strange figures could be seen. Mannequins, scratched and cracked and faded, lay scattered about in twisted positions. Some were adorned or were in the process of being worked on; there was a female torso with what looked like leather skin being fitted to her form and laced up the center and up each sleeve with black wire. Another male head and torso had a luxurious blonde wig of women's hair in the process of being stitched and glued to his head. His eyes were uncanny, glittering in a plastic stare and carefully set into the formerly carved sockets of the plaster model's face.

Bone-white hands reached and twisted in motionless agony, or possible frozen ecstasy, in the farther darkened recesses of the room. Ofelia sashayed liquidly between the bodies that were scattered about, running her fingers through a head of hair here or along a sculpted shoulder blade there. The look on her face was indecipherable, those darkly painted eyes revealing nearly nothing except for an almost drugged look that was still too sharp and aware to fit neatly into an easy diagnosis. This was her world, and who knew if she was living in the mortuary-like stillness of her physical location or if she was seeing those lifted hands moving and bodies twisting together in a soundless orgy as plastic and ink flowed through their carved veins and synthetic hair tangled between brittle fingers.

There was a strange scent in the air. Musty and rank, like an old garage where mice have perished in the walls where nobody could reach them. Yet Ofelia did not notice, or if she did, she ignored it for the scented smoke that curled under the whining bulb. This place was her cathedral and she was the mother goddess in her sheer white dress laced delicately with tiny bones along the hem and polished chips of teeth resting against her throat. Her wrists clinked like offering coins as she traced the chin of one of her beloved dolls, the armful of wires and wrapped metal bands threaded with pearls and beads of bone clattering agaisnt each other at her movements.

She was a strange specter in white in the terrible lighting, her dress only accenting the curves of muscle under the fabric and the glint of metal on her dangerous heels, wrapped around her arms from wrist to bicep and curled around her throat like ribbony silver vipers. Her eyes and mouth were blackened and while she was absent of a headdress today, bloody red tresses flared out and framed her face, some of it tangled back at the nape of her neck and still other strands uneasily resting against the slope of her chest.

Behind her, the slowly rolling object she had dropped eventually came to a stop against the foot of the chair again, dark deadlocks spilling in the flickering light like dried tentacles as they stilled. Dead eyes stared sightlessly into the recesses between the chair's legs, the jaw of the poor nameless man wired shut so that it wouldn't fall open unwantedly.

Ofelia did not notice. He would come in useful later, but it might be a little while before her muses struck and she could find the perfect body to fit him to.

There was snow.

White snow.

Pure snow and it covered the city as a soft blanket that hid the waste and refuse beneath it's purity. Such a snow was soft, softer still then the wool of a young sheep, and yet it was colder then a bath of ice in a summer's day, Alexander was not afflicted for he walked with this snow and only he saw the snow for it was his snow and no one else's.

But Alexander was human indeed and as a human indeed he instinctively sought to find shelter from this snow that covered all in it's pure white essence. Favored by fortune, or powers divine, Alexander walked amongst buildings of old which laid a wasteful and forgotten memory of a time long past and more prosperous then this one.

When he at last came to a place with unlocked doors he rested and waited for the snow outside to melt back to the waters that returned to the sky and yet he watched such a snow from the windows as it fell from the heavens above with gentle caress against all it drifted upon. There, in that place, upon old steel grate floors, refuse, and waste he slept a sleep far from peaceful; for as much as the snow covered the streets, the buildings, the garbage, the cars, it did not hold back the nightmares, the plagues, the asphyxia that visited him often; much too often.

Sleep was not sleep.

Now Alexander walked this place perhaps still asleep, perhaps awakened with eyes wide open, perhaps in a state between both, and his face was not his face for that Mask, that White Mask of old, rested upon him and he was Alexander no more, or perhaps he was. Steps taken neither heavy nor light echoed too and fro as he etched carvings upon the wall. Loudly the scratching of brick against metal broke the serenity of the silence as that of a scream ringing abrupt in the mountaintops.

When such a stone was cast aside with a loud clashing of the metal floors kissed by the brick, therein was adorned upon the walls, upon the doors, upon the grates that covered the windows circles overlaid with X's all around, symbols appearing as letters but something much more then that; perhaps reflections of something not quite belonging, not quite light.

For whatever reason it may have been, this one, this White Mask, grasped a remnant of metal much greater in span then he, and he drug it across the floor. Such a sound echoed throughout as the shrill screech of a siren's song devoid of it's beauty but it was not alone. He took it to a supporting pillar and, with greater strength given, he struck such a pillar repeatedly, as though it were a bell to be struck in the morning hours before the rising of the sun, and it had been as though he had tried to wake a sleeping sleeper long slept in slumbering sleep.

And he continued this noise.

Taking the brick from the floor he threw it against the wall, taking his fist he struck the many doors, taking refuse and waste from the ground he threw it all against the wall; noise for the sake of noise or perhaps it had a greater purpose indeed, or perhaps it was insanity that gripped him and drove him to such nonsensical acts of noise for the sake of noise. Perhaps it was a sleeper sleeping that he tried to wake, perhaps it was a nightmarish waltz walked in his own sleep that he now danced unaware.

Perhaps all too aware.

There was in that place darkness,

There was in that place,

The White Mask.

Deep from within the walls of her grotesque sanctuary, something reverberated and shuddered through the concrete and iron and made the silent army of mannequins tremble in response. Ofelia paused and slid that mystifying gaze upwards, her reverie broken by the rhythmic racket overhead. There was no indication of anger, just curiosity as Ofelia slid between the bodies and fixed her eyes on that one tortured light. It flickered wildly as the clanging continued, but she quickly lost interest in it as the strange look returned once more to her obscured face.

Long nails slid through the silky tresses of a silently shuddering doll as she clicked her way stately through the clammy room, head tilted slightly and eyes half-closed as she pinpointed which column her visitor was so viciously attacking. She hoped they were attractive; she needed new parts for her lovely toys. Something warm and strong would be welcome, too. White teeth briefly kneaded her lower lip at the thought of a delicious new plaything, but she stilled again in thought as her attention was briefly captured by the tremor in a doll’s spine. This one was one of the soft ones, she remembered fondly, and trailed a dangerously filed nail down the creature’s shivering back. It would die soon. Reduced to thin skin and fattened bones, this doll was nearly ready to be divided up for parts. It was a pity; it had such a beautiful mouth to begin with.

The noise continued and Ofelia waded through her collection, either intentionally ignoring or simply not noticing the ones that shuddered or made the small broken noises of animals past saving. The banging quieted and she stilled for a moment, but as it changed and started up again in the wild screeching and scraping of a large raging beast, she began to move towards an unseen exit. This was a predator with nothing to fear, and with her head raised high and throat glittering with dangerous metals and stone, she cast a regal silhouette among her contorted toys.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Perhaps the most unnerving noise was not the wild abandon of which the banging overhead continued, but the reverberating click of each step she took. With a clatter of tiny bones and metal about her wrist, she twisted open a door hidden deep in the shadows and ascended a pitch-black staircase, trailing her fingers against the cement wall to the side and climbing up and up, her footsteps muffled only by the thick layer of dust that sat upon each step. After a time she reached the top, standing silently just inside the door and listening with interest to the noises on the other side. With a deft hand, she opened the door in silence and stood there in that dark little alcove, looking like a murderous goddess thrown with shadows with that strange lace dress stained with rusty red and showing all too well the curves that hid beneath it, bone, ivory and pearl catching stray rays of light and glinting ominously.

She watched the madman with indifference, less interested in what he was doing than she was in how he was going about it and what sort of mad energy he was operating on. She would want to capture that energy for later depictions… and perhaps uses. It wasn’t often she found one this interesting.

With once a great motion, that madman, that one who bore the White Mask upon his face, hurled what manner of refuse against the wall as the other one watched, and still another one watched, and still there was another. It was not an improbably occurrence that some of that refuse, waste, and abandoned shard of metal and brick would be thrown in the direction of this woman who watched. Some perhaps fell at her feet as though an offering of what little was available, others perhaps struck her or came nearer to striking her.

Yet his eyes did not fall upon her,

Not yet,

When at last his bones grew tired of the dance he fell to his knees breathless yet still he struck the ground beneath him with his fist as though a hated enemy lay underneath and not once did the pain reach him, not once did he wince, not once did he cry out for the sake of the blood that trickled from his hands.

Not once.

Until he stood to his feet slowly.

Again did that dance continue to the song of the sound of his fists beating against the walls, the refuse and waste striking the pillars, and as quickly as such sounds came to life, such sounds were brought to death in wake of a silence come forth from his ceasing when his eyes fell upon that woman standing in the shadows.

For a brief second he watched her as she had been watching him.

He wasn't the least bit surprised.

Had he known her from some life past or perhaps some reality once lived or perhaps even from a sanity once belonging? Though his face remained hidden behind that mask as though a faceless specter with all but eyes still unseen it was clear by the way he stood, the way he watched, that he had perhaps half expected her to be there.

Now the White Mask moved quickly, for his feet took him closer, and closer still, ever so close to that woman who stood tall, much taller then he, as though one of the Watchers, and indeed she was to him as one of the Watchers. Quickly then did that White Mask press upon this one with his strength, and greater strength given, that she was become inset between himself and the cold walls behind her and yet still he remained silent, all remained silent; all but the rustle of cloth and the echo of steps long taken that bridged the long distance between he and her, and the sound of his restless breath muffled beneath that mask. Though his every intent was to draw the knife upon this woman and spill her blood upon this place, his eyes were cast elsewhere, to a place within the shadows where there stood nothing and yet something stood therein that frightened his heart cold.

Releasing the woman, that White Mask ran forth, away from her, away from that place where he and she stood, and into the doors that lead to the deeper darkness of whatever nightmare he had been walking. Yet his path took him far from whatever safety he sought in this place; a room devoid of windows holding naught but stony walls, containers long abandoned, and the cold chill of stagnant air mixed with thick dust now disturbed by his presence. There in that room he cast eyes upon that door with that knife clutched tight intent on surviving whatever menace chased to lay claim on his soul.

From her dusty alcove Ofelia watched as bits and shards of debris clattered and flew and skipped across the room, some landed near her feet and a chip or two landed in the strange netting of her dress, but she did not seem to notice them. The man kept her attention, those strange eyes of hers raptly focused on the violent figure as he raged about and aided in the slow destruction of the building with his frantic beatings. Her eyes followed as he dropped to his knees in exhaustion, those predatory orbs dissecting him and peeling past the clothing and skin down to the muscle and bone as he curled inward with his knees in the dust and his fists slamming the battered floor in a weary rhythm.

He had a beautiful spine.

Dust and blood smeared across the floor in strange patterns, large swipes and stuttered notes; a gradient of brownish gray striped with trickles of blood from the man’s abused hands. Ofelia remained expressionless as he slowly uncurled his body again and resumed his caged raging. Some of the walls reverberated lowly in response to his pounding, the building’s low moans sounding almost like death bells in the otherwise still air. Dust kicked up and wafted along unseen currents. It was incense for the gods of decay and disuse, muted and stagnant as it moved around the madman in his dance, disturbed suddenly from its resting place and unsure of what to do or where to go.

In a moment he stopped and she made the barest of movements. Those dark lips of hers moved in the thinnest blade of a smile, a hint of white teeth glinting in the scant light, eyes locked on him and boring into his in that moment where their gazes locked. The mask did nothing for her to hide what she saw in those eyes, and her grin just widened as she silently, unmoving, beckoned the boy to her. A mask was something everyone wore; this blank plaster canvas was nothing different.

And then the silence broke and the unstoppable force met the immovable wall. While there were no words spoken, the exchange spoke of everything that words were too base and human to express. His ragged breathing was a testament to the desperate, primal fight for life that she so loved to tamper with, the heat of his body and the sweet, sharp smell of blood mixed with dust against her as he pushed her against the wall. Her heel made a sharp click against the floor as she shifted to steady herself, shoulders still squared and regal pose uncompromised as he attempted to shove her backwards. Instead, that wicked, terrible mouth stretched more across her face, no more a smile than a blackened sneer that accentuated her vicious teeth. With a clatter of tiny bones and metal, she reached up and snagged one of his offending wrists, gripping tight and relishing the heat and frantic beating of his pulse. The hot blood that dribbled from his broken hands was like iron-rich wine to her senses- he was life and fear and everything she wanted to add to her collection. One more beautiful, shattered sculpture to add, one more delicious creature to hunt and terrify and eventually own.

But she let him go, her fingers and dress stained with his blood. In a sudden movement his eyes rolled away and he lurched back, reeling away like the terrified scavenging animal he was. Ofelia’s smile remained etched in place as she watched him veer and run after his moment of dawning terror. It was beautiful. And just what she wanted. Her expression once again resumed its regal stoicism, but her eyes still glittered with a wolfish delight as she watched him sprint in mad abandon towards a perceived exit. Her home was more a labyrinth than he knew, and she was content to let him lose himself in her web of wires and dust.

She lifted her hand to her mouth and licked the precious blood from her thumb, the liquid sharp with adrenaline and confusion and fear of something not solely herself. Her eyes narrowed to slits as she deciphered the flavor and waited for the tunnel vision, stilling further for a moment when the information told her that he was a little bit more than her average crazed man. But it made her want him all the more- if not to add to her frozen collection, then to own and claim as her dog on the streets, make him rant about her and feed the fire of unease that she so fed on. She wanted him to be her connection to the deeper darkness that he tried to fight and she wanted to become whole with again. This ugly world of half-light was delicious, but she wanted so much more than this. He would be her carrier, she would be a disease that he couldn’t shake but would spread and grow and own.

Slowly, stately, like an ancient queen of all things dead and overpowering, she followed him and the dust he kicked up in his mad race to hell. He was in a sanctuary for now, trapped between her and the webs of wire that he had yet to kick up. And so she would wait, watching him wheel and pant and turn with that knife glinting in the sparse light that she dimmed even further, the light fading by a near imperceptive degree with every resonating footstep she made. In the smoky halo of gloom and dust she stood, outlined in the doorway between him and elusive freedom. Her chin rose and she stared at him, a tigress’ gaze boring into him and waiting for him to try and move around her and all she stood for.

The only way he would escape this place would be with her image forever festering in his skull and wires wrapped around that beautiful caramel throat of his, for all the Others to know that she was here and ready to rip back the veils and reclaim this world as it rightfully was theirs. He would be a vessel, and she had laid her claws into him, made her claim.

It set in quickly; felt by only the most acute of senses, seen by only the most focused eyes, and heard by only the most open ears. Such a subtly did this malefic maleficence embody that one could possibly be lead to believe that it was and will always be. Such a festering presence made it way forth from this White Mask and struck gently this regal silhouette before him.

Perhaps she would not feel it at first.

Perhaps not at all.

Perhaps it would become unto her, a misunderstood air of emotion or spirit detached from this White Mask; a separate entity come visiting from the realm of the old gods. Nevertheless it pressed upon her and greater so with the passing of slow moments that further increased in duration as the two exchanged cold stare unto one another.

Fear, as it would be called by those of a mind unlike these two, was the essence that now pressed upon her but not only upon her but upon the rats that dwelt within the walls also and the spiders that hung from their webs and the dust that began it's settled slumber once more.

Perhaps fear was not all therein.

Nevertheless it dwelt amongst these two now and it stood as harbinger of something greater that is to come. Even now, in these few moments, such an essence began to become more so tangible as though it thickened with the tension that loomed prevalent. Yet still, it was as unto a pressure, like that of a thick fog, come upon them and all therein yet it remained subtle, too subtle, that only the most acute of senses could sense, and only the most focused eyes could behold, and only the most open ears could hear.

Fear, as it was, perhaps was not fear at all to this regal queen of these far from hallowed halls at all but perhaps confusion, perhaps an unknowing, a vast expanse of emptiness that was yet understood, and yet perhaps it was enough to stop her intentions where they stood at least for a necessary moment; perhaps not. Nevertheless, it was present therein that chamber and it seemed the only companion this White Mask had in such a place, in the midst of such a predicament.

There,

In that place,

Two eyes crossed sights.

And perhaps those of another, and others, Watched intently as these scenes unfolded.