|Untitled (standard:drama, 683 words)|
|Author: Ms. Blue Fire||Added: Sep 20 2000||Views/Reads: 2285/5||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This story was inspired by Barbara Michaels (my fave author) and the first Batman movie! Just an excerp of what might have been a Gothic novel.|
"Would you like to see it?" he finally asked wearily. She stuttered to a stop, turned a darker shade of crimson, and then threw back her head and laughed. "Well, yes I was hoping you would offer to show it to me. I mean I have heard so much about it, and now that I am finally here...wow. Althought I wasn't exactly subtle, was I. Like a sledgehammer!" she beamed at him. He smiled a little as was his manner, and offered her his arm, but she was already moving ahead of him. If she saw, she gave no sign. He sighed at his own insecurity, walking beside her listening to her cleats ring out on the marble floor. It was so quiet here, far away from the main ballroom where the conference was. She was talking but he was not listening. Suddenly he was aware that she was looking at him. He looked up in mild surprise, as she asked "Is everything ok?" He nodded slowly and looked at the floor as he followed. When was the last time that anyone asked him if he was ok? She walked beside him now, still looking at him till he lifted his head again. A little enigmatic smile played on her face as she looked at him with those brilliant eyes for a full ten seconds before saying in a soft voice "Maybe you shoud go and rest. You look like you need it." Rest. Rest? She could not realize the implication of that innocent statement. How old was she anyway? She was such a child still. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked," she was saying. "I'm usually very sensitive about people's changing moods. I think that by asking I can maybe help out!" She laughed again. "Aw hell. I'm just a busy body. It's a morbid curiosity." She looked at him quickly. "Here we are," was all he said, his hand on the massive handle of the equally ancient door. She held her breath, her words forgotten as the door swung out slowly on its tired hinges. The glimpse of the dark musty interior sent out a thrill through her. She shivered in excitement as the old smell of the Grand Hall came upon her and assaulted her senses. He waited as she entered enraptured, her hands clasped before her like she was praying. She found so much pleasure in such simple things, he realized. He had forgotten how to feel even simple joy. He had left many things behind him. How old is she? his troubled mind asked. She continued to admire the ancient room, sending out little exclamations of surprise and chatting excitedly. He watched her but she was fading fast. His uneasy subconciuos brought the onslaught of the past. His last memories of this room took over his senses. That final day. The final bloody outcome. And the last horror that had been the turning point of his life. All the images of the faces of the dead swayed before his eyes, mouthing words he could not understand, but in every eventuality threatening to take over his mind again. His conciuos mind screamed at the merciless invasion of terror, as he felt himself falling...falling... falling... "My God," her voice broke through the fog. "My God," she said again helplessly. He was lying in her arms on the dusty floor. He looked at her face and breathed slowly as his terrible memories faded. He explored her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her hair. Her arms were around him, and her lap was soft, her perfume intoxicating. She was beautiful. She was an angel sent down to earth from the heavens, but forgotten and ignored by all. She was a woman and child at once, a bright flower in the morning dew, just only touched by the sunlight of the morning. Such simplicity, yet such perfection. How old was she? his tired mind struggled to ask. She looked at him, startled, saying "23, going on 24. Why?" But he just smiled and touched the angel's face above him, and then he stopped thinking. Tweet
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