You can’t ask me how I got to this point in my life. You can’t ask me because I’m not sure that even I know the answer to that one. I’m sure that many others in my position would not have resorted to such drastic measures, but then again, I am not just anyone.
I wasn’t born ‘bad‘, I wasn’t schooled in all things evil and dark and yet, here I am, hell’s whore, about to give birth to a morbid angel on this black Sabbath.
As the hour draws near I busy myself with the final preparations for the ceremony, laying out the deep purple cloth on the table before me and feeling a familiar ache resound within the very core of my being. This blood ceremony would take me beyond my role as a murderous wife, beyond an entombed existence of role playing, to a new and dark experience that guaranteed my personal freedom.
Mayhem was probably the best way to describe my current situation. As much as I found the interrogation of the police tedious and annoying the ensuing publicity made life chaotic and I could no longer rely on my exotic good looks and deathly charm to win me the favours I was accustomed to. It was almost comical watching the police and the press play psychologist in their pathetic attempts at uncovering my motives.
Had they any idea of the pleasure I felt watching death creep over my many husbands faces, I doubt they would have accepted my stories of crazed and jealous stalkers. I actually found the pathetic naivety of the police to be hysterical. How quickly they dismissed the black widow theory in favour of a ‘damsel in distress’.
I gingerly lift the hematite chalice and matching dagger from the oak box that housed them. The exquisite detailing of the box spoke to the austerity of the ritual, to the power it invoked and the consequences. Nothing was without consequences, not even for me. The cup lay cold and hard in my hands, not unlike my heart and, ironically, the blood red colouring dispersed amongst the dark grey of the metallic cup presented an apt imagery.
Grief died many years ago as had the remains of any good I’d once owned. I was glad of that. I was done with guilt and redemption and now was not the time for historical reviews of the pain and suffering I’d endured. I’d accepted long ago that, without such suffering, the weak and pathetic spirit with which I’d been born could not endure the power I was about to receive.
Oh how I longed for the power, that and chance to be immortal! I hungered for it as a starving new-born hungers for the sweet nurturance of a mother’s breast.
As I laid out the twelve stones to form a pentagram around the chalice and dagger my thoughts lingered on the injustice and the outrage I felt toward my life. I place a candle atop each stone and with the lighting of each blackened wick my anger festers and boil within me. I bore my pain as a child growing in my belly, an open and bloody wound within my womb that demanded to be avenged. Rage, seething and barely contained within my black heart, screamed words given as a promise.
“I will no longer tolerate being enslaved to this trail of tears that has become my life” I hissed, my words forming like suppuration in my mouth.
It was true that my heart had become a cradle of filth, spewing forth hatred and venom but soon such filth will be winged on a demon, given freedom to infect those pathetic worms who try to stand in my way. I salivate with the knowledge I’ll hear their screams as their flesh is peeled from their bodies
“Better that they breathe anthrax than breathe my wrath.” My words ride sharp on the razored edge of reason.
Tonight will see the birth of my night-wish and as terrifying as it will be I welcomed the escape from this miserable excuse for a life. Tonight, I will welcome the slayer within.
Glancing around the room I smoothed my dress over my hips more as an anticipatory gesture than a need to remove any wrinkles and breathed deeply as I readied myself for the birth of the demon within.
All that was left was to fill the chalice with the blood of my baby. A small price to pay considering that when I drink deeply of her gift I will be drinking of a promise, not only to escape death but to extend that immortality to my daughter.
Scooping her up in my arms, I gently kiss her forehead and turn toward the table knowing that we will soon be untouched by the evil that men do.
©Copyright Maggie Lawson 2018
Maggie chews crayons here: The Art of Chewing Crayons