The Empty Mirror
Chapter 23: White crab
In the twisted cenotaph of yellows, reds, and blues, where my body lay in lethargy, symmetrical like a catatonic bloodsucker within a horrifying coffin, two faces of the same coin were reflected; no, it was the same face of a coin. The edge of such coin undoubtedly represented a satellite. After my mind turned into a shapeless smoothie due to the machination of an alleged human, following my first murder, being like a Cain, I found myself plunged into a stupor where the only option left was to sleep for a long period, far from all quantification. However, this lethargy meant the atonement of sins, a place to seek forgiveness from the gods, or more precisely, from the Primarchs, in this peculiar chromatic cenotaph.
Plunged again into a deep lethargy, I faced the sugar nightmare, where displacement was illusory, like a rope around my neck, with a purple, imperial cloak enveloping my frail and brittle body, like a mantle soaked in glucose hemoglobin. The hood turned my figure into an unwrinkled Little Red Riding Hood resting on the box after entering the castle. With rolled eyes, I faced the dread of tears from that satellite that looked at me with carnal desire, a deceitful moon. The walls seemed to exhale moisture, and the pale horrors behind me awaited their progenitor as if they longed to be nurtured by her prominent tits.
The moment to continue the sweetened nightmare by resuming the game arrived. I entered again and found myself seated on a wooden chair in front of a dining table. Beside me, a slender and mature woman observed me with expectant eyes, just a subtle gaze that didn't expand or linger around my soul. We were back in the feast hall, my hands wrapped in a sweet chocolate substitute, like a hungry child, and my mouth covered in caramel. Still puzzled by the recurring tickets to this performance, I quickly regained my consciousness.
I examined how the initially rusted metal trays worsened their condition, crumbling and decaying upon their own filthy alloy. The trays no longer held treats, only crumbs of donuts and other delicacies. The sugar crumbs lay like tiny corpses, scattered across a desolate panorama of the room. Their mutilated texture sent shivers upon touch, while their muted color hinted at an extinguished existence. The once sweet sugar now dissolved into a sticky mire, leaving a trail of culinary decay.
A caramel apple, half-bitten, rolled on the surface until it fell into a silent stillness on the floor. I couldn't help but associate the silhouette of the apple with the image of a poisoned apple, crafted with the sweet visage of a skull, like an omen resembling poison; a poisoned apple bestowed by a witch.
However, in that space, no witch was in sight, none other than myself. The apple wasn't tainted with poison, merely coated in cloying caramel. Upon hitting the floor, it was devoured by roaches that reached my feet. These nocturnal creatures, with unpleasant exoskeletons and coated in a viscous substance, explored the air with trembling antennae, leaving behind a trail of contamination and repulsion. Moved by discomfort, I couldn't help but crush some of them under my feet, breaking their exoskeletons and separating them from their bodies. They died in agonizing gasps, crawling shapelessly and acquiring a pale hue, only to satisfy their appetite for sugar. More roaches arrived and engaged in cannibalism. A gruesome feast began where they devoured each other, leaving only one, more corpulent and repulsive.
It was then that the mature lady abruptly rose and, with the tips of her toes, crushed the cockroach harshly. In a few beats, the roach, in the midst of its digestive process, was reduced to a mangled mass, its body torn apart, releasing a viscous hemolymph liquid onto the floor, repulsively slick with a subtly dark hue, reminiscent of decomposition. Its consistency, beyond any pleasant comparison, resembled a sticky fluid that clung tenaciously, leaving a gelatinous trace that induced an unsettling sensation. This fluid, a mixture of bodily secretions, embodied the essence of repulsiveness in its most primal form, a grotesque corpse, similar in tone to porcelain in the absence of its exoskeleton.
The lady seemed to feel a certain embarrassment upon realizing my presence during the macabre spectacle of voracious cockroaches. In a subdued voice, she apologized, "Forgive me, but those roaches are like chocolates in a lover's gift." Though not fully understanding, I nodded and quickly took a napkin from the table before me, cleaning my hands and lips with utmost care. It wasn't entirely awkward, as both of us felt a sense of embarrassment due to our situation, a dance of blushing cheeks.
The aristocrat regained her haughty posture, summoning the servants. Silhouettes of human souls, shadows of lignite, came at the snap of the lady's fingers. With cautious steps, they gathered the traces of rust and crumbs from the table, cleaning while the rust indulged in a nauseating orgy with the sugar.
With a lofty and haughty tone, the woman inquired, "From which continent do you hail, young lady?" After a moment of hesitation, I replied trembling, "I reside in the... of... Sh... mor..." A dense fog devoured my memories, leaving an inscrutable void and scattered thoughts. The woman looked at me with confusion, expecting corrections or additional explanations, but I remained silent.
"Fascinating," the woman finally expressed. "I haven't had the privilege to visit such a sumptuous region. I have friends around the world and knowledge of geography, but you leave me speechless." She repudiated hesitantly after a prolonged and uncomfortable pause. Her tone denoted disbelief, as if she thought I was weaving tales to impress.
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"From this land arise my parents, my grandparents, and myself. Though I have visited some realms, my loyalty persists to my homeland, the whisperer of my youthful years," continued the lady, striving to keep the conversation alive and highlight her position and prosperity. I responded with a calm and confident voice, attempting to shift the direction of the dialogue, "It is commendable to acknowledge love for one's homeland. Would you, by any chance, know where I come from or in which corner my nation rests?" Despite the discomfort of mentioning my childhood, I sought to steer the conversation in a different direction.
"Therefore, friendships are forged to intertwine dialogues and unravel the geographical position of a nation," she replied, leaving me astonished. I didn't expect such a response, but her demeanor exuded certainty. She continued her explanation, "My spouse does not trace his roots to this land. He and his ancestors hail from the Principality of Chimeria, renowned for its bullfighting exploits. They joined this new nation through the path of expansion and wealth. My husband is a true matador." She spoke with pride and empowerment about her husband's triumph.
In the backdrop of my contemplations, something more unsettling was unfolding: the bull's head, proud in its position as the presumed family standard at the threshold of the festive hall, a symbol rooted in bullfighting arenas, bewildered me as I discovered that the authentic family emblem was a crab. Twists in the events! The tapestries in the banquet hall presented the mentioned crustacean as the archetype, and although I initially interpreted it as a crab, it was undeniable that it belonged to the decapod family.
However, I did not immediately give it the proper attention, not because I didn't notice it, but rather because I didn't immediately realize that it was the family emblem and not just a decoration. Its significance faded in the face of the imposing bull's head that dominated the banquet hall, and its decapod nature was not palpable at first glance. If the lord of the castle, a fervent admirer of bulls, personified the male figure in this reverie, did the decapod emblem belong to his wife? Although commonly associated with the male, here it seemed that he leaned towards his beloved's choice, preferring the consecrated and sanctified figure of decapods over the overwhelming presence of bulls.
If the consort raised the standard of the decapods, logically, her spouse should belong to the Bovidae lineage, hehe. Though this connection seemed unusual, the plot intricately tangled, and I found myself unable to fathom such a fact or anticipate the why. It was not appropriate to inquire; sometimes, discretion prevails. Immersing myself in the mystery of the decapods would be an ineffable and grotesque experience.
The decapods twist their grotesque anatomies; torn shells reveal slimy and putrid flesh. Their once nimble appendages now awkwardly contort, resembling deformed claws searching for prey in the dark marine underworld. Each movement raises the stench of rotten seafood, while their opaque eyes reflect the decay of marine life, a nauseating spectacle even for the most intrepid explorers of the oceanic abyss.
But, what is the Principality of Chimeria? What nation is it? I cannot recall it due to the nebula shrouding my memories, but its mention does not feel entirely unfamiliar without a coherent explanation. Simultaneously, a frigid sensation, as if my blood turned to ice, seizes me upon realizing that such a term does not align with current modernity or geographical forefront but rather suggests a more historical era.
"Would you honor me with unveiling the castle?" - I uttered with restraint, mirroring her sumptuous language. However, her response was, "No, I will show you something even more inevitable and spectacular, as we share good terms and a more tangible friendship."
Although I ventured to explore the castle in the hope of lightening the conversation and, incidentally, unraveling the mysteries surrounding the fortress, the lady's reply left me dumbfounded, with a blank expression. It was as if every hair on my skin stood on end, akin to a cat in a cradle. My state oscillated between terror and curiosity, like a feline perishing due to its foolish curiosity. Moreover, confusion about the new relationship forged with that woman overwhelmed my being.
"Come with me, let's go immediately to that circus," the lady exclaimed, revealing impatience and pride more noticeable than those dedicated to her spouse. The reference to the circus sparked confusion and uncertainty in my mind, generating a tumult of thoughts. I simply nodded, following the woman with composure.
She took an oil lamp and a match before pausing at the edge of a non-Euclidean angle, defying the laws of conventional geometry, worthy only of a nightmare, woven with strands of sugar.
At my feet, a locked drainage cover was revealed. Gracefully, the woman crouched down and pulled a rusty key from her bosom. She opened the cover and handed me the key with a playful expression, despite being a mature woman. We resembled two girls wrapped in a game of hide and seek.
We descended some visibly dirty and unpleasant metal stairs, but I decided to proceed. Skillfully, she lit the oil lamp and kept the flame alive as we advanced down the steps. After firmly closing the metal grate from the inside, my vision plunged into the sewers, immersing us in a dark and mysterious environment.
The sewers formed a gloomy underground labyrinth, a crucible where decay and disease amalgamated. Conceived to mitigate the growing urban impurity, these narrow networks embraced the flow of wastewater, industrial waste, and human detritus. The environment, stifling, was saturated with repulsive odors and unsanitary conditions. The lack of an adequate management system facilitated the spread of ailments, turning these sewers into a dark chapter in history, where public hygiene lay in a deplorable state.
Under the faint light of an ancient and unreliable oil lamp, I wiped my hands on my dress after touching the repugnant stairs, marked by the shadow of sin. The woman continued her path like a sleepwalker, traversing sewage-infested waters teeming with white porcelain-like cockroaches. Her care for appearance and lineage seemed to fade in the face of indifference towards her current actions. Following in her footsteps, I inquired, "How do you know me? Why were you expecting me?" She responded with a friendly voice while holding the oil lamp with sweaty hands, "It's a commandment," instilling in me a new fear... After a prolonged wait, the sewers expanded, multiplying their size hundreds of times, giving rise to a circus tent in red and white hues: it was now a circus.
"Would you grant me the pleasant knowledge of your name?" I inquired disdainfully. "A pleasure, my appellation is Constance. Young lady, I wish to discover yours," she replied, standing tall and still exhaling sweat. After a few moments of hesitation, I responded, "My designation is Giselle." She paused for a moment and looked at me, with a slight sweat trickling down her forehead. "It's an admirable name, little crab," I was left speechless and somewhat nervous. Little crab? What was she implying? Nevertheless, I let it pass, as we promptly entered the circus. It was a peculiar sensation; as if a grandmother was giving nicknames to her granddaughter, but for her, it seemed to be a geographical relationship.