The Empty Mirror
Chapter 31: Rotten on the inside
The epidermis that emerged around it took on a livid and sticky hue, while the muscles swelled and twisted, as if enclosed within a human body undergoing grotesque transmutation into a fleshy and detestable anatomy.
The plant swelled rapidly and exploded with a dull sound, unleashing a shower of sticky, translucent saliva. The impact threw me face first into a wall, leaving me dazed.
As I struggled to regain my composure, I spotted some vines receding, descending toward the terraces of Hanging Gardens. I stood upright, fully aware that this creature was indeed a hive mind.
Not even a siege on the scale of "Hunger on trial" would be enough to completely eradicate this entity. It was only a matter of time before it reemerged with impetus, like rampaging ivy. It was a cyclical release, adorned with a macabre crown of decapitated heads.
After that torment, I curved the corners of my mouth upwards, when my individual being was on the verge of ingestion. Perhaps I should ascend spiritually, for the gap between self and other engenders feelings of superiority, inferiority, pride, fear or longing for recognition.
But such considerations were irrelevant to me, for I had already emancipated myself from the cycle of my birth as I wiped the blood from my nose with the sleeves of my dress. I am like a lymph spill that engenders more chaos with every drop that kisses the ground.
After the harrowing contest, I was compelled to wander once more among the ancient balconies of Hanging Gardens. Realising that I was still on the threshold of the lower balconies, I had no choice but to proceed. The greatest distress, however, lay in the difficulty of discerning which balcony I was actually on. The gardens themselves were crumbling before my eyes, and the transition from one to the other was indistinguishable.
At first, I conceived that this dilemma might be revealed in the staircases linking the various sections, but the monument flouted architectural convention. Impossible angles and geometries, such as the corridor that arched and twisted in unlikely directions, revealed a complexity that defied logic. The marble staircases, rather than being mere crossroads, resembled intricate veins, scattered and deformed within the structure of the gardens.
I resolved to stop and rest, observing how in the distance the creepers seemed to hide in the cracks of the walls, wary not so much of my presence, but of the potential of Hunger on trial. They kept their distance, as if waiting to gradually regain their lushness. The assault of "Carnal Corruption" proved to be excessively effective, leaving it incapacitated for an indeterminate amount of time.
Throughout, I sensed that "Hunger on trial" had been the protagonist of this journey; without that choker, she would have perished even before reaching Hanging Gardens. I harboured no doubt that the amorphous entity lurking outside the garden could annihilate me in my present state if I did not wear such a choker.
For now, the blessings outweighed the curses attached to the artefact, but even so, the Marquise's words of warning lingered in my mind. I still feared the abilities of Hunger on trial.
It was precisely this fear that prevented the creeper from killing me outright; its purpose was to strip me of the choker before ending my existence. Had it so wished and chosen to cut me down without delay, it would have done its work in the blink of an eye. However, I sensed that I would not meet the same fate in a future encounter; surely, on that occasion, the human-skin-clad plant would eliminate me in the most gruesome manner conceivable.
"Hunger on trial” kept it at bay, as if it were my fiercest antagonist, constantly stalking me, and waiting for the right occasion to snatch a kiss, which would be both my last and my first, marking the end of all things, plunged in suffocation.
Wrapped in a billowing purple cloak, which stood like a banner, I wrapped myself in it in an attempt to rest, though not to surrender to sleep, for this was a nightmare, but to catch my breath. It was fortuitous that this silken cloak did not impair my mobility.
After a few minutes, or perhaps intervals in hours, of rest, I rose to my feet to continue my wanderings through the gardens, meditating on the imperative need to be more cautious and precise in my use of "Hunger on trial". During the giant insect's harassment, I found myself powerless to avoid it, and unfortunately, in a state of paranoia, I botched the attempted bite, wasting a priceless skill.
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In truth, I was in the most profoundly inexperienced in such circumstances. My knowledge was nil and my resources to remedy such a situation non-existent. I did not have the luxury of practice or instruction. I was completely ignorant of the nature of that fleshy jaw-shaped choker. I could only hint that the whole thing oozed a hint of witchcraft, as the Marquise implied, though perhaps she only mentioned it to facilitate my understanding. For the moment, I could only call it what it was: witchcraft. But what was to be expected of me, a mere merchant?
As I wandered into the barren grasslands of the adjoining garden, I noticed my vision blurring and my ears ringing with dizziness. When the faintness hits me, I feel as if the world is dissolving around me. It all starts with a strange tightness in my belly, as if my insides are twisting in knots. My thoughts become fuzzy, as if I'm gazing through a dense blanket that distorts every detail around me, even more opaque than the haze of Hanging Gardens.
Every movement becomes a fierce battle against a lurking vertigo, ready to strike me down at any moment. The ground beneath my feet seems to shift, as if I am on a raft in the middle of a raging sea. My senses become confused, sounds fade and lights flicker whimsically. My legs falter, and I am compelled to cling to any nearby object to keep myself upright. Every step is uncertain, as if I am walking on unstable, slippery ground. Nausea grows within me, threatening to surface at any moment.
I long only for a refuge to rest in, yearning for calm as the vertigo fades, but the world continues to spin wildly around me. Without a foothold, I find myself prostrate on the ground, stroking my temples in a futile attempt to pull myself back up, the purple cloak outlining the curves of my waist and backside.
As the anguish in my chest embraces me, each inhalation becomes a gruelling struggle. An invisible weight rests on my chest, crushing my lungs and depriving me of vital breath. Each breath becomes more painful than the last, as if trying to fill my lungs with dense, leaden air. My chest constricts, struggling to expand with each inhalation, as my intercostal muscles struggle to cooperate in the breathing process. Oxygen seems elusive, as if it slips out of my grasp with each attempt to reach it.
Panic begins to take hold of me, making my heart beat fast and hard. I am trapped in an endless cycle of suffocation and despair, struggling to maintain serenity as my being craves the oxygen it needs to survive.
Each inhalation becomes an arduous climb up a steep hill, where air becomes scarce and dissipates, leaving me with the sensation of not filling my lungs enough to feel full. It is a terrifying experience of helplessness and claustrophobia, as if my being refuses to function properly, desperately craving the vital oxygen that escapes me.
Extreme fatigue engulfs me, turning every movement into a monumental challenge. I drag my body like one traversing a desert wasteland, each step heavier than the last, as my muscles protest under a lead-like weight, reluctant to engage in any activity.
Each blink requires a superhuman effort; my eyelids weigh as if forged from lead. My thoughts become hazy and scattered, as if trying to break through a thick wall of fog. Keeping my eyes open becomes a strenuous and challenging task. The mere act of raising myself off the ground becomes a monumental feat, with every muscle protesting against the effort required. My body seems enveloped in a blanket of exhaustion, and every step I take feels as if I am trudging through a dense slough of fatigue.
Fatigue, that relentless intruder, spreads like a dark shadow across every fibre of my being, anchoring me in a state of perpetual lethargy that threatens to plunge me into the arms of nightmare in any corner of the world. My mind, shrouded in a dense, soporific haze, fights an unequal battle against the onslaught of a sea of fatigue that tries to drag me into unconsciousness.
It is an overwhelming sense of weakness and exhaustion, as if I am facing a colossal and implacable force lurking in ambush, eager to eat my essence completely. My yearnings are reduced to the search for a peaceful refuge where my strength can be regained, yet fatigue lingers like a sinister spectre stalking me on every path I take.
My hands, trembling and trembling, reveal the blue veins that snake beneath my pale, delicate skin, while my eyes, misty with grief, shed tears of discomfort. Hunched almost all the way down, with bated breath, I am ready to move forward once more, like a spectre wandering the haunts of a flawed princess, already destined for eternity before the prince had even placed his lips on her mouth, as if sealing the fate of a corpse. How I wish I possessed some recourse beyond the relentless "Hunger on trial"!
Though she was my supposedly faithful and powerful ally, constant recourse to her service became impracticable, risking her possible betrayal. I envied, with a certain longing, to be able to wield a weapon more suited to the circumstances, for the knife with its pristine blade was of no use in that inhospitable environment, even more so as it was a razor with a blunt and primitive edge. Its efficacy was limited to piercing the throat of some son of a bitch to the threshold of death. All this, I reflected, while an inner fire consumed my insides.
In the deepest, gloomiest recesses of a desolate garden, amidst pools of stagnant water and forgotten thorns, stands a herbal monstrosity that defies all sanity and logic. Its stems, twisted and sickly, like threads of withered silk, undulate like misshapen jellyfish, eager for unnoticed prey.
Covered in a viscous, repulsive mucus, their translucent surfaces catch flashes of light, emitting a stench that evokes the very breath of the grim reaper. The flowers, grotesque deformities of nature, hang from the stems in repulsive clusters, their wrinkled petals exuding a dark, sticky liquid, more akin to human saliva. From time to time, they let out an agonising moan that chills the blood of those unfortunate enough to hear it.
The leaves, split and delicate as paper, translucent as glass, emit a faint, spectral glow that defies the laws of nature. Stained and decayed, they seem to take on a life of their own, as if possessed by an evil will. Across their surface, a tangle of dark, blackened veins weave, each one swollen and throbbing, as if on the verge of an eruption of disease and putrefaction.
Inside the bulbous sacs hanging from the stalks rests a repulsive, viscous substance, similar to the fluid of a diseased creature. Its transparency reveals a gelatinous texture that makes the viewer nauseous.
I took one of those bags of mucus and opened it with the white edge of the razor. It almost resembled water, but its unctuousness suggested a denser consistency. Imagine the taste of saliva as a warm, viscous liquid that has sat in the mouth for hours, with a bitter, metallic aftertaste that leaves a sticky sensation on the tongue. It is a sickening experience that urges a quick rinse of the mouth, evocative of the decomposition of indigested food and waste. Would you agree to swallow my saliva if I asked you to?