The Empty Mirror
Chapter 41: Submission
In the sinister drama of creation, where celestial whispers intertwine with the groans of decay, the gestation of humanity unfolds like a ballet in the abysses of an ungrateful god. Here, decorum fades in the contorted womb and tangled corridors of the small intestine, where virtue crawls towards its final destination amidst excretions and bile.
Within the titanic labyrinth of the colon, depravity and corruption merge to sculpt the execrable feces, shaping the grotesque figure of man. Excesses become the fuel for moral decay, while guilt sprouts like venomous larvae nourished by the putrefaction of the spirit.
As the feces, like unwanted offspring, humanity, advance through the dark corridors of the large intestine, they compact into a repugnant mass that piles up in the final bulwark, the rectum. The mounting pressure on the walls of the rectum awakens sensitive nerves, heralding the inevitable rite of expulsion.
When the founder forsakes all mercy and decides to purge the body of his work, the muscles of the anal sphincter yield to the primal force, allowing humanity to be cast into the abyss of waste in an act of expulsion that transcends the physical, a sacrilegious ceremony known as defecation, where humanity manifests in its most vile and nauseating splendour, the birth of existence.
Fear not, for I too felt such terror when considering the possibility of being devoured by my mother in the gastric juices of her stomach.
Perhaps, according to the tale, the divine fashioned man from excrement and breathed a breath of delirium into him, thus granting him life. Then, he created a garden and placed man there to tend it. But, seeing that man was alone, he decided to create a suitable companion for him. Thus, the divine fashioned woman from one of man's ribs, and he recognized her as part of himself, calling her "woman" because she was taken out of him.
Or perhaps, in another version, the divine created humans in their own image and likeness, whether from their mind, their breath, or their corporeality, with the purpose of populating the earth and perpetuating eternal cycles of creation, devastation, and rebirth. However, this narrative has no place in my universe; it is a chimera engendered by the Clowns.
In the laurels of virtue lie supreme moral excellence and ethical behaviour, delineating the perennial disposition of an individual to act with justice, courage, prudence, and moderation in all spheres of existence. This sublime virtue is not a mere occasional act but rather rooted in the human character, guiding decisions and actions harmoniously and consistently.
Virtue is a delicate balance between multiple attributes, avoiding the abysses of extremes and fostering inner peace and common welfare. Despite my relentless efforts to preserve virtue in a world marked by iniquity and disobedience, I find myself constantly besieged by those who embrace vices as an inherent part of their being.
Vices, infamous habits or deviant behaviours that steer the individual away from virtue and ethical conduct, are harmful both to the individual and to society. These vices can take various forms, from lack of self-control to the most ruthless cruelty, undermining physical, mental, and emotional health, as well as human relationships and social well-being.
Instead of exalting virtue and promoting human progress, vices inexorably lead to decadence and misery.
In the typhoon of life, where vices stand as the foundations of modernity, what fate awaits the virtuous? What significance does virtue hold without the relief provided by heaven? What can be said of a virtuous soul devoid of divine protection? After the harrowing torment and unbearable suffering, what remains but fleeting illusions, like caresses from gangrenous and degenerated hands?
Heaven presents itself to us as a promise, a pact between humanity and the gods, where following the precepts of chastity and virtue foretells a celestial reward. In contrast, those who succumb to vices face the threat of hell as expiation for their sins. It would be comforting to cling to this belief, a tasteless chimera that provides solace in moments of adversity and transition, when tears of misery cry out to be wiped away.
However, it is an illusion. The virtuous will not reach the celestial realms, for such abodes do not exist in the first place. Sinners will not be condemned to hellfire for their transgressions either. The fate of each being seems to be at the mercy of the whims of the gods who rule the vast confines of the cosmos. So, what fate awaits the virtuous? Only the inevitable suffering of being virtuous. The only path is to resist vice, even when there is no hope left, not even in death, when purity and decency can be overshadowed by the sinister desires of the depraved.
Prayer offers relief, yet I cannot address any divine being. By fulfilling my duty, I find myself relegated to misery and wretchedness, for we, the virtuous, insist on exalting our misfortunes. Therefore, sinners indulge in their worldly delights. Hence, I shall unveil the true face of life in this humble abode, revealing the identities of those three individuals who conceal their true selves behind the veils of beggary: Esme and Dougal.
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In my misfortune and compassion, I felt compelled to idealise their actions and motivations in order to seek escape, to flee from human vices and take refuge in a castle, removed from this world where sins dare not penetrate, unless I allow it.
Within those walls, only I can enjoy and nurture the virtue of love. For that which has been tainted by lust, the carnal act, is in truth a virtuous pillar of love that has been defiled by the passions of sinners. Where a woman who desires to explore her body and sexuality is vilified as libertine and whore, where she receives a deluge of slander to belittle the purity of virgins who have kept their chastity and innocence intact.
Let us then delve into the unrestrained voluptuousness that emanates from Esme. This twenty-two-year-old woman, revealed over the course of weeks, possesses the typical air of youth in a city like Bafranbu. Her face, of exquisite beauty, embodies all imaginable qualities and grace. Her bust, outlined beneath the tight dress, stands with a firmness that awakens the senses, especially on scorching days when a veil of sweat caresses her curves, enhancing each contour with a tantalising consistency. The dress, faded and worn, barely covers her toned thighs, as if the libertine in her shamelessness had dared the forest, sacrificing the mantle of her attire to expose her charms to the eager gazes that fall upon her.
Her buttocks, of moderate size, do not demand attention, as gazes naturally drift towards her legs and bust, both capturing attention with magnetic force. Nevertheless, their normal dimension becomes palpable, swelling and tantalising under the fine fabrics of her skirts. Her lips, of a distinctive pink, accentuate the innocence of her countenance, as if tempting transgression, inviting the viewer to unleash cruelty upon her tender face.
But it is crucial to understand: Esme is not a child. She is a fully formed and mature woman, an adult force radiating irresistible seduction.
In my plea, I proclaimed that Esme is nothing more than a woman who disguises herself as innocence, and there is no sin more vile than a libertine pretending to be virtuous. Always, on every occasion, she seeks to excuse her actions and behaviours, hiding them behind lament for the loss of her father. As if the pain of her progenitor's departure, though genuine, justified her immature actions. There is no lower affront than one that uses the death of a loved one as an excuse for her outbursts.
Furthermore, I reveal that when she invited me to stay in the cabin, disregarding others' opinions, she sought to manipulate me into staying. Under the guise of me making my own decisions, she was actually pulling the strings like a puppeteer with a defenceless traveller. Esme had already seen in me an innocent who would be an easy prey for her depravities, stimulating her base instincts. She used the young woman as an accomplice, as a lover in her machinations, to initiate a virgin into her whims, her dreams, her fetishes. Mastering a woman at her whim, she satisfied her lascivious desires for a lesbian affair, for that was all she craved: depravity in the flesh, and not just in thought.
Most deplorable of all is that Dougal and her own mother perhaps already knew of her perversions and did nothing to mend her. On the contrary, they seemed to delight in Esme's capricious behaviour.
It is undeniable, even despite her deceit in her accounts, that throughout her existence she did nothing but conceal her licentious thoughts behind the veil of simulated faith, imposed by the Plague. As she herself admitted, she did not even consider herself a true believer, as she was unaware of much of the precepts, and merely bestowed a bible upon me as a mere ornament, without resorting to it to preserve her virtue.
It was evident that she only used church attendance and that hall as pretexts to contact Dougal, thus satisfying her most depraved desires, especially in the house of God, shameless as Esme was, who provoked the young men of the congregation to satisfy her own passions, using her tongue, mouth, and hands on them.
Esme persisted in her harassment, insinuating herself towards me, touching my buttocks and neck without restraint, trying to glimpse under my skirts, stimulating my attributes with lustful fingers, defiling the sanctuary of innocence only for her own arousal, rubbing her forms against my body when we shared the same bed, shamelessly groping me. However, when I rejected her advances and tried to distance myself, she adopted a chaste and pure attitude, showing cowardice in not getting what she desired.
If she failed in her attempts, she adopted an immature behaviour, pretending to be offended, hurt, repentant, thus seeking to generate pity and obtain what she desired. But if even then she persisted in her refusal, she behaved like a spoilt child, distancing herself from me. Esme, who at first seemed charming, was nothing more than a depraved woman, washing her hands to continue her transgressions, her impudent passions with her lover Dougal, who was no better than her. Esme, with her infidelities and perversions, was a morbid and vicious woman.
The most execrable aspect of all is that, perhaps, if Esme had persevered in her trickery and continued her persistent harassment, she might have been compelled to carry out her infamies sooner or later. However, in her depravities, she found pleasure in exposing me to such perversities, delighting in my disgust as if I were merely a characterless object, simply a means to her voluptuousness.
What I am now recounting are merely her words, her intentions beyond her mask of falsehood. All this while my ankle lay bruised, when Esme had not yet succumbed to disfigurement, when her epidermis had not yet begun to rot from deep within her bowels.
Let us pause in Esme's story and turn our attention to Dougal, who from the start appeared somewhat eager and irate, not because of me, but because he already knew the heart of his beloved. And indeed, his scorn was nothing but an affront charged with malice, a challenge to the innocence of a young woman seeking subversion, a blemish on his libidinous honour. Yet, over time, Dougal ceased to furrow his brow at his beloved's whims and began to find delight in them.
For when the time came to confront me, he could easily have resolved his disagreements with Esme if he had wished, persuading her with his words of mania; yet, he chose not to do so and neither did he cause any scandal by losing his composure. Instead, he began to experience a perverse joy in watching his girlfriend engage in lascivious antics with another woman. Dougal was aroused by such depravities, by those sins, imagining the voluptuousness of two women abandoning themselves to the most shameless and impious pleasure.
In the stillness of the night, the ominous whispers of Esme still echo in my memory, her lips brushing my ear with the delicacy of a feather in the wind, as we lay entwined on the bed, convinced by her persuasion that our destiny was to remain together. In the distance, the figure of Dougal, that man of prominent stature and ungainly appearance, yet of unsuspected strength, was lost in the immorality of stimulating his member above his trousers, engulfed in a frenzy at the thought of the company of two women, or rather, three, whose mere presence challenged his virility, inciting him to a whirlwind of stimuli and urges.
But behold, such thoughts were but the tip of the iceberg of the iniquities and vices to which Dougal surrendered himself, being a wrongdoer who kept a credulous young girl in his twisted gaze, but who was never defiled by those deceivers.