The Empty Mirror
Chapter 64: Disfigured Corpse
The matador's banderillas rested on his montera, like lethal daggers waiting to be wielded in the fiery battle. Their smooth wooden shafts faintly gleamed under the dim light of the arena, while the metal tips sparkled with a cold and menacing shine. Each banderilla was wrapped in white paper, like bandages concealing their true essence. Through the shadows, the contrast between the pristine white of the paper and the deep black of the steel tips could be seen, a visual representation of the conflict between purity and ferocity that defined bullfighting. With each movement of the matador, the banderillas would come to life, becoming deadly projectiles slicing through the air with lethal precision. And though their appearance might seem simple and monotonous in black and white, their presence in the arena would add a touch of drama and passion to the deadly battle between man and beast.
With graceful and determined steps, the bullfighter made his way to the centre of the albero, his montera gleaming proudly on his regal countenance as the excited crowd roared with anticipation. In his right hand, he held a banderilla, a sharp dart eager to pierce the bull's skin. The bull charged with fervour, its fiery pupils reflecting the unrestrained passion of the beast. The matador, agile and determined, evaded the onslaught with skill, his red cape waving like a defiant banner against the bull's bravery. With a swift and precise motion, the bullfighter plunged the banderilla into the bull's back, eliciting a roar of pain and fury. The amphitheatre erupted in cheers and canned applause, celebrating the daring of the bullfighter and the audacity of his confrontation with the bull. But the bull would not yield so easily. With renewed vigour, it charged once more, challenging the matador to a life-or-death duel. The skilled matador, his eyes fixed on his target, prepared for the next assault, ready to face the bull with courage and skill to the last breath. Thus the spectacle continued, fierce and contested, but the bullfighter emerged as the victor, having planted several banderillas in the bull's body, which lay crucified in the sand, after the trance of the veronica.
In the centre of the bullring stood the matador, his cape unfurled like a scarlet mantle challenging the bull, painted as a clown, with its vivid radiance. With majestic bearing, the bullfighter advanced towards the beast, his gaze fixed upon it as he held the cape with grace and determination. The bull charged with fury, its eyes flashing a mixture of ferocity and defiance. But the matador did not falter. With a fluid and precise movement, he slid the cape to one side, creating an optical illusion that confused the brave animal, diverting its charge away from its target, marveling with his skill and grace as he executed the veronica with masterful dexterity. Once again, the bull charged, but once again, the matador deceived it with the cape, dancing across the sand with a prowess that defied both gravity and logic. With each step, each movement of the cape, the bullfighter demonstrated his mastery over the beast, controlling its impetuosity and ferocity with the simple yet powerful tool of a piece of crimson fabric. And thus, as the deadly dance continued in the arena, the matador and the bull faced off in a duel of cunning and courage, where only one would emerge victorious.
Completely exhausted, as if an ethereal blade had already cut him down in life, I witnessed at the end of the spectacle the following: with a steel-shaped balloon, the beast fell in a grotesque sequence, becoming the absurd parody of a merciless and mocking god. Thus, the bull and the bullfighter vanished into a mixture of repulsive makeup, concluding everything in an anticlimactic manner, worthy of the twisted mind that, like vomit mixed in a cauldron, conjured up a circus, a bullfighting ceremony, the sewers, and a nightmare. What a perverse mind was capable of imagining such nonsense, impossible to assimilate, a hallucination befitting a monster! The end of the bull ceremony left in my memories the reason why time was precisely subtracted in that sequence of events: to preserve my sanity, while an aristocratic family was perpetually tortured, mocking tradition. In the midst of a torrent of rage, the constant chants of "olé, olé, olé, olé, olé, olé, olé!" echoed, accompanied by canned laughter from an old movie. It was a desolate and tragic perspective, where, despite the sins of the aristocracy, I longed one day, if ever, to behold Chimeria with my own eyes and pay homage, not out of faith, but out of respect. But if this is not possible, so be it; I only wish not to be alone, like a lovestruck maiden.
At the zenith of my unveiled reveries, I was struck by a scene never before beheld: a sort of vision, a prophecy woven into my journey through Hanging Gardens. Against a radiant backdrop of whiteness, like a daguerreotype, appeared a group of five individuals: three men and two women. Some wore a trench coat of glossy black or grey, of exquisite craftsmanship and martial ornaments in iron. Made of waxed linen, they provided warmth and resilience, ideal for chilly climates. Cut straight or slightly tailored, they imposed a majestic presence, with rows of buttons at the front, of distinguished metal, and epaulettes to confer a more structured and martial appearance, close to the chest. However, there were those who sported a short jacket, draped over a single shoulder, leaving the dominant arm free. These garments, crafted in linen, replicated the elegance and martial details of the trench coats, but with an even more intricate range and ornamentation, evoking a power that transmuted into a sense of dominion. Single-shoulder jackets allowed for free movement for weapon handling, an asymmetry that stood out, granting an elegant and slender appearance, facilitating greater freedom of movement during horseback combat. Waxed linen, in shades of black or grey, lent a touch of distinction and sobriety to these martial garments.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
They wore linen shirts in hues of bone white and beige, of ancient and vintage style, with a simple design, with high collars closed with buttons. Some wore a pair of gloves, while others dispensed with them, and there were even those who wore a single glove. These gloves, made of linen, boasted a relatively simple design, with individual fingers and a section that covered both the palm and the back of the hand. Some featured a strap or cord to adjust the wrist and keep the glove in place, thus providing protection during outdoor activities such as riding, hunting, or combat. Additionally, they had additional reinforcements in the palm and knuckle areas for robust protection. The men wore trousers of waxed wool in black or greyish tones, cut straight or slightly fitted, designed to be practical and comfortable, with pleats at the front to facilitate movement. They had functional pockets at the front and back, belt loops, and reinforcements in areas prone to wear, such as the knees and crotch. On the other hand, the women wore long skirts also of waxed wool, cut straight or slightly flared to allow mobility, in earthy tones that complemented the palette of the era.
They all wore high boots that reached up to just below the knees, made of leather that provided strength and durability in the heat of the battlefield. These boots offered additional protection for the legs and ankles, while imposing an imposing and authoritative appearance. Of robust and functional design, they had sturdy soles that ensured traction on adverse terrain. They appeared to be equipped with laces at the front for a secure fit, as well as straps or buckles to provide greater support and stability. At the back, they had belt loops to hold the gaiters, which protected the legs from mud and moisture.
At the waist, they wore leather belts, between 2 and 3 inches wide, adorned with metal rivets that added ornamental details. The buckles appeared to be made of metal, such as iron, brass, or silver, each buckle bearing a strange and unique symbol. On these belts rested sword scabbards, perhaps intended for hand-and-a-half swords. These leather scabbards, sturdy and durable, protected the sword blade and facilitated its extraction and storage. With a tubular or semi-rigid structure that encompassed the blade and fitted to the hilt to keep it secure, the scabbards featured a closure system, such as leather straps or metal clasps, that secured the sword in place and prevented accidental falls. These closures, ranging from simple laces to elaborate buckles, along with the belt loops for attachment, ensured comfortable and secure transportation of the sword. Perhaps that belt harboured secrets of esotericism, for although they were only five individuals, I knew I would be the sixth member…
In the endless passage of time, in this perpetual dawn where the greyish mist encompassed multiple terraces and traversed several gardens, reaching the shoots that bound them, ascending their vines, I tirelessly confronted my most basic needs to avoid death. In this labyrinth of horrors, I was unaware of the true meaning of the transformation of Hanging Gardens, the intentions behind the staff, or the mysterious premonition that, without understanding why, I glimpsed as a prophecy of the future. Perhaps because we understand that the tribulations of our outer existence reflect our inner state. It is painful to acknowledge our own inability to heal ourselves. And once again, I found myself on the brink of death.
The poison had returned, staining my skin with dark and bluish hues, numbing the infected area with constant pain, as if the very pulse of life had been extinguished in that place. The skin, dry and wrinkled, decomposed while still alive, showing signs of decay both on the outside and deep within my being. Sharp torment in the abdomen, nausea and vomiting in a circle of necrosis, along with fever and chills, formed an amalgam of suffering and misfortune, where my body was once again the epicentre. The hands, punished by the constant friction of the old and worn staff, were covered in calluses, blood, and pus, turning almost as white as the marble of a corpse. Between the fingers, the nails had almost disappeared, victims of gangrene, while my skin inexorably decomposed.
But what confers the status of prophecy to a prediction? Is it perhaps a statement about forthcoming events believed to emanate from a divine source or esoteric knowledge? Increasingly, I am overwhelmed by the sensation of slipping into the utmost madness. I am unaware of the distinction between truth and illusion, at the limit of my nature; I never conceived the existence of such aberrations, of this nightmare, much less that of artifacts like "Hunger on Trial" or "Two of Wands". It is a frenzied madness, without a shred of coherence, and everything happens around me. At this point, I have almost completely lost my reason. I am a witch, questioning whether witchcraft is a tangible reality or if I am already in hell. Or perhaps witchcraft manifests as the true reality, while what I considered real was nothing more than a mere fallacy? Witchcraft, however, is nothing but the shadow of a religion, of multiple orthodox beliefs, representing the repressed qualities of faith and humanity, for faith, indeed, is capable of moving mountains. They are the hidden mysteries of a pagan, a "hoc est corpus," I declare. This body, this corpse in which I am now trapped, in perpetual decay, is it perhaps the vessel of black or white witchcraft? Such is the enigma that consumes me.
The nightmare, or rather, the supposed nightmare, washed its hands of the psychological harm it inflicted upon me. However, it also exerted a therapeutic effect. Perhaps the nightmare of Hanging Gardens was nothing but an emotional catharsis to my afflictions. But I questioned, why was it not a conventional nightmare? Why did it not confine itself to the trivialities of falling out of bed, being late for an exam, or the typical sensation of nakedness? This was a nightmare of abominations, perhaps with a subtle organisation that escaped my understanding. Perhaps the nightmare was simply a form of release, like a consuming blaze, like a fire that devours everything in its path. Maybe my hidden trauma was being exorcised by this eccentricity. I don't know.
Perhaps it was just another torment, perhaps a demon now sat upon my chest, in a coffin while I slept. Although it was not a case of sleep paralysis, I was delirious. And as I trudged through the grass, the threats seemed inconsequential. I felt as if I had become invisible. But amidst it all, breathing became difficult because of the poison. Perhaps it was true that a demon sat upon my chest, obstructing my breath, and in an instant would cause my suffocation. A demon capable of slipping even through a keyhole, impossible to evade, with its buttocks pressed against my chest, with that mocking smile. I longed with all my might to scream, "Oh Baku, devour this evil dream that afflicts and torments me!" It would devour this nightmare, but if it were not satisfied, it would eat my hope and dreams, leaving me with an empty and meaningless existence. But what did that matter if my life was already painful and empty? I no longer cared about dying. However, I reached the peak of Hanging Gardens, and what I saw there was a horrific vision.