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By David Black

Sepulchural Revelations

Like two cripples in an emotional quicksand, clinging on to each other as they sink deeper, deeper, and deeper still – into the murky depths of oblivion, neither capable of redeeming themselves, let alone each other – were Nehemia and Mircala. Mircala who originally had been so attracted to the misty, sinister, erotic pulse of taboo bands, the close camaraderie of the scene and the visual richness of its’ devotees of darkness was now a distant shadow, often brooding in near solitude, emerging only to pass judgment on those hapless creatures who wander past her narrow view.

The once strong and confident Nehemia had transformed into a psychotic jelly, burnt out from too many battles, game plays, and deep emotional stresses. His mind often wandered to those halcyon days when he and Mircala had first met at a club. A club that had closed many years before those around them were old enough to venture forth into the night. Those days of innocence and excitement were never to be again.

As Nehemia passed the flick knife to Mircala, he paused to give his soulmate one last passionate kiss before crossing the river Styx. Their reflections in the glass covered notice on the Blood Klub’s women’s toilet caught Nehemia’s eye. He viewed the apparition of he and his dark goddess in one last passionate embrace. Memories flooded and surrounded him. They danced around his being in a vertigo inducing miasma of reality unreal. Through his now smudged, elaborate black eyeliner, his eyes glazed over and rolled back into his neon blue Mohican crested skull. Had there been some ethereal witness, it is doubtful even such a being would have detected the pallor overcome him through that thick white foundation on his face.

The first time those now necrotic eyes had marvelled at her beauty and life’s force was the day he had truly gained consciousness. Now, like an evil rag doll, slowly she outstretched her twitching, sweaty palm.

Out of habit, obliviously, she rotated the sterling silver ring in the corner of her lower lip with her tongue. Her pride once swelled over at this badge of self expression. It had symbolised feelings that were far alien to those which now possessed every fibre of her being. Her free spirit once cavorted in devilish delight as it danced through artificial mist, shadow, and vibrant strobing laser light. Her soul’s physical revelations attracted Nehemia like moth to fatal flame. He had voraciously consumed every emanation of hers in unquenchable thirst, becoming ever more intoxicated. Nehemia’s nostrils flared as the graffiti scrawled boudoir they presently shared seemed to fill with the aroma of apple blossom incense oil which once she used as perfume.

THUMP, KATHUMP, KATHUMP, KATHUMP! boomed the heartbeat rhythm of the bards of olde, while distorted guitars screamed in high pitch agony. The silky smoothness of Mircala’s cheek against Nehemia’s light touch taunted his emotions as his manhood swelled against tight black lurex jeans. Like a speed drenched daemon from Hades most nether regions she cavorted with him over the Blood Klub dance floor, weaving through others as though non-existent, slicing the mist like a flailing whip with the hem of her ball gown as they moved. Time was an infinite resource not even worth giving thought to. All that ever was, is, and would be was just they two.

But reality intrudes like an unwanted guest, driving out welcome memories into the night. Had the parade really passed by, leaving only them as its’ discarded remnants? Where was the energy to even hate? To feel anger, remorse, jealousy or pity. To remind them that they were alive. Each day fading further and further into the realm of the undead.

Nehemia gazed deeply into Mircala’s eyes. They’d not exchanged a word. The solitary black stained tear that floated down her cheek, accompanied by that eerie smile told him that she knew. Mircala accepted the flick knife. Slowly she placed it on the urinal seat. They both arose, grasped each others hand, and vanished into the night.