literature

The Emptiness Will Haunt You Ch1

Deviation Actions

FireAtWill42's avatar
By
Published:
586 Views

Literature Text

Chapter One: My Annabel

I'm alone in the current of swirling bodies; dresses swishing around in a constant tornado of silk and satin. Young women dotted with just a fair shade of make-up cling on to the gentleman that spins with her, both partners' eyes gleaming with love and adoration as they twirl. It's magical, a picture laid on canvas come to life. All these women are boasted to be the fairest inside and out, but I hate them all, they cannot hold a place in my beating heart, my heart that treasures another face, a face that is far too perfect to be compared.

Beside me I hear the rustle of silk and I turn to face my dear, my sweet, my love, my pure Annabel Lee. Her face of creamed tones looks up at me; her wide, crystal clear, blue eyes shine up at me like the brook in the autumn, with flecks of lovely brown in them, the leaves from the maples cast abandoned in the stream. Her nose is perfectly straight and her lips, full and smiling, were the shell pink of rose petals and just as soft when touched. The hair that sprouted from her skull and flew down to her back was golden like sun shimmering across a field of daffodils in the summer, and was brushed elegantly behind her ear with her smooth, perfect hands, her fingernails coming out to perfect round points. She wore the same dress she had on when I first met her, cream-colored white, smooth silk that hugged her form quite well. She needed no make-up, she was immaculate without it.

"You look absolutely stunning," I whisper honestly as I pull her close, the music slowed and we swayed. She blushed; the rose-tint lighting to her cream cheeks was amazing, the sun rising behind a snow-topped hill.

"Shawn…" She breathed, "Such a liar." She said the words like she didn't believe them.
I laughed. "Come on…" I put my hands around her then slid my hand into hers, the other moving to her hip. This moment felt so perfect, un-real. As we swam in each-other's eyes the people around us faded away, the background became blurred; a swirl of colors and sound decked with the smell of perfumes and champagne; and soon it was just me and my Annabel dancing together in this magical haze.

Smiling, I spoke, "If only you could see you're the only girl I've ever dreamed of…" She smiled, her eyes glowed merrily, the sparkle so enchanting.

"A love like this can never truly die," she said, her voice ringing clear and true. Church bells would be an understatement. We smile, I lean in, she meets my gesture by holding herself higher, her toes making up for the lack in height. Our lips meet, hers soft and gentle, mine strong and forceful, they complement each-other well. Not that Annabel was weak, no not at all. She was just gentle and shy but strong and willed, the perfect girl for me. The only girl for me. Annabel is my world. She is a writer, I am an artist, we match perfectly, and it's as if when we met the angels whispered "perfect". Annabel is perfect, I, however, lack.

This memory I am fond of. Right now it's like a photograph in my hand, glazed and unreal. Just like Annabel's somber silhouette, it too holds a memory from a different time, a different place, a world I was once part of. Now as I hang my coat it seems fuzzy and misty. Annabel is here, changing into her nightgown. We've lived together for two months now, I've learned to expect her dreaming face beside me when I awake, but not even Annabel can keep the nightmares away.

My jacket sags to the arm of the loveseat, my shoes beside Annabel's at the door. I un-button my shirt and I walk to my room, our room, Annabel and I. I remove my shirts and hang it on the chair beside the door then change my dress pants for softer sweat pants. I close the drawer and flop myself down on the bed, our bed. With my hands folded across my chest I watch the ceiling and dream, dream of her and the way her hips swayed back and forth… so mesmerizing…

I hear her gasp from the bathroom then growl a curse, and, before I could a muscle, she comes in. There was a white rag wrapped around her finger, held in place with her free hand. Her angelic features were scrunched up in pain, her body tense. She sits beside me on our bed and I sit up and scoot over next to her and grab her wrapped hand.

"What happened?" I ask, alarmed.

"There was a piece of glass on the bathroom floor from the vase that broke earlier… I thought I picked up all the pieces but I must have missed one. It found me though…" She muttered glumly.

"Let me see." She better not be bleeding too bad, I hate her pain… My hands almost tremble but I stop them as I un-wrap her wound. I sigh in relief. It was just a small nick, barely any blood. I watched as a small drop flowed from it, just a drop. I wipe it away with the rag. She mutters her thanks.

That's when I noticed how beautiful she was, how heavenly she smelled, how short her gown really was. I realized how bad I wanted her.

"Shawn? Are you okay?" My Annabel asks. "It's just a little blood."

I laugh at her fear. "I'm fine, my dear girl… it's just…" I lean in and whisper the rest in her ear. "Oh how blood… turns me on…" She laughs, she thinks I'm joking.

"So sweet," she giggles. I stare into her icy-blues; my brown eyes swallow her whole. Our lips meet more forcefully this time, mine part; hers open, letting me in. I explore her mouth with my tongue, she is patient. Then she mimics my actions. I pull her closer, my feelings beginning to climb. I wanted her. We get rougher, my mouth rushing to keep up the pace. She moans for more, I press my mouth closer, my hands beginning to travel her body. She freezes, she knows what I want.

I pause too, unsure. I pull my head away to read her face for disapproval. There is none, she smiles and we both silently agree to tear off each-other's clothes.

Sigh, my dear Annabel… how great it feels to be completely entwined. The night was long and the love we made was sweet. Then we grew tired as the pale morning light crept through the drapes. I fell asleep to the sensation of her head against my chest.
I awake to the afternoon sun, my Annabel curled up beside me. Her dreaming face was filled with an un-earthly innocence only she could pull off. I watch her dream for a little while longer before slipping out of bed. I slide back into my pants which lay forgotten on the floor and put on a shirt and buttoned it as I walked to my studio (I left the top three un-buttoned out of laziness). I prop open the door with an old shoe that I used solely for that purpose. My studio is bright and airy, my paints and brushed laidout near my blank canvas. Paintings dotted the room in frames, paintings from my dreams and nightmares. One is always by my blank canvas, it motivated me. Only my emotions bled out in paint against the virgin canvas could appease the beast. My horror, my nightmare; the Thespian.

Well, that's what I called him. He haunts my dreams good or bad and he speaks in a low voice that makes my blood run cold. His black eyes gleamed at me from under a black hat. He wore black pants and a black trench coat and black shoes, His black hair was curled but it was usually hidden by the hat I mentioned earlier. Even his skin was as black as ink.

I hated him, he hated me, and it was a simple system. Now I stare at my blank canvas and I see what my mind has spread across it. I dip my brush ever so lightly and I begin.
I paint her lovely cheek of the palest cream; I make them high and proud. Next her shell-pink lips, then her proud forehead with creamed-tones. Then her nose, always straight and noble. Her boastful chin came next, well aware of her beauty. Her eyes are painted closed, her delicate eyebrows arched above them. Her eye-lashes kissed her face as she dreamt. Her hair was a mass tangle of golden-sun-bleached wheat. She was an angel, my angel.

As I paint I hear my Annabel tip-toe to the door of my studio. She always loved to watch me paint, she said it was fascinating. And I always loved to watch her write. The way her pan scratched against a blank page was captivating. What's the difference between a pen and a paintbrush? Nothing. Both taint a virgin, both can paint pictures so breath-taking if in the right, capable hands.

I breath out, my masterpiece finished. I smile. I hear my Annabel scream. I blink, I gasp, my masterpiece still stares straight back at me. Only now it is covered with blood. I look at my brush that still drips red paint, then to my canvas holding my dreaming Annabel covered in blood.

My true Annabel flees the room and I am left with her image, her blood-covered duplicate.
My story i'm writing :D

Based of the album the Emptiness by Alesana.
My take on the album.

Original storyline (c) Alesana
Certain quotes have been taken from the following songs by Alesana:
A Lunatic's Lament
Hymn for the Shameless
The Murderer

One: :reading:
Two: [link]
Three: [link]
© 2012 - 2024 FireAtWill42
Comments7
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
TheGirl-WhoWaited's avatar
wow.. this is one heck of a mesmerizing story.. im just a little confused.. would you care to explain the ending for me ?