Evading Darkness

Chapter 3

As I begin to regain consciousness, the smell of dust and mildew fill my nostrils. It's a very overpowering smell. I look around to find myself in a small room, seated on a small, metal chair. The room contains several shelves, boxes, and crates, and seems to be some-what underground. The woman who had knocked me unconscious, the one I have been so drawn to, sat before me, on a chair, much like the one I'm sitting on. I don't know what to say to the woman. Staring into her eyes, it seems as though I have known her forever. But as hard as I try, I can't think of how I know her. I try moving my arm, only to find my wrists had been tied to the armrests with thick cord. I lift an eyebrow at this. Why the restraints? I wasn't going to hurt anybody.

I looked back up and, once again, our eyes meet. How beautiful her eyes are. They're a deep green, with a shine that makes them seem as though they had been crafted from pure gems. Most intriguing about this woman is the expression she wears.

Her bottom lip is held between her teeth, as if she's nervous, her brows arch, as though she's fearful, yet there seems to be something else in her eyes. Resentment. Not for me, but for herself. The pain that she so obviously suffers causes my heart to ache for her. For reasons I can't quite grasp, I feel as though I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and comfort her until eternity. As I examine her, my eyes linger on her lips. Bright pink, with a natural shimmer. I wanted to taste them. My eyes wander slowly down her body. She wears a t-shirt, just tight enough to make out her slender frame and beautiful curves, as well as jeans tight enough to show off her long legs and perfectly thick thighs. I couldn't help but to envision my hands sliding gracefully over her as I press my body against hers and find her tongue with my own.

"Who are you?" her soft voice cuts into my thoughts, snapping me back to the present.

The question made it click in my mind. Not only do I not know why I'm here, but I don't even know my own name. I don't even know where it was I was coming from. "I'm not sure," I respond, truthfully. My eyes return to the mass amounts of wire that hold my arms to the thick metal chair. "But considering the restraints, I'll guess that you do." For her to have known to use so much cord to bind me, she must've known my strength. If that wasn't enough to tell she knew who I was, there was also the tone she used when she asked the question, as if she already knew the answer. And, of course, the fact that I knew her, despite my jumbled mind.

"I don't know who you are," she replies in a gentle, soothing voice. "But you can't be who you look like."

I lift an eyebrow at this. It was definitely a strange response. "And if you don't know who I am, and I don't know who I am, why can I not be?"

Tears fill the corners of her eyes, and she looked toward her shoes. I instantly regret the question. I never meant to make her upset. "Because I watched him die," she replies and, lifting her eyes back to mine, adds, "my husband."

My heart thickens, feeling as if it sank to the pit of my stomach. If I had, in fact, been dead, a resurrection of some kind could very well explain the memory loss, as well as the strange creature I saw upon exiting the alleyway. But this is the least of my concerns at the moment. She claims to be my wife. This would explain why I was so drawn to her. Tears pour down her face, despite her obvious efforts to suppress them. I could never stand the sight of woman crying.

"Please don't cry," I ask in as soft a voice I could conjour, an attempt to comfort her. My words seem to have no effect, as her tears continue. "Please don't cry, Victoria," I try, again. Just as quick as the tears came, they disperse. She stares at me, her jaw open slightly in astonishment. That's when it hit me. I had just called her by her name. Victoria, my wife. We had gotten married right after she turned eighteen in the middle of the most beautiful garden I had ever seen. I couldn't remember much, however. Mostly I could just remember her. Her eyes, her hair, her beautiful velvet dress, the feel of her lips against mine, her soft voice, gently whispering my name.

"How-how do you know my name?" she demands, though it was not a voice of fear, or anger, but of hope. Most likely hope that I am, in fact, her long-lost, or rather, long-dead husband.

"Because, my love," I respond, "I am Casmiere."

Her eyes widen slightly, in shock, as tears begin to race down her cheeks. "Cas?" she says in a soft voice, nearly a whisper, placing a gentle hand against my cheek. How good it is to feel her touch again. Her expression changes from one of sadness, to uncertainty, to ecstatic. "It is you," she whispers, gently. Before I'm able to respond, she throws herself into my chest, wrapping her arms tightly around me, sobbing uncontrollably into my chest.

I try to wrap my arms around her, to hold her tight against me, but my wrists catch on the cord that still bind them to the chair. "Maybe if you'd untie me, I could hug you back," I suggest, smiling sweetly at my beautiful wife.

Victoria's cheeks fill with bright red. "Sorry," she says, slightly embarrassed, "I just-"

"Don't be sorry," I cut her off, "you're safety is the most important thing to me."

She smiles at me, a most beautiful smile. "Let's go upstairs," she invites as she unknots the cords. The moment my hands are free, I move to her as quickly as I could, wrapping my arms around her, and hold her as tight as my arms allow without snapping her in half, as I press my lips hard against hers and greedily taste her tongue.

"Upstairs, then," I agree as our lips slowly part from one another. She stares deep into my eyes, happiness clear on her face.

"Upstairs, then," she repeats, and leads me by the wrists up the stairs, and onto the leather couch in the living room.