Blood Flowers

She's In Parties(Astaroth meets Ophelia)

(This is a W.I.P of the first time Astaroth encounters Ophelia. It is not close to finished so stay tuned.)
The essence of musk and dust whirled about. Porcelain dolls with little bonnets and lace sniffed at the air. Worn out furniture with designs that a finger could never trace. Dresses that your grandmother would of worn hung about. The shop was a place filled with ghosts from the past waiting to start a new history. A figure contrasted against all the pastel furnishings almost casting a shadow. The figure stood behind the cash register painting its nails black.
"Fuck!" Ophelia whispered. The nail polish covered her finger better than it covered her nail. She grabbed a tissue and wiped the black nail polish off her finger. The old hag that looked like she was wearing a wallpaper as a dress glared at Ofelia. At the obnoxious red lipstick outlined in black, with the most exaggerated big black wigs of eyeliner decorating her eyes with grey eyes peering out. Ophelia smoothed out her knotted and matted black hair. All she thought about was it being almost closing time.
All of a sudden a loud thump blazed threw the shop. Ofelia looked around. Hands grabbed at her waist. Tickling her exposed stomach. A mouth sloppily kissed at cheek. "Saffron!" she giggled. As the tangled curls brushed against her neck. "Ah how busy it is today." he said. His John Lennon style sunglasses glared in the artificial light.
"Anciana molesta." He said quietly as he stared back at the woman. Ophelia smiled sarcastically. " Se parece a María Ampula con todas sus joyas feas!" Ophelia said holding back a laughing fit. The front glass door shuddered as Saffron laughed quietly.
The humidity infected the air as Ofelia hopped into her beat up car that looked like it had been used to clog roads up with roadkill. "Friday." She said to herself as she drove. Friday the day that reminds you that that you survived a endless cycle of routines and hell. The windows were rolled open as she sang along to She's In Parties by Bauhaus.
She smiled as her Christian Death shirt cut into a crop top with safety pins on the sleeves danced in the breeze.
She opened the door to her preserved sanctuary of dead roses and violet incense tainting her purple velvet bed sheets. Ofelia rashly walked to bathroom and started the shower.

She looked into the mirror. A stack of porcelain dolls awaiting repairs blinked on her desk. Her eyes were adorned with purple glitter shaped into a straight dramatic wing. Under her bottom lashes black eyeliner graced intertwining into the glitter. Glitter dripping like tears interlacing with the black liner. Her lips a almost black plum colour like a infinite bruise beyond repair. A tight-fitting pvc dress adorning her body slashed at the sides. Black stockings that looked like a serial killer hacked into them were held up a garter. Heeled Victorian style boots embellished her feet. Satin gloves masked her hands as if they could keep the dirt of the world out.
Ophelia snagged a ghostly laced shaw off of her chair. She started to wave it around as if she was Dracula shielding himself from the sun. Her eyes captured her appearance as she smiled. She walked out of the place her soul took residence in.
***
A fog machine produced smoke enhancing the atmosphere of it all. Stigmata Martyr by Bauhaus infected the room as she danced. The song had all the tension that an exorcism could.While her hands were tension less moving in silky gestures like a witch casting a spell. White lights flashing letting her eye makeup twinkle. Her body spiraled around the dance floor as if leaving little trails of sparkles. As if looking back into her mirror in bedroom she pulled the whole Dracula veiling himself from the light move. She was smiling as if breaking the whole eerie aura. He smiled back as if be was an old friend.
Astaroth he called himself after the duke of hell.But he was the duke of blood not hell. He could control it unlike other factors of his existence. He gripped onto controllable things like sucking at a vein and letting go when he pleased to do so. Draining any story out of what resided. He couldn't control what he yearned for, body and soul never hunger together. His body beckoned him for blood awaiting him to give in and let his soul play with what his body demanded. His soul was a slave to his body he answered and obeyed its commands or else it consume him like gashes swallowing the whipped skin of a slave. He didn't want to be the slave to another's body or soul. The soul being able to be fractured with one scratch. A body vulnerable to bleed into a garden of the forgotten.
Sweat dripped down her body in way a that a slashed up body's blood might. The song went to an end a dreadful one like finishing a book you loved then you reach the last page and realise good things never last they must be savored. Savored as if they were milk chocolate smothering your tongue. Astaroth stared at walking towards an empty booth to the side. Slithering beside her was something that seemed idiotic but favorable for Astaroth. The smell of cigarettes trailed into his nose as young man with blue teased hair smoked next to him.