The Demon's Flower

Prologue

Hey Everyone!! Just a little warning that this story uses Gothic themes and will be dark/violent at times. Also, these characters are my own creation and are no way based on, or reflection of, real people. Hope you all enjoy!!! :)

I stared at the last pleasant light in my life; the ivory moon glowed with ethereal beauty above the grey city. Its outline was sharp against the clear winter sky, accented only by blinking stars. I used to hate the dark and the stillness of midnight, but now it was the only time I felt something: an echo of what I used call happiness. The night sky really is a thing of beauty. When watching it, time and season meant nothing and all that mattered were the lovely lights that hung before my eyes. I wanted to enjoy this time before the sun appeared; it's light was too much, it brought out all the colours in the world and only ever highlighted my misery. The world awoke and became loud and busy, the city-dwellers would leave their homes to go to work, school, or out with friends and I could not be among them. To walk among them would only serve to torment my mind and remind me of my lost humanity.

I now lived a life in gloom, alone despite having a companion. The isolated streets where all was empty and cold and dark was now my garden and a random flat, made of nothing but simulated warmth, was now my home. I felt as though I had been beaten, like an egg ready for scrambling, spun in an unnatural whirlpool that was controlled by a man who wanted nothing more than to possess mastery over my entire being. I wished for death and in a way I had it; my soul had withered but my body remained, I don't know if that is what he wanted, or it was a result of my stupidity. I also wished that there was something I could do but all was lost, the fire of motivation was dulled to embers and would soon extinguish without the kindling of hope.

I know what happens to a person after death, eternal peace or eternal punishment, but what if the soul dies without the body? Perhaps losing one's soul is the punishment and I have reached my cell of torment already; forced to watch others from behind a pane of glass, too unworthy to walk among them, too infected with my crimes to have friends, too owned and disturbed to take a lover. Is this my torment? Am I already in my eternally frozen state of wretchedness, never to be gifted forgiveness or happiness?

But it is all my fault. He was right; I chose this path and cast myself into the spiral of wickedness. I chose without thinking of the consequences and now I shall never enjoy the company of humans, I shall never bask in the warmth of the sun or celebrate another day of snow. I can only watch the moon and feel the unforgiving concrete beneath my body; in the same way that she did.

When I was alive my plan didn't seem too terrible, I didn't think that I could fall so far, and I only had eyes for the beautiful happiness that I would receive after it had been executed. I cared not for the steps I had to take. Now here I am, sitting outside each night not caring if the rain drowned my body or the ice collected on my eyelashes like frostbitten glamour, repeating the same disjointed and rambling concoction of thought and memories and practically drenching myself in loathing.

Though my thoughts felt clearer tonight, they increased my torture. I now knew tonight would be a bad night and I would be forced to relive every bad decision I made that led me up to this moment. I contemplated going inside our hoax of a home, but I didn't want to miss a moment of the only natural light I could cope with.

I wanted to cry for the pain I was about to go through, but my tears had not blessed my face since the first incident. Since she died at my wish; I wished to follow her and crumble before her throne of clouds and beg for her forgiveness, to say how sorry I am and hope that she can find contentment and peace in whatever afterlife this world gifts to the good. But all I can really do is remember what I did and hope this process of self-tortured reflection symbolises some form confession which will one day be the key to release me from this prison of life.

I took a deep lung full of air, the frigidness of it burned my lungs; and as I expelled my billowing breath I whispered aloud in the hope that some deity would expunge my record and finally allow me rest, "my name is Lillian Jones and I wish that someone would set me free."