All That Bleeds is Gold!: Love and Evil combine in this grim, apocalyptic tale of Love and Marriage. All that bleeds is gold. Oh, how I relish that sentiment. How it invokes the smell of freshly cut grass. The sounds of sea birds on the beach. The feel of slight winds sifting through a forest path. The blurred and wavy visage of the sun, setting over a pond. There was a time when all was well. No panic in the streets. The farms and prairies carried echos of crickets songs. America was a land of the free. ...Free. Such an odd word now; after the burden of loss and heartache the flu brought. Just as it did in 1918, the epidemic came in slowly, ravaging the infants and the elderly first, and indeed, at that stage, it was a bit shameful, for hardly anyone even noticed. Such was our ignorance and indifference towards the plight of others, even our own countrymen. --Then it got brave. Once the numbers hit, when the poor succumbed by the thousands and finally the rich began to shrivel like the rest of us, we all knew then that we were in deep trouble. Even the normally healthy began to fall...and so did my lovely Vale. Vale was a dark-haired beauty with a silken mane so vibrant and sheen, it emanated a blue hue, an aura of surreal effervescence. A bit of a Rock-A-Billy Queen, we enjoyed our nighttime concerts, live bands and most of all...each other. We were very close, perhaps closer than any man and woman could be. Yet I suppose thats what all couples feel when theyre in love. When the second wave of influenza hit hard, Vale took the brunt of it, while I was lucky enough to get past it, though Ill probably always have that certain cough when it rains. Such battles of body and soul often leave scars like that. But Vale...she didnt cheat the Reaper as I had. Her luck wasnt as grand as mine. Perhaps she forgot to carry her rabbits foot key-chain, or recite her bedtime prayer the night before. Who knows? For rhyme and reason, be it supernatural or logical, holds no meaning in a world where the dead literally outweigh the living. Listless. Quivering. Faint and cold. I held her hand when she passed. I like to use the term passed, as that seems to be a more accurate description of what happened to her...and the many others who fell to the burden of ailment. I was told once that prejudice is like a disease. Ironic this is, since I learned all too well that disease harbors no prejudice. It is an all inclusive entity, welcoming anyone inside its lofty home of brimstone and cinders - this, no matter what faith, gender, or race; all are welcomed to the Reapers grand ball. One time, when Vale and I where on a picnic outing, she cut her finger on the fringes of a gold ring I had given her. The sharp edge of the embedded diamond produced a paper-cut of sorts, yet it bled a bit too much for such a tiny wound. Indeed, Vale was like that; fragile and precious, like some parched desert rose. I worried for her, but she was a strong spirit. I watched her deep, crimson blood speckle off the shine of her golden ring. Such an odd mix of colors. No. Such an odd mix of hues. She gazed at me, as I peered down at her dainty hand. Dont worry, silly. Its just a thin cut. Dont call the ambulance just yet! She mocked. Its nothing of dire concern. I just hope it doesnt stain my precious ring. It was then that I realized it. There was nothing more precious than life. Not Gold. Not Diamonds. Not Cash. Not Properties. ...Not Anything. So strange now that her dripping blood signified just that. If you think gold is valuable, how much more then is blood? I asked, surprised I even uttered such an analogy. She giggled in her certain coy manner and joined me with a quip. Then all that bleeds is gold. She responded. How I miss her voice, her swaying hair in the summer breeze. Her warm caress at night. How I long for her empathic hug. Her soft laughter. Her graceful ways and her other assets. Even her fits of rage, her bouts of jealousy. Her righteous-than-thou, condescending stares. It was all part of her, and I know now just how much I miss...her. Just her. Atop a second story building, resting on a dilapidated patio, I watch the city burn before me. The once proud pillars of mankind, gradually breaking down from fires, riots, and fear. So much fear. Out of the millions that perished, only some came back. No one knows how many. Perhaps hundreds, perhaps thousands, maybe more. No one is certain. But when they did come back, they were not themselves. In essence, they were -- different. They spoke kind and loving in one moment, and then harsh and incredibly vulgar the next. Each sentence a bipolar rage, laced with devious, psychological intent, charred and mangled, armed to hurt the mind, body, and souls of their loved ones. Such was the way of the Muck-Doll. Thats what we call them now...Muck-Dolls. An appropriate name, for their kind are deeply mired in muck and filth, the hidden pit of the spirit. Theyre perverted by obscene and strange desires, as if we were looking at the most intimate secrets of our darker selves. These slices of inner sin, now manifested in the flesh, and here they walk, like shattered, pretzeled porcelain dolls. I lost nine people that I genuinely loved; yet Vale was the only one of those nine to come back. Others had similar tales to tell, and they haunted me with a frazzled puzzle: that perhaps because I loved Vale the most, she was the one that came back. As it stands, no one is sure; we all just fear that notion. Its nightfall again. I can hear the roaring of mobs beginning to fade into the dark, as those of us still alive, take greater shelter. I can see odd forms wriggling in the blackened fog below. From this point, its like peering into a blurry microscope, afraid to see what nasty bugs infest your own blood. I think for a moment that she wont come by. That my nightly visitor might pass me by this evening, but now my luck is running out. For I can already see her down there...my intimate guest. She who knows me better than anyone. Vale huffs and scoffs, skittering along on all fours. Bending and twisting and running and leaping. Sometimes so much so, it appears shes playing an eccentric game of Hopscotch amid the sordid streets below. She looks around, sniffing for my scent, as her flesh coils and recoils and drips and stretches. Her unnatural form, creeping among the litter and debris, illuminated by color swathes and broken beams of unfiltered moonlight. My precious Vale, still bound by her mad love for me. Bound and dragged into this world from a place never meant to be left. ..And all that grizzly expansion was traveled just to be with me. ...And as for me, nothing has changed. I feared our love was so great - too great, even before this sickening madness enveloped the world. As I close the steel shutters to my widows and clamp the locks on my doors. I can hear her softly calling my name. Coy. Loving. Welcoming. Warming. All those gracious things I felt before. All those things I still feel now. Yet here I hide. ...Why? Such a flippant thing love can be; both selfless and selfish at the same time. Vane and prideful, lusting and endearing, all created with an unmistakably austere craft and value. Maybe love and life are one and the same. Perhaps Vale was right all along. All that bleeds is gold. Story by Dark Riddle/Jesus Morales
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 16:28:39 +0000
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