Feyness

by E. S. Carter

  He hated when I called him that. Didn’t like the reminder that I was his flesh and blood. He would rather be my master than my kin.

  “Don’t fuck this up, girl.” He sneers. His hand latches onto the top of my arm and squeezes painfully in warning. I nod in supplication and turn without his help, steeling my spine and walking towards the oak double doors at the far side of the ballroom.

  The guests are already spilling through the open doors, all eager to get to their seats for the main attraction. In a farcical show of patriarchal pride, my Father walks alongside me and crooks his elbow for me to take. Like the dutiful slave I am, I link my arm through his and take a step closer to my impending nuptials.

  In a clichéd show of breeding and traditionalism, I see my father nod towards the men flanking the atrium doors and immediately, from somewhere inside the grand room, what sounds like a small orchestra begins to play Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

  I imagine many Brides feel butterflies on hearing the distinctive declaration announcing their arrival.

  I feel dread. It permeates my skin, flooding through my blood and seeping into my bones.

  The music may be announcing the start of my new life, but it feels more like a death knell. I can almost taste my life essence escaping my body on my next shaky exhale.

  Do not show weakness.

  Do not let them win.

  Be the breeze.

  Float away.

  My mother’s words play on repeat in my head as I futilely try to escape to the place deep inside where I get to be an observer rather than the participant. It doesn’t work, though, and the words fly faster and faster through my brain on a loop. Each step forward feeling heavier than the last; like I’m walking through treacle, while my mind races, trying and failing to grasp onto some semblance of peace.

  Everyone turns to watch my demise. Their cold stares and greedy eyes feel like millions of razor sharp pinpricks dragging over my skin. My bare arms begin to tingle, the urge to scratch away the feeling causes my fingers to twitch, a movement that does not go unnoticed by my father. His hand, which rests over mine in the crook of his arm, squeezes hard on my fingers until my knuckles click, immediately stilling the spasms and diverting my thoughts away from the ravenous horde that line the aisle.

  Although my gaze is set straight ahead, I’m not focussed on anything, and the finer details like the ostentatious floral displays or ornate ribbons, do nothing to draw my interest. Even the strong scent of the large pillar candles that are lit at the end of each row of chairs doesn’t register. I am aware of it all but no more or less than one is aware of lifting their own feet to take a step. It just is.

  So it comes as a shock when we stop abruptly at the end of the aisle, and my focus is jarred to the minister directly in front of me who is decked out in pretentious robes, his beady eyes set on my cleavage, not on my face. A real man of the cross. But it’s not his presence that shakes me to my core; it’s that of the man stood to my right. The man my eyes want to drink in, despite my good sense telling me not to look. I force my gaze to the floor at his feet where expensive Italian footwear shines back at me mockingly, all the while, darkness weaves around his legs in noxious tendrils, encasing his form in the very fabric of his soul.

  The Devil himself stands before me.

  His aura reaches out across the small space between us, calling me, enticing me to drink my fill and despite my pretence of strength, the call is too powerful, and I raise my eyes to his face.

  His face.

  He is the antithesis of my expectations.

  What does The Devil look like?

  Dark, sinful, tempting, so wrong it’s right?

  He is none of those things.

  The man standing before me wears the mask of an angel. If this man is The Devil, then he has stolen the face of Jesus.

  Crystal clear, pale blue eyes, a full beard perfectly trimmed in light golden brown and long, matching golden hair that is effortlessly tousled and reaches down past his shoulders in soft waves.

  His sharp black suit clashes with the sensual softness of his features and if that isn’t enough to ensure chaos rages behind my eyes, then the thick venomous cloud that engulfs him, does.

  Others would only see a strikingly handsome man, created in God’s image.

  I see the façade and his rotten core, and yet, I am transfixed.

  My body yearns to go to his; my hands itch to touch his skin, my lips tingle for just one taste.

  I am Snow White, and he is the poisoned apple, and despite this knowledge, right here, right now, I would die for just one bite of flesh.

  “Faye.”

  My name on his lips is wrong.

  It’s right.

  It’s darkness and light.

  The soft, plump skin of his mouth moves as his eyes drink me in, and he visually devours me; an open promise of the depraved acts that are to come.

  Yet my body bows towards his.

  His shadows call to my innocence like a siren song.

  “Come.”

  His hand extends, his palm open, but it isn’t a request, it’s a demand and like the good girl I am, I obey.

  Straight into the arms of an angel.

  The angel of death.

  “Come.”

  She obeys.

  Well trained, meek, submissive, yet also bold.

  Her eyes are fixed on mine, and the feeling is unsettling; it’s as if she’s not just looking at me, she’s looking inside of me.

  Does she see the beast beneath the pretty veneer?

  Can she hear its sharp teeth snap as it fights its way to the surface, demanding to bite, to tear and to mark her pure flesh?

  Her mismatched eyes, seen as an imperfection by many, should not enhance her beauty, but they do. They layer her ethereal perfection with an edge of unknown.

  Will she break easily?

  Will I have hours, days or months to bend her to my will or will she shatter into pieces later tonight?

  Before meeting her, I could not have cared less, but now, now I hope she’s strong. I hope she fights me with every breath in her soft, nubile body. I don’t want her cowering at my feet, those hypnotic eyes vacant while I force my cock down her throat. I want to see a spark, a flame, a wildfire, demanding I punish, daring me to test her mettle, threatening me with her hate.

  My cock aches for her to hate me.

  And hate me she will.

  She may be just a pawn in this game, a means to an end, but she’s mine, and I’ll enjoy every second of her annihilation. She will be a fitting appetiser to the demise of a King.

  “Come.”

  The crowd disappears into a mist, and my father’s hand releases its death grip on my arm, offering me up to my new owner. A single bead of sweat trickles down my spine leaving chills in its wake and time stills enough that I feel its descent over every fine hair in its path.

  The initial touch of skin on skin as his hand clasps mine, jolts awareness through my veins. The minister’s voice drones on in the background like white noise, declaring our holy union before his righteous flock, and my mind races with images, with a film reel of memories that are not mine, but belong to Cole.

  Blood. Death. Torture.

  I see the small hand of a child no older than eight or nine, a large knife clutched tightly in its grip, knuckles white, arm steadfast, not a tremble, nor the slightest waver in their resolve as I watch the bloodbath that ensues. In my vision, I am this child, I see what they see, hear what they hear, feel what they feel and the overwhelming emotion is apathy. Not hate, not fear, just indifference.

  A dark-haired man is sprawled naked on a bed with a bleached blonde female wrapped around him. Both are blissfully asleep and oblivious to the evil stalking towards them. The child doesn’t hesitate; there is no pause before it raises its arm and brings it down forcefully, plunging the serrated knife straight into the man’s jugular and using all its juvenile strength to drag the blade through his flesh in a brutal attempt at de
capitation.

  Even as the man gurgles and flounders about like a fish out of water, gasping for air that will never again reach his lungs, and the woman squeals like a stuck pig, the child doesn’t falter. Its eyes raise to the frantic woman, her legs tangled in sheets that are becoming sodden with the blood of her lover and in one decisive move, her screams are silenced as the same blade slices across her throat.

  The child does not stay and watch their demise. It does not revel in the murderous rampage brought on by its hand. It simply walks away, out through the bedroom door, down a corridor and into a room that is decorated with toy trains. A bedside lamp bathes the blue room in a comforting glow, and the child pauses in its first show of indecision, its eyes flicking from the bed to an adjoining door.

  My heart rate picks up in my chest; I don’t want to see what is behind that door. I struggle to remove my hand from Cole’s to break the connection and hopefully end the vision, but his grip tightens painfully, and I stand immobile, surrounded by a room full of people, yet my eyes can only see a white door being pushed open and a stark bright light burns my retinas.

  A small sterile bathroom, impeccably clean and thankfully empty is revealed, and the child drops the knife into the sink with a deafening clang. The blood pools at the pointed tip, trickling off the metal onto the porcelain below. The child bends down, opening a small cupboard and its bloody hands seek out a bottle of bleach. The top is removed effortlessly, and the thick liquid glugs as it pours over the child’s small hands and flows over the blade and handle.

  Red turns to pink as the bleach does its job and washes away the evidence of the massacre that happened just down the hall. Fingernails are scrubbed until red raw, and the small hands look sore but painfully clean. The knife glints menacingly as the child uses the front of its superhero pyjama top to dry the weapon. Once the task is complete, I watch transfixed as the eyes of this child raise to the mirror above the sink. Crystal clear, pale blue orbs set in a cherubic face, stare impassively at its reflection. Golden hair with a slight wave curls at its neck, in need of a cut. This child is beautiful, but even in the mirror, I can see the tendrils of evil snaking around it, caressing its soft, youthful skin like the loving hand of a mother.

  The vision is of Cole.

  His first kill.

  The first of many.

  “I now pronounce you, man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  It’s not the minister’s words that shake me from the dark recesses of my mind, but the polite, lacklustre clapping of the crowd.

  The image of the small blond boy fades in my mind’s eye, and I become hyper aware of the silent expectation filling the air. The weight of their anticipation bears down heavily on my back, and I have to lock my knees to stop them from buckling.

  What are they waiting for?

  My eyes land on the minister’s, and I see a spark of excitement reflected in their dull green depths. His mouth turns up into an almost manic grin before he leers at me and repeats his last words, “You may kiss your bride.”

  My head snaps to the right, and I look up at the man beside me, my husband.

  He narrows his icy glare at the supposed holy man, who is all but drooling in anticipation of whatever debauched incident he is expecting to witness, and the already tight grip on my hand increases. I suck in a breath and swallow the whimper that begs to break free of my lips as I feel the delicate bones of my hand grind against each other, threatening to snap. Then his head turns abruptly towards me, and I wish for the pain to increase, needing to focus on that and not the pale blue eyes of my betrothed; eyes that both terrify and yet ensnare me.

  Will he take his kiss by force and publicly demand my submission? Will he greedily devour the gift from his new father?

  One blink is all it takes to make his decision.

  His eyelids shutter closed for just a fraction of a second before I see his intent.

  Cole is not a man to perform for the crowd. He does not seek their approval or yearn for their adoration.

  With a single nod to my father, he tugs at my hand and turns me towards the rapacious crowd. He spares no one else a glance as he strides fluidly down the aisle, dragging me alongside him. I stumble ungracefully in my attempt to keep up, but he neither falters nor stops to come to my aid. I am of no consequence to him; he owns me, and therefore, he must take me, but he does not desire me.

  My defect, my mismatched eyes, not only give me the gift of sight, but they also render me freakishly ugly to a man that could have any woman he pleases. I am an unwanted burden, one that will inevitably be discarded quickly, if fate is on my side.

  People stare, mouths gaping, eyebrows raised, and their annoyance that the spectacle was cut short, denying them a juicy meal, fills the air with an amethyst mist. It curls around their forms, evaporating into nothingness above their heads, leaving the ornate ceiling a visible and welcome point of focus for my swirling mind.

  All too soon, the cold night air hits me, freezing the oxygen in my lungs and threatening to weaken my trembling legs further. Cole, unaffected and uncaring of my wellbeing, strides with even more purpose, his long legs making quick work of the stone steps that lead from the entrance doors to the silent street below. There are no cars on the road, no passers-by to witness the woman in white silk being dragged towards the dark Bentley waiting in the shadows, the engine running, back door open ready to swallow me whole.

  “In.”

  My monosyllabic husband delivers the word like a decree, a demand that he knows I will obey without resistance.

  I look from the inky depths of the car to the man at my side, but he doesn’t watch me. Instead, he stands and waits, his icy blue eyes fixed on the building behind us, his casual stance a contradiction of the power he holds.

  My eyes drop from his face back to the open door and, with a silent sigh, I gather up the voluminous and intricately woven skirts of my wedding gown and step into the car. Before I am fully settled in the far corner of the back seat, the door slams closed behind me, and I turn to stare at the moonlight bathed profile of my husband.

  There are no harsh edges to his face; it is soft, sensuous and calls to me. My fingers itch to trace the smooth lines and ache to see if his beard is soft or scratchy on my palms.

  Without warning his eyes flick to mine, pinning me to my seat with their mocking disdain.

  The corner of his deliciously full mouth curls up in a sneer, “Like what you see, Faye?”

  Heat blooms across my cheeks with the embarrassment of being caught ogling him. I avert my eyes to my lap, and I swallow my uneven breaths as my hands twist together in nervous fear.

  In a move that I could never have anticipated, he strikes, clamping my jaw in a painful grip, and turning my head to face him once more.

  “I asked you a question, wife.” His smooth voice is delicately laced with venom, and I stubbornly keep my eyes down, not daring to meet his.

  The flesh of my face presses into my bone as he squeezes his grip tighter, and my glossy lips smash together in a forced pucker as he shakes me slightly demanding a reply.

  “You will do well to learn, when I ask, you answer. When I want, you give. Look at me and tell me, do you like what you see?” Gone is his poison fuelled tone, to be replaced with velvet temptation. Even without lifting my eyes I can see the way his plump mouth forms the words, ‘want’ and ‘give’, but if he wants my eyes on him, I’ll give him them. I’ll give him anything for more of his soft words, no matter the pain in my jaw or the panic in my chest.

  “Yes.”

  My eyes meet his and I hold his gaze in a fake show of strength. I am not strong, I am nothing, but I pretend with a mismatched glare of fire, that does nothing to melt the ice reflected back.

  My admission pleases him for all of a second before he tosses me away with a force that snaps my head against the window, the dull thunk echoing around the silence of the car.

  If he thinks this show of disgust will make me cower further, he’s wrong. I
t’s not his aggression that scares me; it’s his beauty.

  Humans innately believe that anything which pleases the eye must be good. Our instincts tell us that evil does not lurk beneath an alluring mask, it’s impossible.

  Anyone with sense knows this to be a falsehood, a trap to ensnare. Nature shows us that beauty can be used against us, luring us in with its sweet nectar like a Venus Flytrap, eager to gorge on our flesh and slowly digest our life force as a means of sustenance. That makes Cole all the more dangerous; he does not feast to nourish his body, he does so to feed his need. He’s a flesh-eating monster, and I’m his next meal.

  The car starts with no apparent direction from Cole and pulls away from the curb onto the quiet street. I want to ask where we are going, but swallow the words knowing their futility. So I sit in silence. A silence so deafening that I struggle with the need to cover my ears with my hands in the hope of blocking it out. No more than ten minutes later, we pull up outside a nondescript townhouse in a deprived area of London. Again, the street appears to be strangely quiet, even at this late hour, with no passing cars or taxis, no late night dog walkers or even revellers coming home from an evening out.

  I stare up at the grey-bricked building and notice a flicker of lights pass over the drab net curtains as though someone inside is watching television in the dark.

  With my eyes fixed on the house, I don’t notice Cole’s movement until he gently places his hand over mine. His touch instantly stills my trembling fingers which are intertwined so tightly that my knuckles are white. I flinch, the soft contact unexpected and completely at odds with how he touched me less than a quarter of an hour before.

  “It’s time for you to see who your husband is, Faye. Come.”

  He pries my fingers apart and links my left hand with his before opening his door and stepping out into the street, gently pulling me behind him.

  “Is this your home?” The words pass my lips without thought as I stare at the generic, white PVC, front door with its cheap brass fixtures and ugly double-glazed glass panels.