The Anhedoniacs

Like infected diamonds falling onto an obsidian floor, the bitter tears swam down the hosiery which was clinging to her face. An abyss in lucent ebony, sacred flesh was singed continually as her crying increased the tightness of the mask which veiled the seven facets of what was once her gem of a visage. Akin to the bile of Judas fermenting on a saviours’ lips, the quick wails intensified as the dew of sorrow elevated itself to a heavy mist, a mist of tears, which when melded with the nylon made an amalgam of sadistic comfort and closure which was black and necessary, to paint a tableau of hired sorrow across her fallen, angelic face.

Nineteen minutes always seems like an hour ago.

Faith manufactured itself steadily as an extended ivory hand confirmed, caressing affectionately the sheer, synthetic dusk which was saturated in expertise and paid for in transferred blame.

Nineteen minutes, for twenty-eight days.

“You are a fool who traveled far.” Mortar of mourning, the voice quivered with an elixir of vigilant breath, escaping her darkened face like a draught between two crumbling bricks. Drawing her ivory hand away—tightening that sinister limb—she clenched her left fist at her side. The air receded as a sepia sky once littered with the white faces of silent clouds; it fluttered off the reel of the hazy day it was playing. Now distant and fully in view, there were no longer any howls from her; she was grief shot in full-length whose body was draped in a greyscale garb.

Silver, flawless and woven, an ashen tunic blanketed her shape, falling to her feet. A leathern serpent ate its tail at her waist, adding to the awe surrounding her appropriately apocalyptic stature. Fist still clenched, her tall body drew the inspection of her spectators both up to her covered face and down—like a subliminal elevator—down past her arms to her hidden feet. They were the feet whose soles had the knowledge of so many paths which were, too, hidden. Those two feet, one could only imagine, had graced the limbs of life’s tree. Her mystery blinded. She enunciated with her fingers the directions to a concept which immaculately appeared on the ground beside her. Engraved with calculated mystery and mass-produced importance, text undulated decadently in a spiral drawn in the sand where she pointed, pulling the spectator’s curiosity even further downward.

His intrigue was bleeding; aching like two wounds, his eyes passionately read. The script could have only come from virgin fingers, plucking such a note into the sand like a harpist’s tune longing to be taken, to be heard. The confusion of the phrase converted him—singing a hymn of attraction—calling his moth to the text’s light. It was like some code: two numbers separated by a colon, as though citing a page of scripture, but referring to a passage which was recorded in a book with no name.

8:2