Memories and Nightmares

Another Friday night found me, once again, making my way among the headstones to the old oak in the middle of it all. I pulled out my pack of cigarettes and thoughtlessly put one to my mouth, lighting it with a flash of blood red nails and pale fingers.

With a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of dark merlot in the other, I wove absentmindedly through crumbling memorials of granite and marble. Tombs reared menacingly in the distance but I paid them no mind. Not all were sleeping soundly here, but I didn’t care, there was too much wine in me to give a damn. I still heard them though, and they knew I could.
Off in the distance, the moon’s waning light cast eerie shadows on the 3 a.m. fog and I shivered instinctively underneath my coat.
Deep into the heart of the graveyard I made my way, stumbling occasionally but never falling. Finally, I found my place, a 400 year old oak standing in the very heart of the cematary. Silently I tossed my coat on the ground and sat beneath my tree. Lighting another cigarette, I pulled a black, bound book and pen from the recesses of my bag and began drawing the scene in front of me.
A crypt, fallen in on the left, occupied most of my view. I had been in there many times but the sounds were too much, echoing off the marble lined walls. It was there that I first discovered who I was, and it was in that cold tomb that I learned how to hear the dead. That is something I now wish I hadn’t learned. But, its too late for that, isn’t it?
I remember when I used to go to church and even pray. It seems like an eternity ago, but it wasn’t any more than five or six years. At twenty, I felt old, older than I was. I had seen a lot and been through even more, but I digress.
For some reason, I wanted to remember this place, to have a picture of it, just to prove to myself that it wasn’t a dream, that this place was real.
For so long, I wandered these paths, arms laden with candles and a grimore or two. Candles were pointless anymore. I ended up learning too much and now I don’t need them, I have fire when I snap my fingers.
The smells of decay pervaded my nose for a moment and I remembered the first time I came her. I was 14 and thought it’d be cool to smoke out in one of the crypts. My friends got scared and left. I stayed in there, and something happened. I changed. Since then, I have come here to practice and to learn. Too bad I can’t unlearn what the dead have to tell. I don’t want to know any more.
My sketch is finished and I sign my name. Slowly I close my sketchbook and stand up, brushing the earth from my skirt. I place the book on a shelf in the tomb, no one will see it, let alone take it. Maybe I would come back to get it someday. After all, it had been good to me, just not to those I knew.
With a final swirl of cloth, I turn and stride from my crypt, glancing one last time at the tree I have practiced beneath for years. My wine is gone and I am drunkenly weary. Back out of the mists I go, seeing streetlights for the first time in what seems like eons. Its over now, I give back my gift, until I should need it again.

By AriealaLeFey

5'2 pale sylph, red hair, green eyes, slight build, talons (on hands and through ears) building up to 13 tattoos (no more no less)

8 comments

  1. It makes that feeling stronger…that aching little echo in the back of my mind that I can’t get to go away.

    In other words, I liked it, too.

    ~n~

  2. Surreal, but nice. Conjures up scenes of black and white graveyards and leather bound books… scenes we know all too well.

  3. Wow is all i can say it made me think and i love you r writing style
    its sureal but posible
    good work

    pheonix

  4. Necroscopes Always make me wonder, and i wonder if i could hear the dead, would i want to? Maybe, Maybe not. I would certainly find it interesting…..kind of makes you wonder…. is it the wind, or the breath of the dead?

  5. Although this piece is interesting I don’t see a whole lot of ‘surreal’ here. It’s fairly commonplace in both the plot and structure, although better written than some I have seen.
    I’ve always had more of an appreciation for writing that stems of original thought, but this isn’t without it’s merits.

    Keep writing, B.

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