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Angel in A

Angel in A

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Published by Irving Paul Pereira
Short Fiction. Sex.Death.Memory. Karma.
Short Fiction. Sex.Death.Memory. Karma.

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Published by: Irving Paul Pereira on Sep 15, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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09/15/2009

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She had young flesh on her face worthy to be bitten off.From the first day I saw her when I opened up a tarot store by the sea, I knew shewas fate’s handmaiden. I just wished I didn’t fall for her, to let my guard down. Butin the end, as I sit here now ready to slit my wrist, I knew there would be no escapefrom the lovecraftian love spell she had weaved.Especially for me.She was too tall for her age, too gothic for her makeup. She reminded me of thosedevilish women who served the most disturbing and grotesque personas of thedark. Nosferatu’s lover or the black sorcerer’s daughter. A solid form like aswimmer, a loud presence like a whore actress, where the theater was her world,and her audience, small whimpering failures before her majestic monologues. Shecould straddle you and abuse you with her recklessness and yet, you’ll love her andeven pay her for it.She just finished high school and ran a store by the beach, with her equally wildmother, selling cheap pornographic t-shirts and colorful slippers. The storereflected the family in some way. Weird, fantastic, surreal. They did air brushtattoos, sold skull lighters to the junkies, tents for the runaways and the homeless,skimpy bikini’s and g-strings for the perverts and the kittens. And they alwaysattracted cats. Deformed, undersized, phantom like felines that prowled their storelike a parade of guardians, hissing at me at times, hissing at priests and monks.Witches and artists were drawn to the shop, buying beach towels emblazoned withpentagrams and lanterns for scaring off the dark. They all always looked haggard,pale, haunted. Amongst them, the mother and daughter duo shined like darkbeacons in an ocean of lost souls. That was the strange thing about the shop. The‘normal’ people would pass it by without noticing it. I should’ve guessed at itsdeeper implications. I should have questioned it all. But I was too busy growingunruly feelings for the jail bait girl. The mother was loud and round like a punkgoddess. Together, the two of them dominated the vintage amusement park by thesea.It was only much later, when the daughter decided to own me, to demand myallegiance, that I realized I was in too deep under her spell. She had played thegame all along and I could do no other thing but surrender my damned soul.In the beginning, when I first joined the community, she wouldn’t talk to me and Ihad no courage to speak to her. I didn’t even attempt to ask the other tenants abouther. Some animalistic sense told me not to involve the innocent. She was my ownprivate danger. I would observe from my store, during the silent hours, that she hada menagerie of regulars. Strange starving boys would visit her, like sick addictscoming to claim their drugs. There would be the back alley gangsters, tattooed,coarse and schooled by the streets, bringing her gifts of sugar water and rich fruitsas if in worship. The mafia like tycoons were most elusive. Shaded in their upscale
 
tuxedoes, they would offer her obsolete coins in cheap translucent bags and red tiespresented in coffin like velvet boxes. Her visitors made the scene around her storeall the more surreal, fantastic. I should’ve seen the signs then. But I didn’t.Perhaps, these visitors, or clientele, prevented me from making contact with her,largely because I was not of their kind. I was simply a poor cartomancer, trying tobury my past by starting anew by the shores. The cards I worked with wouldn’t tellme more about her. They did speak vaguely, of miscommunication or fortresses, aninability to get through, but they spoke loudly of illusion and karma, the dark nightof the soul. I should’ve read deeper into it, but again, I did not. That is the danger of reading for yourself. You do not pursue the warnings but chase after cards thataffirm your own desired outcome. That was truly my mistake. I could’ve been savedif I listened.I could have escaped.I spent days and nights just watching her. Sometimes I would catch her eyes andthat glitter in the dark would make me lose my breath and bearings. Sometimes,when I was reading for a client, she would saunter by and her strange crematoriumscent would distract me to no end. Then I started dreaming of her.Most of the time, she would be naked in my dreams and would have no orifices. Wewould never have sex but she would sit on me and tell me prison stories. She’ll rubher scaly torso on mine which would always be limp and weak and dead. I neverremember any other details, not even of the stories, but the next day, as if on somecosmic coincidental cue, I would see police officers sharing jokes with her. Young,unhealthy looking men in uniform, smitten by the sea side enchantress.She would side glance at me occasionally as if to watch my reactions. Making suremy eyes would follow hers, she would direct me to the handcuffs hanging by theirbelts. My spine would freeze every time that happened, as if she knew something Idid not remember then. Of all the ghastly boys she would laugh with, she alwaysdisplayed sibling attraction rather than sexual hunger. I had a feeling that at somestage, these boys were going to draw blood for her, turn pale and comatose for herlove. But she would remain like a sister, stroking their almost dead face with pitymore than adoration. They all seemed like little brothers to her while she trulyneeded a brutal king, an oppressor much greater than her, to rule her nocturnebody.Our very first contact happened on Christmas Eve.At midnight, she pounced upon me unaware and tried to strangle me to death. Shelaughed like a child when she let me breathe again. I was hard during the process. Itried not to struggle. I wasn’t afraid. I let the blood rush and roar in my head like aninsatiate beast.A new sexuality appeared to have dawned upon me. Sex and deathgot engaged. Not a word was exchanged during those crucial seconds. She just
 
stared at me with criminal lust and a cold calculated smile. Then walked away.Crazy bitch. No doubt. But I loved her for it. The mother didn’t know about theincident of course and by some silent consent we kept it between ourselves. Somekind of twisted relationship had begun, like the steaming screams of a monstrouslocomotive set to shoot off at the end of the world. It didn’t feel like we would belovers. She was after all, only seventeen. I was almost twice her age. And yet, mybody parts found her uncomfortably familiar...My dreams of her got more disturbing in late December.She would be pissing on my face and I would choke on the overwhelming smell of turpentine. I would awake exhausted, trapped by a source less guilt. After washingmy face, I would find faded paint marks around my eyes. Blues, yellows, browns,greens. Black. One for each night after Christmas. It seemed unusual but it feltvaguely like a common occurrence. Like it was natural to have paint on my face.Only later would I realize it had been omens.On New Year ’s Eve, she stabbed my leg with a penknife.Not a deep gash but bloody enough. Again she did this without her mother’sknowledge. She caught me off guard, behind my push cart,so no one else would seethe ritualistic act. She then got down on her knees, to drink from my wound. Hertongue felt weirdly like leather as it probed and slithered into my pain. It got me toohigh for words and when she was done, I was too numb tongued to say a thing. Itwas she who spoke first and her first words to me were, “You will remember.”Her voice made me wet. As she walked off, licking her lips, I could do nothing elsebut wonder what she had meant.Soon. Very soon. I would find out. That night, I sat in my hall studying the wound with a mirror while I thought of her,my little devil laughing witch dominatrix. I did no stitching, no bandaging, nocleaning. It was throbbing, her spit was bubbling around the open flesh. Digginginto my wound, I wet my fingers with my blood and her saliva. To taste her, totouch her on a molecular level. The blood was warm on my tongue and like someliving pharmacologic specter; I felt it seep into my system, taking control. A risinghigh started to shimmer in me, and then a terrifying peculiar darkness seized me,scented with her ashen perfume.Crone power of night she was, but from some other place. Extraterrestrial, un-luminary. Her womb was like a serpentine cave on an unlit planet, a deepunconscious residence filled with shapeless moisture and formless slime. Howhorrible the headaches that followed. How breathless I became as her poisonednectar possessed me. I then saw, in my minds eye, a marionette of her, her headtitling and bobbing about as she moved out from her dark quarters.My puppetprincess with a broken neck. She held a ceremonial blade which I beheld and

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