Sweet Rot
There it is again. A sweet, musky smell, like that of rotten fruit, one that haunts me like a sinister shadow. A shadow that I will embrace upon Lady Death’s arrival.
Twenty years ago, Hemlock’s bloodless body laid bare, neatly wrapped in blood-red silk sheets. At our most vulnerable, pallid cool skin on burning flesh, I had consumed him.
I was a monster. The love of my life, death, and undeath, was gone. I sought out the Cure; I could not live in this repulsive form any longer.
A year ago, at the turn of the new century, I returned to Succubus. I had been Cured, but I had been deceived. The cure to vampirism was Lady Death herself.
Hemlock, who I had not seen for twenty years, nor ever expected to meet again in this life, met my eyes. My brown eyes that had once been as crimson as the stains on my teeth. His eyes were lavender, and he basked in his undeath, just as I once had. He studied every new crease, every new blemish, every angle of my face, unequivocally and utterly consumed, devoured, by his unquenchable love for me. He drank me in, similarly to how he did when he first laid eyes on me in this very bar thirty years ago. My heart fluttered and pounded so loud his ears rang. For the first time in centuries, I was human. My second biggest regret as I watched my immortal love. He basked in his undeath. The immortality and undeath that I had, unknowingly, created.
Lady Death, she stalks me. I am to embrace her with open arms. She is my penance, my unavoidable fate.
Dorothea returns to the place of her rebirth; a Victorian graveyard in Whitechapel. Lying on her side, her knees to her chest, in a silk white nightgown, she finally rests. Moments before dawn, the frosty air is permeated by the sweet, musky smell, like that of rotten fruit. Hemlock’s nose burns from the fetid stench, but he remains by her shallow grave, watching over his love as nature reclaims her unnatural form.
Her pallid body decays to dull greys and browns, her fragile skin sinks into her bones, and her face withers into a gaunt mirage of Dorothea. Her bones crack and pop, then her hardened flesh ruptures as she bursts with an array of unusual flowers, grasses, and brambles.
Sprouting from her bones as Ghost Plants. Bursting from her withering heart are a few Bleeding Heart flowers. Her body becomes wreathed with thick, blackened brambles, contorting her peaceful slumber as her bones crunch within their grasp. Bloodgrass grows around her; vibrant green shoots with blood-red tips. And finally, tall stems topped with bunches of tiny white flowers reach up from her twisting, open mouth, her sunken eye sockets, her fingertips, towards Hemlock.
As the glowing orange sun of the morning rears its blazing head above the horizon, Hemlock remains. He drinks in the heat of the sun whilst it pours onto his face, and it sizzles upon the tip of his nose. The light blinds him; a strange yet comforting feeling, like that of waking up and opening the curtains on a beautiful summer’s day for the first time in forever. The mourning sun pierces his pale eyes until they water, and when the tears evaporate from his burning cheeks, instead of stepping into the shadows, he embraces Lady Death as he had twenty-one years earlier.
“Happy Halloween, my love,” he speaks to her as his flesh burns. He slips a wedding band from his bony, clawed finger, and clasps it in his fist against his chest. His flesh bubbles and decays, rotting, as he watches over Dorothea. He studies her in her gentle repose as she springs with life. “Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. I will find you in another life, I promise.”
His loving whispers become wreathed in agony, but he welcomes the Lady of Death as his black suit ignites, his flesh boils from his bones, and hot white ash begins to fall upon Dorothea like springtime snow. Yet, instead of burning flesh, the smell consuming this Whitechapel graveyard is aromatic; inviting.
There it is again. A sweet, musky smell, like that of rotten fruit.
