Page 66 of Fragile Wicked Things
The blood. It fed me. It strengthened me. But the real power did not come from that rush. No, it was not in the blood. The kill was where the real power lay. Death fed the darkness.
The man lay on the ground dead. He was dressed in fine fabrics, his hair light in color and his complexion, once warm and rosy, had lost that hint of youth and natural appearance. Yes, I felt alive again, but now burdened with the weight of despair and remorse pressed against my still heart. When I had run deep into the woods, I swore I would take no life and yet there he lay, his body lifeless at my hands, from my inability to control the beast within me. Truth be told, the beastwasme and could never be separated. I had to choose—my life or theirs. I chose Man and swore to never fall again.
Later in the night, I carried his limp body to his horse and threw him over, his hands flung over his head, swinging as the horse reared away from me. Grabbing hold of the reins, I led the horse astray through the forest until we neared the ocean where I determined to throw his body. A second thought entered my mind. The dead man must have been a Christian, thereby, entitled to receive the grace and sanctification of a proper burial. Who would do it? Certainly not me. Who was I to say a prayer to carry his soul over the threshold into the heavens?
During that time of questioning, I saw a castle high above the steep cliffs that dropped to the North Sea fifty meters below. Its tower showed signs of cannon bombardment from a different era. I peered over the jagged cliff to the ocean below; its waves struck against the Earth for centuries, forming the rocks. No, this man who made the unfortunate decision to help me would not perish against the rocks lost to the sea.
I led the horse to a spot twenty meters from the castle and smacked its behind. The animal neighed and ran. A few meters from the stone gatehouse, the body fell with a thud to the ground. The horse, frightened by my striking hand, made such a noise that a rumbling appeared within the castle walls. Voices shouted. Moments later, the gate opened, and men walked out, torches in hand to light their way.
"Tha's Rochester's' horse," one man shouted. "Master Rochester, where you be?"
The men called out to him again until, in horror, they found his body on the ground, one leg bent at the knee, arms flung about, and skin devoid of color. One man kneeled by the one they called Rochester and muttered a Christian prayer. Content he would be provided with a proper burial, I turned to leave but stopped when another man called out from inside, his voice weak and shaky. The men begged him not to leave the shelter of his castle, but he disobeyed and stepped out where I could see him. He looked to be in his sixties, clothed in a white robe, feet bare and a servant boy stood near him steadying a candle in his hands. The old man descended the stairs, advanced at a slow pace and groped at the men who stood near him.
"You called my son's name. Where is he?" His hand tightened on the cloth of the man he held. "My Prodigal Son has returned." Then the old man paused a moment, cocked his head to the side and listened. He lifted his gaze my way and stared in my direction and I feared he could see me hiding behind the tree, but his eyes were cloudy, grayish in color and he could see nothing. His lips parted, a somber look on his face.
"Take me to him."
The cowards did not step forward, did not look at the old man and stood mute. The young servant boy took the old man's hand into his, led him to his dead son's body and whispered for him to kneel. His hands, dry and cracked, searched the ground around him, fingers running over leaves and twigs until he found his boy's arm broken in the fall, and what followed was a horrific wail of severe suffering. Soon, a sound emanated from my body and merged with the old man's: the anguished cry of a parent over the loss of a child.
* * *
Marred by deathand shrouded in darkness, the castle beckoned me to remain, the familiar stench of murder a welcoming companion. While searching for shelter nearby, I uncovered an old, abandoned hovel; the lingering scent of the animals once housed there, undetected by the human nose, wormed its way through my nostrils and down my throat. I fashioned it into a home, gathered straw into a pile to make a bed, and bolted the door from the inside to ensure no one would disturb me while I slept and have daylight pour in. For me, life had become simple and again I hunted animals for sustenance, to carry on one day longer, to temper the creature, but their blood never satisfied me and the pain returned. Yet, it did not devour me as violently as it had before and I began to feel in control for the first time.
One night, having returned to the hovel after toiling about in the ground chasing a squirrel, I was startled at having been discovered.
"You there! Ge' off th' land." His voice was gruff and demanding. I had seen the man before when he had bent over the body of the young Rochester to say a few words in prayer. Now, he shouted at me and waved me off, swinging his torch to show me the way, but my feet remained frozen to where I had been standing. He came towards me, threatened me with the fire and became increasingly angry when I did not flinch. Out of breath, he stared at me hard at first, and I could only presume that the darkness in my eyes made him shy away.
"What's happening?" the old man asked as he approached us, holding a jagged cane while his young servant boy guided him.
Encouraged by the company, the man said, "A thief hidin' ou' in the cattle barn. Go on, you animal."
"I am not an animal!" I said.
"Leave him," the old, blind man said. He turned his head in my direction and reached out his hand, but he was quite some distance away. "You, come near so I may have a look."
"Go on 'en," the man said, shoving me towards the old man. "You heard 'im. 'e wants a good look atchu."
The old man reached out his hands, found my face, and ran his fingers over my flesh, feeling for distinguishing features. "You are cold. Are you hungry?"
"Yes," I answered to the matter of hunger.
"Come in then and be fed well. Take my hand. I will guide you to the hearth."
Into the castle he brought me, counted the stone steps in front, turned left, then right into the kitchen where a fire blazed, casting a red light throughout the room. A servant girl prepared a meal of mutton and potatoes on a tin plate, poured out ale from a jug and motioned that I should sit. She was pale and small, her fingernails dirty, her face sallow, her hair made of string. The old man sat at the opposite end of the table from me. I ate hungrily at first but slowed, keeping my eyes on the old man. He wore fine clothes, like that of his son, and although the son's handsomeness did not come from the father, I knew they shared the same good heart.
"You're from England?" he said.
"Yes. Outside Sheffield."
"You're a long way from home. So am I. I was born in London but traveled everywhere, always searching to escape England and her reaches. Here I am, settled in Scotland, far from those I knew." He fell quiet, lost in an old memory and then shook himself free. "You sound youthful."
"I am an old man of thirt'-six."
The young servant girl glanced my way, her hard eyes inspecting me as she scrubbed down a blackened pot. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes, and she wiped it away.
"Family name?" said the old man.
"Dylan. Edward Dylan."
