Gillian writes with a haunting voice that adds mood and flavor to her words. You can almost feel the damp earth and hear the flapping of silent wings.

 

Marianne

By Gillian Marshall © 2005

 

 

Darkness swallowed me whole as I drifted through the web of alleyways. My shoes grated against loose dirt on the wet cobbled passage.

A tempest raged in the sky.

Not even the moon would follow me here.

With a guiding hand I felt my way along the rough walls of hovering buildings towering over me, I could feel their closeness, my chest tightening under the grip of cold hard stone.

Rain washed through my hair and bled into the red velvet dress I wore.

I felt the biting breath of night on my shoulders and nibbling against my breasts, trying to find its way to my heart where fire raged, sending burning blood to explore my veins, the lifelines of my body.

My journey had developed a desperate sense of urgency about it and yet I knew not the direction or my destination. I was being pulled by an invisible thread wrapped steadfastly around my core, unable resist; my resolve to fight it had failed before it had begun.

Carried on the mistral I heard the haunting peal of church bells, striking quarter past the hour. My pace quickened.

I rounded a sharp corner and was met by the absolute knowledge that I had reached my harbor, my safe haven. Yet as sure as I was in my perception I felt a slight trepidation as I neared the wrought iron gates to the cemetery.

My hands grasped the bars to the hulking gates, rust bit deep into my frigid fingers; a sweet melody of pain tingled through my nerves and danced upwards where it escaped as a gasp from my red lipstick smudged lips.

I pushed hard against aged hinges, the gates yielded to my strength with a resounding creak.

I picked my way through the sprawling burial ground, sidestepping fallen tombstones in my path. I did not need to read their epitaphs I knew where I needed to go.

Wet velvet clung to my legs like a bloated second skin weighing me down restricting my advance. Viciously I ripped at it until it was torn allowing freedom to move as I desired. Shoes, waterlogged and spoiled, I kicked away without breaking my stride.

It was then that I saw my journeys end. In front a freshly covered grave with no markings. Dirt piled high in a perfect mound with no decoration save a single red rose. My pace slowed, heart beating wildly trying to break free from its cage of bone.

Reaching the grave I sank to my knees, the soft saturated ground was a welcome comfort. Breathless, I reached with one hand and plucked the rose from its resting place. Rain ran like tears from its delicate petals. I drank its scent only once before resting my head on the mound of dirt. I closed my eyes and allowed sleep to take me.

There I would await my master's return.