Desolate Awakenings
“Succubus” by Deckard Enright
Desolate Awakenings by Chiara Moran
The world is awash in white. From the frozen lake that stretches out before him, to the colorless clouds hanging high in the air and the shroud of thick white snow that blankets all he can see, everything has been painted in shades of monochrome. It seems to spread outwards infinitely, covering the chaos of the tangled brush, the knotted roots lying in the undergrowth, the delicate limbs of branches, themselves leached coal-black by winter. The creature in front of him is no different. Pale columns that her legs are, dark as the mane of wet ink that sticks to her back is, she blends in seamlessly with the cold winter forest. A shaky breath escapes his lips, misting white in the cold air.
It is then that a black banner of hair tilts ever so slightly.
The man freezes at the suddenness of the movement. It could be the wind, he tries to tell himself. But no wind rustles at the branches above him. The entire world seems to have gone perfectly still, as it had been ever since he’d left the cabin and realized he was the only thing that was moving. Ever since his eyes had fallen on the hole in the lake. Here he is now, a single warm spot moving within the eerie frozen serenity that had fallen onto everything else. I shouldn’t be here, he thinks, yet some strange instinct holds him there, keeps him rooted between the treeline and the wide-open expanse of ice. He should leave, but the ground beneath his boots is slick with the shell of half-hardened snow. Were he to take a wrong step or move even a sliver too quickly, he’d lose his footing, fall onto unforgiving dirt. Make himself vulnerable.
Saliva sticks painfully to his throat when he swallows, nearly freezing inside his very mouth. When he looks down to the dagger clenched in his grip, it trembles.
How strange, my hand is shaking. I didn't know it was doing that. He bites back laughter at the thought. The woman– no, the creature, the thing that had broken the ice and stepped from the water is less than ten feet away from him and all he can do is tremble, no better than a newborn bluejay who’d tumbled helpless to the ground.
A voice pours out into the air, suddenly, carrying perfectly through the crisp air to curl inside his ears.
“It isn’t as beautiful as I remember it.” He goes utterly still. Every bone in his body seems to crumble at the flatness of that voice. Wistful and brittle, it carried a strange softness to it, curling out in a way that could almost be comforting. Instead: back up north, when he’d been working with the research scientists he’d gotten lost one night, far from the compound with only a pair of thin woolen gloves and an overcoat to warm him. The others had found him eventually, carried him back to safety with warm hands and hushed voices, and he’d kept all five of his fingers and toes– a miracle, everyone had said, given the environment. Even now he can still remember how the chill had seeped into his nose, his fingers, every fleshy, thin part of his body it could find and made itself home there. As the night had gotten colder and colder the bite had grown more and more tender, curling beside him like a woman to press frost-bitten lips to his fingertips.
The memory seeps into him. Some wild, terrified thing inside him jolts to life, says no, and his fingers whiten around the handle of the knife.
“Get off my property,” he bites out, the words coming out harsh and firm, surprising himself with their strength. That head tilts once more, almost in contemplation.
“Everything’s different now, isn’t it? You’ve grown up.”
He doesn’t know this woman. He is as sure of that as he is of his own mother’s name, and yet– there’s something oddly familiar there too, something that seeps straight deep into the lingering memories of that long winter night.
“Your machines, your boats, your cars…. It’s strange, really.” She pauses, that black banner shifting once more. When she speaks again the temperature of her voice has dropped. “I expected better of you.”
His knees buckle once, twice, and it takes all of his strength to hold strong as they bend like fragile stems in a November wind.
“Please leave,” he croaks. The words come out cracked and desperate.
When the head begins to turn he frantically, desperately, (foolishly) hopes she’s going to obey– slip across her frozen lake with frost-bitten feet and disappear into the far-off forest, or back into the black waters, but the dark stripe of hair only shifts further, slowly bringing with it more and more snow-white flesh, a pale naked front, until the creature is face to face with him.
The knife slips from his hand.
God she’s beautiful, is the first thing that strikes his dazed mind. No one could look at that sloping nose, those sharp cheekbones or full, ripe lips and dare think otherwise. Nevertheless he cannot bite back the instinct to recoil. The same instinct that bade the knife slip from his fingers. That pale white mask is without flaw, utter in its symmetry, not a single strand of soaked hair falling out of place on each side of her face, each feature having its own perfect, horrible twin reflected across her center.
At the sight of that inhumanely mirrored form, still plastered with glimmering water, his knees collapse beneath him, hitting the ground with bruising force at the gentle weight of her stare. It is completely blank. Not of life, not of interest, but of emotion, regarding him with flat, perfect serenity.
Chapped, blue-tinted lips part and in that same tender voice: “You’re not like them, are you?”
He cannot muster up a response, frozen as he is. Those eyes remain implacable.
“You carry your bones here. You do not drive their cars, fly in their planes.” And now her face splits into a smile, large and bright. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, he thinks. Tears begin to steam down his face.
“Leave. Please– please, just leave.” She tilts her head again.
“I can’t,” She steps forward. A choked sob escapes his lips. “I am here now.” She frowns. “That cannot be taken back.” Another step forward. “You need me. All of you.” Her words wash over him like an ice bath. He thinks she might be trying to soothe him even as the terror within him mounts with each further step. The tears leaking from his eyes freeze dry to his face, numbing the skin.
Slowly, she crouches down, becoming level to him. Her naked body, as symmetrical as the rest of her could have inspired heat and lust to flare up, might have if he could bother to tear his gaze away from her stare. There were no pupils in those seas of frozen black water. Softly, she presses a single bruising finger to his chin, lifts it up as cold sinks through the touch. Tender as a woman’s kiss, he thinks, nearly hysterical at the feel of her pale flesh touching his.
“Would you like to leave now?” she asks kindly. It takes a while for him to comprehend her words. He looks into dark-mirror eyes. Sees not himself or the forest around him reflected there but blizzards dropping sheets of snow that blanket cities. Sculptures of half-forgotten life still embracing each other, frozen in mid-moment like the statues of Pompeii. A world made still and silent as the one around him.
Head dropping, the sobs return in full force, coming out bone-dry. A strand of black hair brushes against his cheek. She shushes him softly, presses his chin further into her grip.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, petting at his head. “I won’t make you suffer. You'll be allowed to rest.” When frozen fingers gently tilt his chin up again, she locks their gazes one final time. He’s too weak now to struggle, can’t even bring himself to try and look away.
A white crescent smile widens across her face as she leans in, two icicle arms enveloping him with a sudden burst of cold that burns. Eyes snapping open, his body jerks once more, a strangled moan falling out of his mouth. He thrashes for one second, instively seeking to escape the sensation before he finally falls limp in her arms.
His last feeling, as it may be, before quiet envelops him, is of prickling warmth and the distant memory of dancing orange flames against a dark sky.
