A Haunting of Devotion and other works

As I walk these darkened halls, the walls whisper her name, beckoning her to me as phantoms of her touch linger on my skin. My angel in the dark times, come back to me. Take away these shadows with your light. Your kiss burns in my memory, your sounds engraved upon my memory. We dance in the velvet light of a waning moon as promises of tomorrow are whispered to each other. My dark queen, yet my savior of light. Two halves of one whole that call to me even when the hours turn late.

My heart knows of the want and need, yet I see her shadow in every corner. I hear her in my mind. Every kiss is a breath stolen from an angel. Every touch on her body, which I revered and worshipped. Fingers grasp my hair as every moan and gasp I drew came from devouring the angel’s flesh.

Amara, Amara,” is what the halls speak. The torture of a name so sweet, one that has long been a distant memory. Here, in this dimly lit room, my heart does flutter at the times her passion found me. I must take pause on this night. Is that—surely not. A scent on the whispers of the wind, haunting me. A scent that my memory knows far too well and intimately. It is hers—the scent of my beloved, that which I hold so dearly in intimate memory.

From my lips, coaxed from me by memories: “Darling, darling.” I call, but it goes unanswered. Time has taken that away. The longing I feel for the desire we held casts a void in these hallowed chambers.

I listen to my own voice call for her. Desire and longing fill the cavity of my being. Taken from me, like a warm summer’s eve at the turn of fall. She remains on my solemn mind and being. My darling Amara.

My breath quickens. A shadow in a familiar silhouette. Just there, out of the corner of my weary eyes. Should I? Could I? My darling, is that you? Hope and dread fill and feed the void of my being.

Haste quickens my step. I must know. I need to know. Is that my devotion?

Rounding the corner, I find the halls unsettling and dark. The moonlight filters in, casting shadows. Nothing awaits me but the very despair that I have. Yet my mind stays pondering, hopeful yet longing.

Once again, alone in these hallowed halls. Nothing more than cursed with these memories of my own damnation.

My ears catch the faintest of sounds. Paced. Measured. Tapping—or wait, no—clicking. The clicking of heels on marble. Does this night, under a velvet moon, carry hope yet still?

“Darling,” I find myself whispering in the dark. Prayer or plea, I know not which. Yet I find hope fluttering in the gaping void.

I heard it. A whisper. The softness. That tone. And yet—did I? Surely that was not my name from the lips of that which I hold most dear.

Just that noise alone takes my mind’s eye to memories of her crimson lips. Oh, how I miss the feel of them in these darkest hours.

Why? Why am I just standing here? My steps hasten down the corridor toward the sound. Whether it be phantoms or my imagined longing, I chase it.

Every time I turn a corner, my hunt begets naught. The hunger to see her—the desire to feel her warmth—drives me further.

During one such chase, I hear it. Whether it comes by these cursed halls or from the darkest chambers of my mind, it is the slightest hint of an ominous chuckle.

I must keep chasing. Yet… why? It matters not. The excitement—it’s thrilling. And inviting. Amara, Amara, I am coming for you.

More. I hear more—her heels, giggles, the silent chuckle of my own. WHERE?

Her. Always her. I will chase down these halls till I find her.

AMARA!

I find myself at the doors. I fling them wide, sure that it is here. Nothing. No sound. No shadows. Our chambers. The room still smells of wood and satin. But. I. I heard. Nothing but a bed in the center.

It starts. A chuckle. My own. It is different. Darker. Manic.

IF THIS IS MADNESS, LET ME REMAIN MAD! ANYTHING—ANYTHING!—IS BETTER THAN THIS CURSED EXISTENCE WITHOUT HER!