Morbid Infatuation

Morbid Infatuation

There is a love that is born out of wedlock. It has one quails in reverie at its awful hypnotism, roiling a desire that is irrepressible and irremovable, beautiful and frightful, inalienable and ineluctable. Deathless is its imprint on the soul, and stultified is its fool whom it renders resistless. 

My tale all began when Eve fell, like forbidden fruit from the garden of Eden, and graced me with her delicious sin. I had been content with my life, till her fearsome presence dawned upon me, as of a foreboding, and had me skewed. From having pried into her records, I gathered that she was called Jane. Most unbecoming was such a modest name, for she deserved to be ennobled as an Aphrodite, Venus, or Freyja. Jane was insipid when repeating it upon my tongue. Its monotone sound left one unquenched. Lest I forget how inappropriate Jane was for one so swathed in mystery. Indeed, scarce did she have any credentials, previous métiers, and her familial tree had been unrooted. Regardless of how ardent I toiled at sourcing her history, I always blundered at her errancy. This doubtless deepened my infatuation for Jane, since being unable to solve a riddle is both perplexing, perturbing, and alluring. Indeed, Jane had soared into my present as a comet from somewhere in the cosmos of dreamful nightmares. 

I recollect how unsettled I was, when I first beheld Jane. Walking through the labyrinthine corridors, where flickered a defective lamp, I spotted her in a peripheral chink. Trembling in my stead, and gorgonized by Medusan thrall, I fought the impulse to wail from my dread of her. Looking to and fro, so as to reassure myself that I was alone, I inched closer to a window, where I pretended to be engrossed in my files. Ever and anon, I veered upward from this pretence, where I was forthright captivated by Jane: her skin, resembling pearly mildew, was enamelled from that sleepy belle whose fable is spread through faeries foreign and native. Across her lunar visage were freckles that looked comely on her. One could swim in the cerulean of her left eye, whereas her right had one wander through the greenest forests in Arcadia. Her curly hair was of copper wire that guttered at the slightest jerk. Those lips, eternised in a smile, were powdered with the petals of a rose. She was trapped in hebetude; fallow in a field of flowers, as Ophelia abed her brook, and beckoning that some Hamlet would waken her by dint of a lovesome kiss. 

Henceforth, I visited her every day, using the same pretence, and always vigilant for any who may find my behaviour suspicious. Often I would shiver from the icy temperature airing throughout these corridors, which lent me the semblance of a lunatic, when I was but Jane’s amorist - her harmless, hopeless admirer. 

For the most part, all I could muster was a glimpse, for staring at Jane scorched like the sun. It was cowardly, moreover, how I dared not accost her for an undying while. In my defence, Jane was under the supervision of Theophile - my colleague - and so was I unpermitted the opportunity of doing so. Nevertheless, our distance did nothing besides tauten the chains she had around me. 

Theophile was a loathy man, with pompous indecorum. I would observe how he neglected Jane, drowsing her through his inattention. Where I worshipped Jane, Theophile dwarfed her through his arrogance. He was indifferent, and I was impassioned. Why had Theophile been gifted such treasure, when I was the one who would pander to her drollest whims; dote on her as a surrogate for her kinless solitude! Rival envy was stewing within me. 

At length, after numerous visits, Jane had noticed my voyeurism. No more was she hebete, for I had roused her from the doldrums. Petite by petite, Jane began to reciprocate my gaping smiles, sending me a kindly wink, coy nod, or laconic expression to indicate that I was requited. At intervals, she mimed a scurrility of how imbecile and tedious Theophile was. Stifling my laughter, I would clown the jackal. Jane’s humour was most scathing and uninhibited. 

She had no qualms of my loyalty, and nor did I. I knew she craved my affections, but how could I liberate her of this, when I daunted at the prospect of being near her. Beauty is too formidable to dive headlong into. Rather, I resolved on a patience woven by her nimble fingers. Through these fugitive encounters, we commenced learning implicit details about each other. A sizable amount can be divulged from a flirtatious smirk, a sinister licking of the lips, or yawning at some mumbled remark from Theophile. 

As the slackening in my duties increased, I was detected by a rumorous traitor in Jane and I’s house of love. Hauled aside by the director, I was scorned for my idling. 

“This is most unusual. Why have you been lurking in the corridors?” questioned the director, with a grimace amidst his facial whiskers. 

My intentions were neither to deceive him, nor betray my trysts with Jane, thus I shrugged and produced no justification or reason. This act of insouciance did not allay him. On the contrary, it incited a curious intrigue in him. Excusing me on this occasion, the director asserted that, if repeated, his lenity would have all been spent. 

Swallowing my indignation, I uttered no response, for I was preoccupied with blaming Theophile. How else would the director have known, when I had been watchful for any possible spies. Adamant on Theophile being the traitor, my envy festered yet angrier for whom I deemed a Judas. 

To alter my tacit, I was now as furtive as a fox, and fleeting as the Luftwaffe. Realising that I could not tarry by the window, I arranged a scheme for the optimal duration. My visits were now no longer than five minutes, and happened once a day. O’ how I lamented these perennial interludes! When at home, to solace myself, I enchanted a smut of how delightsome a tryst with Jane would be. Retiring abed, these rhapsodies heightened, and enrapt me to an Elysian romance between Jane and I. Fleeced in my duvet, transportive waves of lust, commixed with craven fear, zigzagged across my inert mind. Incarnating Jane, I started to fantasise lewder and more hedonistic images. From my imagination either decreeing that she be divested of clothes, but enmeshed by lithe ivy, or her enrobed in the splendour of Egyptian yore, surpassing even Hathor, I could not bridle my prurient ardour. It soon transgressed to an erotolepsy, as a masochism veined throughout these performative smuts. Jane was warped as being cruel, for she would flagellate me with barbed wire. In a trice, I would be jolted awake, mewling tears over her ferity, and sweat noisome drops of dolour. In spite of all these nightly torments, Jane brutalising me had an aberrant effect: the more violent she was, the more smitten yet terrified I was of her. 

Alas, it was during this influx in my love for Jane that signs of her ill health peaked. At first, I attributed her paler than habitual skin to the temperature where Theophile moiled, as it was frigider than elsewhere. There were other harbingers, also, such as her lips empurpling and hair thinning, though I was too naive to recognise her as being amiss. It was but when her flirtations and teases dwindled to an infrequency, that I convulsed at the possibility of a malady ailing her. The absence of waggery was anomalous for Jane. 

My confidence was abashed by what it wrought to decipher. I mused on how Jane could have been racked into being so wretched. After much deliberating, I knew it must be an additional treason on the behalf of Theophile. He was both vitiating Jane of her gorgeous vivacity, and guiling her into jilting me. He hankered to have Jane for himself - avaricious goat! No more could I foil my fury, which was aimed at the midst of Theophile’s skull. For the sake of Jane, I had to oppose him. 

Being judicious in my caution was still of necessity, therefore, I decided to collar Theophile in private, rather than storm into his chamber, as if the Red Army, where security might arise if we brawled. Besides, I neither wished to besmear my honour in front of Jane, nor further jeopardise her already uncertain health. Being knightly in my tact was of great importance. 

One evening, after my métier had ended, in lieu of hurrying homeward, I prowled around the car park, in wait for Theophile. Being enwrapt in his drudgery, he always finished tardier than most of my other colleagues. It was how Theophile boasted of being a weariless member of staff. 

Hidden amongst some jungly bushes, I chuckled at how moonless, starless, and unlit the heavens were; they glassed my internal monologue.

When Theophile exited at last, I dumbed myself to the hilt, ceasing the minutest of breaths. Blasé as can be, he walked up to his vehicle, swinging his arms back and forth. 

Pouncing into the open, where I was illumined by a lamppost, I interrogated Theophile: 

“What are you doing to Jane?” 

In shock at my ambush, Theophile tried calming his meteoric respirations. Meanwhile, I glowered and menaced at this man, enfeebled by the merest question. 

Having composing himself again, Theophile replied by prevaricating:

 “What are you talking about, Gacy?” 

“Do not play the fool or truant with me!” as I thundered this, my entire body quacked with trepidant zeal: it was I who was now discomposed. “I know that you are devising something devious - unlawful even. Leave Jane be, or I shall have to teach you a malign lesson.” 

It was apparent how I had cowed Theophile, for he receded. “Are you threatening me?” 

Disregarding him, I advanced closer, displaying that I was in earnest. Recoiling farther back, like a milksop, Theophile buried his hands in his pocket, and appeared to be rummaging for the keys to his vehicle. 

“Have I your word?” asked I, in continuous advancement towards Theophile, whose movements were unstrung to being frenetic and lubberly. 

“I am clueless as to what you are referring to,” said he, frothing at the mouth, “but you ought to seek help. We have all noted your unnatural obsession.” 

“Is this what you miscall my secret admiration for Jane? You libel it as being some fallible obsession?!” 

Disconcerted by my livid tone, Theophile upreared the keys he had unearthed; however, from his bones shuddering, as of Parkinson's, they dropped upon the gravelly floor. Leaping forward, I pelted them somewhither into the dark of night. Theophile could not escape me for he was now cumbered by his own vehicle. There was nowhere for him to run. 

Adjacent to him, I yelled: 

“You jealous glutton, you desire Jane for yourself when she is mine alone. I cannot condone this!” So saying, with a pressure levigating my temple, and my vision pixelating from an insensate wrath, I was impelled to attack Theophile; with no aforethought for my actions. We wrestled with each other, thrashing side to side, as the murderous heat of the moment trebled. Theophile was brawnier than I had prevised, and he altercated with a strength superior to mine. He drove my cranium into the wing mirror, which disoriented and infuriated me. Feigning repentance, Theophile queried whether I was injured or concussed. My rage crested yet avider, for I saw and felt blood cool down from the left of my forehead. I hurled myself at his legs, overthrowing him groundwards, where his occiput thumped against the concrete. Throned atop Theophile, and ignoring his puny pleas, which demanded we stop this, I fulgurated my fists upon his face, buffeting, pulverising, cannonading, and ensanguining. Grasping him by the neck, I strangled him awhile, intermitting a spasmodic throttle that I engineered to land on the metal of his vehicle. I did not cease till red painted our vicinity. 

Arising, I looked at the weakling in my fore, gloating over his overdue chastisement, and 

abandoned him to wallow on his lonesome as he weltered. 

The misadventure of Theophile marked my dismissal from my métier. When I stirred the consecutive morning, I was greeted by a letter, which stipulated that I was prohibited from ever returning. How inane were they to believe that my morbid love for Jane could be terminated, through such simple means as dismissing me. Quite the contrary, by rending me from Jane, they aggravated and magnified my impassionment for her. I was at perpetual unease, knowing that they had bereft me of Jane, whose malady plagued me. “Was she perishing?” - became the distress rotating throughout me ad infinitum.

My smut redoubled in regularity, and was adulterated by what would always occur as a finale: after much fornicating, Jane, wan in pallor, would wither on a sudden. In vain would I essay to aid her, or comfort her at least, by nestling beside her disintegrating body. It was a matter of nanoseconds before she devolved to dust, and was gusted by the wind which ferried her into a tenebrous urn. 

These horrors, appended to my separation from Jane, violated my life as being insufferable. There was one balm that could remedy me: seeing her afresh in the flesh. Humouring an idea, I pondered whether to man the consequences of trespassing. Could I break and enter, so as to be reunited with whom I wilted for? Could I overmaster my dread and cowardice? The answer to both was swift: yes. Jane was inextricable, and I would have rather died than renounce her. 

It was dawn when I infiltrated where I was once employed, by shadowing a caretaker that was unaware of my noiseless presence. Stealing within, I was on alert for anyone that may hamper me. Creeping down the labyrinthine corridors, I would cast circumspect glances at each new hallway, and, if clear, I would snake farther through. My intent was to hibernate in a closet, till dusk ordained that all were relieved of their duty; and so I did, in one where an enormous arachnid, engorging upon a helpless fly, stared through me. Its eight, vermeil eyes penetrated my mettle, causing me to jitter and blench in anticipation of what was ahead. Assailing the arachnid’s premonitions, I vanquished it from having influence over whom I hungered for; my appetite was that of the wolf, and my proclivity that of the hyena. 

After the day had elapsed, and the hubbub of persons quitting homeward was audible, I plotted my unconcealment. Surveilling, and listening to the daintiest whisper or murmur, I ascertained it to be safe. Passing through the corridors again, I whisked to where Jane, renewed as mythicising Ophelia, beckoned her Hamlet. The cold, circulating throughout, horripilated the hairs on my nape, and tampered with my state of anxiety. Too belated, however, was this tryst between Jane and I for me to abdicate. Sundry smut of how delicious our sin would be, surged me, enhorroring me as my palm gripped the knob on the door. Thrusting it asunder, and flicking the milky light on, I tumbled upon the gelid floor, praying in thanks for my impending feast. 

Jane was wintered in one of the surrounding, artificial, metallic chrysalises; from having memorised the chamber by amorous heart, I knew which was hers. 

Unsheathing Jane, I marvelled at the glisters which shafted upon her beauty. Her perfume was antiquated, but I absolved her of this fault, since I was too full of venerous cupidity to be bothered by it. Unbonnetting myself, I slithered on to Jane’s sinews, which were dewier than a meadow in spring, and pulped to a supple texture. No more was Jane pearly, rather, she had a sallow jaundice to her. Caressing her feathery freckles, I whorled them like plumes blowing in a gale. From above, the milky light shone on her green and cerulean eyes, revealing them to have been webbed in a filmy haze. Quivering, Jane both mesmerised and affrighted me through some speechless conjury. 

I kissed her lips, where her smile had faded, and saw tissues moult as those of a leper. Exploring Jane, my tongue travelled down her figure, plumbing its dulcitude. Resistless, my manly thew threaded through her, lavishing in the moistening sap secreting out of her rosebud. The stench of our forsaken frolic permeated the rimy atmosphere, and my sultry breath smoked the air with its unholy zest. For the whole night, we danced to a lilt of wanton love, joyed till the morrow signalled its cock to crow. 

So intoxicated was I that I objected to leaving Jade, and was remiss enough to overstay my welcome. The handle of the door clamoured, though my caution was unconscious to what boded ill. No longer alone with Jane, our tranquillity was disturbed by a woman screeching fortissimo at me, and fleeing the scene of crime where passion had blossomed.

Knowing that the end nighed, I glutted off Jane a final time, as a vociferous mob flounced toward us, as if compelled to divorce me of my beloved. Upon entering, some members of the mob swooned, vomited, and absconded from what they attended; the crowd was downright maddened. Theophile, with mummiform bandages across his lacerations, covered his mouth, desperate to not join the ranks of those harrowed by what they sighted. None, save the director, could summon any vocal fortitude:

“Get off Jane Doe, this instant!” he ordered, motioning for three security guards to seize me. 

Cackling, I ruined upon the gelid floor, and submitted to my apprehension. What more could I want, when my desire for Jane had been sated, and I had tasted that fruit of sinful forbiddance. O’ how sublime was the relish of her rotten womb! It is a shame that we shall never meet again, but at least Jane did not go to waste!