Hartur Carmine (Bewitched)

CW: includes themes of domestic violence and psychological abuse

Hartur Carmine tried to discover his whereabouts. His surroundings were a dense, hazy unfathomable darkness, and the acoustics were muffled. It was like listening to sound through a long pipe. Was he inside a small theatre or was it a church, no, it must be a courtroom. He vaguely remembered the judge bringing the assembly to order, but that could have been a mistaken memory in his current state of confusion. His addled thinking was labored and slow. The darkness smelt smokey, not from the stale, sour odorous smell of cigarettes or cigars, but from the smell of an open fire, a pile of charred, burnt wood. A bonfire. Which was strange, an outside smell inside a large auditorium. Suddenly the smell changed, there was a whiff, a distinct smell of burnt flesh, human flesh.

His inner tension increased as he clutched the beveled wooden edge of a circular pulpit, but he was certain he was not in a church. When he looked downwards over the edge of the pulpit-like structure a wave of dizziness forced him to close his eyes to recalibrate. He couldn’t see a solid floor level, below him was an undefined dark void. He felt like he was hanging in space. In limbo. Both his inner concentration, and his outward vigilant senses, were feeling deprived and confused. Both were fighting and screaming for a visual anchor, a reference to reassure both mind and body were not in peril.

Fire! I’ll take you to burn!

The hoarse whisper inside his head left his mind paralyzed and perplexed. Combined with the previous dizziness, the sudden vertigo, as he looked down from his lofty position. The whisper from nowhere replaced the head spinning with an uneasiness of the mind. Where did that come from? He thought. It was inside his head, and he was left in bewilderment. Mentally abused, he knew his hearing organs had not received those words. The words were coming from somewhere else, a memory. A hidden memory, a random memory, of a voice that refused to expose itself in images. But, somewhere in his brain, it had nearly caused a complete shutdown, he felt the shudders of paralysis of his mind, was it a warning?

Fire, to destroy all you've done! There it was again! Like the crackling sound from of old vinyl recording, the voice flexed, crackled then boomed, and then repeated the words - Fire! I’ll take you to burn!

“Do you know the current whereabouts of Mrs. Vesta Cadi-Carmine, your wife, Mr. Carmine?” The chief prosecutor's voice suddenly appeared from nowhere, but it was safely outside his head. A male voice, but where was the face, a body, he thought. He must concentrate. He took a deep breath. Then he slowly opened his eyes and looked directly in front of him, and there was the face of Vesta, she wasn’t smiling, her eyes showed no emotion, her eyes were staring at something, as though he wasn’t there. The eyes remained emotionless but staring. Lifeless eyes. He peered into her face, her innocence, her beauty, her slender neckline, her luscious dark wavey hair, but in her eyes, he could no longer discover her feelings. He could not uncover her emotions; was she happy or sad? Not only were her eyes emotionless, but her entire face appeared like a masquerade mask. Unfortunately, what was underneath the mask was the ugly truth, but his sane but guilty mind refused to confront it. He was imprisoned by his past for eternity.

Those whispers became louder now, and words gushed out, tumbled out, except the images remained hidden, hidden by his invading madness, blinding him from the truth, as the truth was too unbearable; not only for the mind, but it would also damn his soul.

But all of it's going to burn

And your mind, your tiny mind

You know you've really been so blind

Now's your time, burn your mind

You're falling far, too far behind

“Where is your wife Mr. Carmine?” Continued the voice of the chief prosecutor, and with no answer, he repeated with emphasis “Where is your wife?”

With the question remaining unanswered the chief prosecutor continued.

“Did you say many times? She was a witch Mr. Carmine, many times you called her a witch, many people overheard you say that. Did you also say; if these were medieval times Vesta, addressing your wife, Mr. Carmine, she would burn on a wooden stake, and you would be the first to torch it alight, did you not say that many times, Mr. Carmine?” The chief prosecutor’s voice was persistent, repeating and echoing in his spinning and aching head. Disorientated by the surrounding blurry visions, he tried to orientate himself on his whereabouts. He thought, it can’t be a church, it can’t be a theatre, it must be a courtroom.

Then the hoarse whisper inside his head crackled again like an old vinyl record from the distant past.

Oh no, oh no, oh no

You're gonna burn

Hartur looked helplessly around, and what he saw did not help his equilibrium, he staggered in the small area of pulpit-like structure, and the structure swayed like a crowsnest high above on a ship’s mast being jostled by the mighty swell of a heavy sea. It was a perfect analogy; he felt empathy with the boat at the mercy of the heaving sea.

The uninvited voice again whispered inside his jumbled head; it continued to gnaw with menace at his increasingly failing mind.

And your mind, your tiny mind

You know you've really been so blind

Now's your time, burn your mind

You're falling far, too far behind

The jury seated to his left, in two neat rows, all lookalikes, with the same face he knew so well. Those emotionless staring eyes, now peering directly at him, waiting for his answer. They all wore expressionless mask-like faces, looking through him as though he was invisible. They all wore the face of Vesta.

“Mr. Carmine, how many times did you provoke, embarrass and threaten your wife, Mrs. Carmine with abusiveness, and outrageous behaviour? Did you always hold your cigarette lighter close to her face. Close enough to singe her hair. How many times when you were not in control of your senses; completely inebriated; did you burn her arms with the burning flame of that same lighter. Brutish and bullying behaviour, Mr. Carmine.”

“So, I will repeat once again, do you know the whereabouts is Mrs. Carmine?” The face of Vesta, the mannequin mask moved closer, and the words were said with an accusing posture.

Oh no, oh no, oh no

You're gonna burn

Said the voice in his head, the voice becoming more urgent, and demanding with every rendition.

“She’s dead, isn’t she Mr. Carmine, your wife is missing, and she is dead!” Shouted the chief prosecutor.

“And you know where her body is located.” The mask-like face of Vesta remained emotionless, it was only the male voice of the prosecutor that started to rise in volume and emotion.

“You killed her, didn’t you Mr. Carmine.” The prosecutor shouted out his last words in a crescendo of noise, but it was his finale.

The voice inside his head joined in tandem, but the voice was wilder, spitting out the words like a crazed maniac.

You're gonna burn

You're gonna burn

You're gonna burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Then one or two of the spectators in room called out the same words now being spat out inside his head, and the noise grew as all the spectators joined in the chant. He looked out into the main assembly, and again every single face was the face mask of Vesta, looking forward with no focus, as though he was invisible.

The courtroom spun in front of his eyes, it wasn’t a courtroom any longer, it changed into a small theatre, and every face in the audience wore a face mask of Vesta with emotionless peering eyes. They all shouted and chanted, louder and louder.

You're gonna burn

You're gonna burn

You're gonna burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Burn, burn, burn, burn, burn

Then the cacophony of noise overwhelmed him. Both the shouting and chanting in the room, and the wild banshee voice inside his head. The volume, the pressure of noise inside and outside of his head, snapped his consciousness, and he blacked out.

The pain was excruciating. Every sinew and part of this body was in the most scorching, scathing pain. If he flexed a muscle, or moved any part of his body, he felt a pain like a blunt kitchen knife being plunged into his prone body. He could hear an electronic buzz of bedside monitoring machines, with the monotonous bleeping sounds. Various leads entered his body. He opened his eyes, and he looked at the blinding light through small slits in bandages, which limited his vision. He gave up on focusing his eyes, and stared into the nothingness, the blinding bright light. His sense of smell started to nudge forward in sensory priority and to make an impression, through the overwhelming tremendous pain. The smells were vivid, a mixture of antibiotic creams and the pungent smell of burnt flesh.

Thoughts, images, flashbacks overwhelmed him again and he blacked out.

On regaining consciousness, he heard voices; voices of nurses or perhaps doctors whispering around his hospital bed. He only caught and overheard fragments of their confidential conversations.

“He’s in a bad way!”

“Lucky to be alive, based on these results.”

“Who’s his next of kin?”

He continued to drift in and out of consciousness, as the pain became unbearable.

It was the single sound of a metallic snap that woke him from his malice. It was the metallic sound of the opening of the metal case of the zippo lighter, which created a catastrophic reaction in his head. Like a newborn baby recognizing the sound of his mother’s voice, still struggling with the focusing of its infant’s eyes. Sound and touch were more important than the current inability to see. Nonetheless, he was not newborn, and the sound had the opposite effect. It was a menacing sound to his ears; it threatened his primeval instincts which jumped to a high alert status.

Instinct told him not to open his eyes, but curiosity gained the upper hand.

There in front of him was Vesta peering at him. Her face, no longer a mannequin mask. Vesta smiled knowingly, and in her eyes were glimmers of love, like a mother looking at a child, there were glints of pride, confidence, dominant care, full of knowledge. Only Hartur knew. Only he recognized that look, through previous moments of privacy, and intimacy.

His gaze moved from her eyes, her smiling face. She held the lighter and flame in both hands, it was a symbol, like she was offering to light an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. She showed the gold casing of the lighter, and on the casing was the emblem of a broomstick.

Bewitched!