Monochrome Monarch

Dear Reader,

This story contains: Mental health, Substance abuse,

Gore, and Suicide.

- C.T.

As I sprint through midtown the star-filled skies fill the back alley with interstellar light. The smell of airborne dust and rotten garbage fills my nostrils.

I pass a large trash receptacle pushed against the cement block wall.

A fire in my chest signals the finish line is near. My legs grow heavy. I inhale a lungful of air through my nose and turn to face my pursuer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadow fade into the night. I watch its hot breath, rise above the garbage can, and dissipate into the crisp winter air.

I take three steps in the direction of the crouched figure.

“Who are you? What the fuck do you want from me?” I say.

The shadow wheezes and replies, “Not what Namtar wants; what Atar wants.”

Raspy giggling erupts from the darkness around me. I look over my shoulder. The hairs on my body stand on end. My chest tightens and I struggle to breathe.

I open my mouth to speak; no noise leaves. My lips tremble and I wipe the sweat from my brow. The salty odor of my underarms enters my nose. Cortisol, endorphins, and adrenaline force my midsection to flutter.

I remove a windproof lighter from my pocket, extend my arm towards the shadow, and place my thumb on the flint wheel.

Flick. Fire jumps. The shadow being appears in the light. An overwhelming smell of sulfur, feces, and death overtakes me as the being blows out the flame.

I drop the lighter and vomit. Tequila and fish tacos splatter the ground.

I wretch on an empty stomach until the smell of corpses fades. I wipe the acidic bile from my mouth with the cuff of my hooded jacket.

A siren wails in the distance. I crouch down and feel for the lighter. The rock and dirt ground feel rough against my fingertips. My digits crawl like a tarantula’s legs as I search blindly for my missing possession. My little finger touches it first. I grab it and spin the flint.

The flame sprays an orange mist of light onto the deep purple shadows. My hand shakes as I hold the lighter like an old timer’s kerosene lamp.

I walk out of the alley, close the lighter, and place it in my pocket.

I sigh a huge breath when I see my house. I unlock the security door, step inside, and close it behind me. The sound of metal on metal echoes through the apartment as the door slams shut.

I jog to the bedroom and ransack the nightstand. I scramble to the closet and throw shoe boxes and clothes onto the floor behind me.

“Where the fuck is it?”

I open the toy chess set, unfold the board, and a 4x6 black and white photograph falls onto the ground. I stare at the monochrome of butterfly painting.

“Alicia took this picture in October.”

I pick up the photograph, place it in my pocket, and walk to the kitchen.

I open the freezer and grab the vodka. I crack the plastic tray and grab a handful of ice—my palm stings. I make a stiff drink, slam it, and pour another.

I head into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. I grab the bottle of medication my psychiatrist prescribes me. I open the cap and look inside—empty. How long have I been out?

I close the medicine cabinet and look at my reflection in the mirror. Unkempt black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and large bags underneath my eyes remind me of my recent choices.

“You look like shit,” I say to my reflection.

I glance at my watch. The timepiece reads 2:41 AM. I leave my home.

***

Alicia lives a couple blocks from me, I rap on her front door, and a light turns on.

A tall slender woman, with green eyes and jet-black hair, peeks out from behind a curtain of one of the double doors.

She shakes her head, “What the hell is going on, Doc?”

“Can I come inside, Please?” I reply.

She opens the door and lets me in.

“You have anything to drink?”

“Have a seat I will get you one.”

Alicia returns to the living room and gives me a beer. I place the picture of the butterfly painting on the coffee table. I use my index finger to slide it across the glass top.

“Where did you take that picture?”

She picks up the photograph and inspects it.

“Are you serious?” says Alicia. “You woke me up for this?”

She flicks the photo on the coffee table.

“If I tell you; can I go back to sleep?”

“Yes, Mam.”

“My friend Bianca painted that butterfly. I loved it so much I took a picture. She owns the bookstore south of here.”

“The occult bookstore, the one close to that drive-thru liquor store?”

“That’s the one.”

I finish my beer.

“One more for the road?”

I shake the empty can.

“Of course, Doc.”

She grabs me a refill; I walk to the front door.

Alicia hugs me and the smell of clean linen, cinnamon, and a hint of citrus force me to smile.

“Take care of yourself, Doc.”

“I will.”

***

I arrive at Bianca’s house. The old adobe home doubles as her place of business. I knock on the massive wooden door.

The small speakeasy opening, at the head level of the door, hinges inward and reveals an old woman’s face.

A cigarette voice whispers, “Who is it?”

“I am a friend of Alicia. She told me she took this picture here.”

I show her the photograph.

The small head-level door closes. Deadbolt after deadbolt clanks as she unlocks the plethora of security measures.

The smell of incense, cigarettes, and stale marijuana engulfs me. The home is ice cold. I see my breath as I stand in the entryway.

Bianca is wrapped in a multi-colored serape. She is a petite woman who glides instead of walks.

“Secure the locks,” she says.

I turn and lock the mass of deadbolts.

Bianca pulls the colorful blanket higher on her shoulders and walks down the hall.

“This way.”

I walk through the bookstore and into a back room. A round table covered with a maroon cloth and two chairs occupy the space. Bianca lights a candle, places it on a shelf, and takes a seat.

“Let me see it,” she says.

The candle casts light onto Bianca. Her outstretched fingers are long, and thin, with prominent knuckles. Her hair is full and silver. Earth-brown eyes sit on top of a crooked nose and crescent-shaped jaw. She cocks her head to one side.

“Ahora,” she says.

I hand her the photograph and sit. She gazes at it.

“Mierda,” she says through her teeth.

She spits on the picture, places it on the center of the table, and stabs it in place with a dagger.

“Three unforgivable sins to usher metamorphosis.”

Something brushes against my leg. I scream and jump out of my seat. My knees smash into the table. I trip over something living. A cat screeches.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I hold my hands over my chest.

Bianca reaches under the table and swoops the hairless cat in her arms. It purrs as she strokes its body. She looks directly into my eyes.

“You are a psychiatrist, who needs, a psychiatrist?”

She giggles and smiles. Her large white teeth reflect the candlelight.

“Sort of, my license is under review,” I say.

“Are you crazy, Doctor?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You need another drink.”

She removes a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

“You pour,” she says.

I pour two shots, so full, that they overflow onto the tablecloth. The smell of one hundred percent agave floods the tiny room.

I hand a glass to her; then raise mine across the table.

“Salud,” she says.

“Cheers,” I reply.

The glasses tink. I pour the tequila into my mouth and let it marinate for a few moments before I swallow it. My face flushes, and a fire starts inside my gut. I lick my lips.

She slides her shot glass across the table into my hand. I pour another round, hand Bianca one, and sip mine.

“Three unforgivable sins?” I ask.

“Yes. The first sin, es sending the soul of a former lover past Cerberus and into the underworld. Your Doctor es your lover, no?”

“She used to be.”

“What happened?”

I raise the shot glass, point to it, and toss the tequila back.

“The second sin es to kill one’s sister.”

“Alicia doesn’t have a sister.”

Bianca throws her head back and roars with laughter.

“You don’t know your lover or your Doctor. She has many sisters. I assure you. Another.”

I pour the drinks. Another shot goes down the hatch.

“The third sin,” Bianca removes a cigarette and lights it. “Es to take one’s own life.”

She blows smoke onto the table and captures it with her shot glass. The tiny plumes swirl around her magnified eye as she looks at me through the shooter.

“Alicia is not going to take my soul, she doesn’t have a sister, and I know for a fact she isn’t going to kill herself.”

Bianca sits up.

“Who told you to come here?”

“She did.”

She claps and raises her voice.

“Exactly, she told you to come here. She es trying to invoke diablos.”

Bianca stands, points at me, and drags her cigarette.

“How did you find the photograph?”

“Something followed me tonight, a shadow figure. I had a run-in with it. Afterward, I was drawn to the photo. I don’t even know how it got there.”

Bianca snorts.

“She summons imps from the bowels of hell to do her bidding. Where es it? Did it follow you here?”

“No. I don’t think so. I hope not. How would we know?”

“Pendejo.”

She shakes her head.

“Huh?”

“You are a fuggin’ asshole.”

Bianca pulls the tablecloth over the dagger and yanks. The butterfly painting photograph, impaled by the knife, comes loose from the table. She wraps the tablecloth over the dagger and monochrome, then ties a leather chord around the fabric securing it firmly, so the outline of the dagger can be seen.

“Use this dagger after the three sins have been committed to send the devil back to the abyss with its master.”

“What are you talking about?”

The smell of death fills the room.

“You did bring it with you!” she screams. “You must stop her from manifesting the abomination.”

The smell grows stronger. I gag. Giggling and screams echo through the home. The sound of a freight train, barreling down on me, ruptures my right ear drum. I feel the crimson liquid leap from my ear lobe and splatter on my shoulder. I fall to the floor.

“Go! I will hold it for es long es I can!” she shrieks.

Bianca chants in a language I do not understand.

I run for the front door. I begin unlocking the line of deadbolts. There are three locks left.

My head involuntarily thrusts skyward. A sickening feeling floods my body, my tear ducts let loose, and a sick groan erupts from my chest. I soil myself and a yellow puddle grows around my left foot.

A sense of dread fills my mind as something spiritual synthesis’ within my physical vessel. A stowaway has found refuge on board.

My body contorts, I turn and head back to Bianca.

As I grow closer, the volume of the mantras increases. She is speaking Sumerian—an ancient language. Now, I understand every word.

Another voice, an unwanted voice, speaks to me inside the deep recess of my mind.

Kill the witch. She lies to you. She exploits your vices. Kill her and save Alicia—two crows; one stone.

I shake my head in an attempt to keep the internal voice quiet. Adrenaline surges through my body. My vision tunnels to darkness.

***

I wake up to a metallic taste in my mouth. It is iron. I open my eyes and shriek.

The cloth-wrapped dagger and photo is buried into Bianca’s eye socket to the cross guard. Her neck is arched; her face staring at the ceiling—blood and brain matter leak from her orifices.

A menacing grin, etched upon her death mask, lay bare for the heavens to see. Her lips have been gnawed off.

I back away and knock over a chair.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I leave the room, unlock the last three locks on the front door, and run into the night.

***

The stars put on their early morning glitz. I arrive at Alicia’s and rap on the French doors—they open immediately.

She turns on the lights, “Come in. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. I need a drink?”

“Have a seat in the living room. I will make you a nightcap.”

She leaves for the kitchen. I sit down on the leather sofa. The immaculate house smells of tropical flowers, honey, and vanilla. My body is chilled to the bone. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

The feeling of an ice-cold cocktail glass against my hand forces my eyelids open. Alicia hands me a drink. I swallow half of it and set it beside me on the end table.

“What is going on, Doc?” she says with a smile.

I cock my head slightly to the left. My eye twitches.

“I’m not sure, things are confusing,” I reply.

“That’s what happens when you drink on psych-meds.”

“I’m out of pills.”

“Exactly.”

I pick up my drink and take a sip.

“Bianca kept saying something about three unforgivable sins.”

I look into Alicia’s eyes to gauge her reaction. They are stone-cold.

“She said if you commit three specific sins you can invoke an unclean spirit of the highest order.”

“Oh my, you have gone off the deep end.”

I remain silent and finish my drink. I hold it out in front of me.

“One more?”

“Yes.”

She leaves the room to make the drink.

I sneak into the dining room. My stomach drops. Above the mantelpiece, the butterfly painting from the photograph, on the dagger blade, inside Bianca's brain cavity, hangs as the room’s centerpiece.

I cup my hand over my mouth and press tightly. The physical restraint of my palm is the only thing preventing my scream from spewing all over the home.

I freeze. My mind goes into overdrive. Am I right? What if I am wrong? I have to prevent the ritual.

I inhale and gather myself.

I walk to the lit purple candle on the table. I blow it out and remove it from the candlestick. I invert the silver candle holder to use the base as a bludgeon.

I tip-toe to the kitchen and crane my neck around the corner. It is empty. I hold the candlestick over my head as I turn into the hallway which leads to the front door.

“Drop the weapon!”

“Put it down!”

Two uniformed police officers stand in the home’s entryway; their pistols pointing at me. Emergency lights from the police cruisers fill the inside of the house. The mix of red, blue, and purple shades projecting onto the hallway forces me to squint.

I drop the candle stick.

“I surrender.”

One officer holsters his weapon and moves to secure me. He kicks the candle stick away from my feet, turns me around, and cuffs me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

As he finishes securing the stainless steel bracelets; I look in the mirror in the hallway.

My face is completely covered in blood. My eyes are glossy and filled with tiny red rivers. I sob uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry. I ran out of medication.”

The police officer pats me on the shoulder.

“It’s alright partner we are going to get you some help. Not a Doctor I know allows house visits. Let alone at this hour. We will take you to the ward and they can get your medications right,” said the officer.

“Okay, Thank you,” I reply.

They place me in the back of the cop car and return to the front porch to speak with Alicia.

After a few minutes, they head back to the police cruiser, open the front doors and sit inside.

“Hey man that lady is awesome. She cares about you. She says she will pick you up when you get released.”

I rest my chin on my chest.

The officer puts the vehicle in drive. I look out the window.

Alicia is in the doorway of her home. She is holding the purple candle I removed, her body is soaked with liquid, and her smile stretches from ear to ear. The candle wick combusts.

Standing behind her is a massive horned entity. The devil’s body fills the double doors. She touches the candle to her body and is immediately engulfed in flames.

I open my mouth to scream and warn the officers.

The voice from deep within returns.

Two crows with one stone. Your soul, that of a former lover, is condemned to the dark lord for the murder of her sister- sisters with the same unholy father. When the flames dies; the butterfly will rise.

The vehicle pulls away. I involuntarily lean back in my seat. My eyes shut without my permission.