Mary: a flashback

[lucifermourning.livejournal.com]

One of the servants brings her the dress (but she knew it would be the silver one). Long, floating, layers shifting around each other, shimmering and insubstantial.

The guests arrive and she drifts in and out, smiling, greeting them, making them comfortable. Everything is beautiful (of course it is).

There is music. She loves the music, she can feel her body instinctively starting to sway, the ball joints in her shoulders and hips shifting to the rhythm.

He claps His hands (she knew he would) and the room falls silent. He speaks a few words and a space clears. The music changes tempo and she steps forward to dance. She knows each beat before it’s played – her timing is perfect (of course it is). She meets His eyes and He smiles slightly. Her heart hammers with the joy of it. She doesn’t need to follow His gaze, she knows what (who) He wants. A hundred subtle shifts, nothing obvious (of course), but they know it to. There are two of them tonight (beautiful, of course) and all her little movements tell them, call them as the tempo increases. Her dance is a promise, light, quick movements, exposing her legs as the dress swirls. Everyone can see the promise, but only they know that it is a promise to them.

Finally it ends, the evening drifts on. She speaks to them a little, her heart hammering in anticipation. She must be the hostess as well but the moments when she leaves them she imbues with a secret smile of regret and promise. Her anticipation builds, desire growing in her as the hours drift by. She is impatient for the others to leave (but never lets on, of course).

They don’t need to be invited to stay. She guides them to His chambers and the night rewards the waiting, with His pleasure, and hers, and theirs. When they depart the next morning it is with the sweetest of kisses and smiles.

The gate closes behind them and suddenly she realises what she’s done. She doesn’t have to look at Him to know His anger, or His suffering. To have seduced His guests, as though His love was insufficient? Forced Him to go along with it, for fear of offence, so as not to let them know how shameful her actions were? She staggers as she turns to Him and falls to her knees. His face is a perfect composition of rage and hurt – He doesn’t need to say a word.

The blow falls with no warning, and she feels the cracks form down the side of her face. She is grateful. Another one slams her into the marble and part of her arm shatters, falling across the floor in pieces. If this can in any way relieve His suffering and make restitution for the wrong she did Him, she has no complaint.

It goes on a long time.

When it is over, He leaves her. She uses her remaining arm to collect the pieces. She will need to replace many parts.

Later, when she is in the workshop, carefully painting her new hand, she feels Him leave. He’s still to angry to say goodbye.

Much later, as she carefully fits a new eye into place, there is a feeling in her mind, like a clearing fog. It leaves only confusion. The truest fact in her life is her love for Him.

So why does it feel so very much like hate?