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By Keith Chalmers The loss of the rose was the most powerful abstinence from my life after I had sold my soul to the dragon. The image of it taunted me but I could not touch or feel its beauty. The craving drove me mad. The images of blood and flesh made my mouth creep to agonizing twitches that desired to tear at flesh. I did not feel like a man in these times but more of a beast. I was drawn to darkness. I could not even connect with any memory other than the life that surrounded me. But something saved me, something that was so much more wholesome than darkness. Like the sip of cold water from a small clear crystal stream. I swear I could hear angels sing in the darkness. So I held myself within the void of images I saw day after day. With my blood running cold, but denial my point of retribution and my pain. I twitched and spasmed and crawled from the touch of light, but still I worshiped that light. I imagined I could hear those angels when I saw light draw near and even though the hunger tore at me I merely gorged on food and cigarettes and wine till I threw up and felt more damned in the sight of god. I knew he was with me. After two days, the marks left by Satan’s lap dog began to heal. To me it felt more like two weeks or two months, but now I knew I was making headway. I could crawl to the window. I could touch the light without the incessant smell of dead insect. That bitter sweet stench of dead flowers that followed my nose like a second shadow. Yet already the bitterness grows. Though I still feel the weakness, the desire to call him master and guilt at betraying my duty to him, I am strong enough to hate him as every mortal should. The rage came on the third day. If I had not imprisoned myself in this lonely flat, I'm sure I would have done some mischief to some unsuspecting soul. I thrashed and flailed about like a psychotic madman. I blasphemed against emotion and made gestures against god that shamed me into thinking I would never again be accepted into the presence of mortality. The shame brought tears and with those tears a strength I never knew existed. It was only when I woke with the memory of the previous day that I was able to cry, and it was then that I prayed to God for the first time in my life. Now that the pain and the guilt are gone I have begun to think of the rose. There are mixed images and now and again I think of the blood, but my body has begun to warm. It is exactly four days since I was bitten. I long to touch petals that to me cannot be explained, like satin sheets or a scent like wine. I long to bathe in its presence, but still I realize that the weakness might overcome me. I blasphemed to all men, then in retribution decided upon vengeance. I have snapped my bed and gathered up the wood with most spikes to use as stakes. I will have my vengeance. I saw her today through my window and she was so delicate. I forgot the rose. Why? Why? Why?
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