Page 48 of Eternal Obsession

Dizziness made me stagger. I craved the dark. Daylight outside irritated me. I would not sleep in that box, but I had to sleep, hide, disappear. Crawling, now sobbing toward the coffin, I climbed inside and pulled the lid over me, entombing myself. Within the blackness came immediate relief.

Drifting off, grateful for sleep’s insistence, my circadian rhythm adjusted and my senses enabled the ability to gauge the passing of time. Unconsciously, I waited for the day to be over.

Crazy dreams.

I awoke with a jolt, alarmed to feel the sides of the coffin.

Irrational thoughts.

I bolted up and banged my head. With panic, I pushed frantically at the coffin lid and jumped out, refusing to look back.

I stole out into the night and returned to Stonehenge.

Approaching with caution, I stared down at the central altar and beheld the pile of ashes strewn over it. Orpheus had gone through with it. He had stepped into the sun’s path, surrendering his life to end this once and for all.

Some relief.

I scooped up a handful and allowed them to fall between my fingers. The breeze caught a few. Eager to get it over with, I separated them and poured the remaining ashes a few at a time into the fissures at the top of each of the inner stones.

Marveling at my ability to climb the stones, I reassured myself it was done, then wiped my hands on the grass.

It was a dreadful thing I’d been asked to do, solemn and unholy, and I hated the thought of his ashes on my palms, like the remnants of a curse, clinging to the lines of my skin. I was desperate to return to Cornwall as soon as possible but aware that I would never make the journey if I did not restore some strength.

Impatient and overcome with hunger, I huddled in the corner of the Salisbury tavern, awaiting my order of fresh soup and bread. I craved the warm liquid to quench my thirst. My jacket was securely buttoned. I was eager to hide my stained shirt, hoping that my unkempt appearance would not arouse suspicion.

The sparse dim room was virtually empty. A few regulars nursed their goblets. Their voices carried and yet their mouths did not move. A horrible insanity came over me as I perceived that it was possible to read their minds.

My skin was chilled, yet my insides burned up. Staring down at my hands, I became fearful of my pallor, but was jolted out of my quiet panic by the tavern server who first placed a cup of water before me then slopped the thick broth down. Its steam arose carrying with it a reeking odor. I dipped my spoon into the dirty soup and tasted it.

I gagged.

I checked the room to ensure my reflex had gone unnoticed. I stared at the cup of water and could not understand my repulsion. My experience had dulled my appetite. I yearned for something else. Something unspeakable. As the cravings dragged, I tried to understand them. Not only was I drawn to the other guests, but also felt a powerful pull toward the tavern wench.

I withdrew and headed toward the woods.

My death had been nothing more than a pause.

When the realization settled, I fell to my knees and wailed, aware that what I once had been—human, mortal—was now lost. I grieved for my past. Then it came again, that terrible craving that held on fast. Fighting with my will and reasoning with it, I bit into my hand and drew blood. Like a child I suckled, experiencing a sense of relief for the first time. I had to eat. I could not eat. My urgency to return home was heavily outweighed by my desire to merely survive.

White eyes glared from the forest. The fox snarled at me then continued to gnaw through his hind leg which was ensnared in a man-made trap. When my stare had subdued the creature and his fear paralyzed him, I knelt beside the red-furred animal and nuzzled in. The fox’s blood-soaked fur tasted foul. He sprang to life, a last-ditch effort to survive as claws scratched at my face, slicing through. Grappling with him, he was easily overpowered.

Raging guilt; I had always hated hunting, hated hurting innocent creatures. I let the fox go. It scurried into the night.

If there was a hell, then this was it.

My screams reached the blackness.

Lying on my back, the stars were familiar. Ursa Major, shaped like a plough, shone brightly. Catherine’s favorite astrological alignment. I followed the two stars to the right of the constellation and found the North Star. This would guide me home. Mustering my strength, I crawled onto my feet and started running.

Hours from home a whiff of blood carried in the air and beckoned. I followed the fading lights to the lone cottage and peered through the window at the young man asleep in the rocking chair. He snored. An elderly couple lay where they were slain. The murderous robber had arrogantly fallen asleep in their favorite chair. I eased open the window and climbed in.

The odor was terrible. Old food still simmered on the hearth. Unable to resist, my eyes fell upon the buccaneer’s neck, hypnotized by the blue that ran through it. My taste buds tingled, mixed with my bloody saliva. I fought with my desire and lost.

Unable to control myself, I nuzzled into his neck, amazed that he did not stir. How, I wondered while suckling, could such an attack not awaken him. I lapped at his blood, grateful for the bestowal, taken regardless.

At last, it was a wonderful sensation, a rise in my mood and a sense of wellness. I luxuriated in the feed. Then they came—powerful images, portraits of memories and lingering thoughts.

Something inside me died.