“My husband died last week. Two months before that, it seemed that we had our entire life together ahead of us,” he said, looking at the family and friends present around the chapel. Some of them he knew; some of them he didn’t really have the time to get to know. But all of them knew of the body that laid in the casket behind him. “We exchanged our vows and put rings on each other’s fingers. In the eyes of God, we were together,” he whimpered, voice breaking slightly at the thought of a million unlived lives in a sea of possibilities with his lover. “His illness wasn’t a mystery to either of us. We both knew that this moment was going to come sooner than later. But if anything could’ve been different, I would wish for just a single thing.” A moment of silence, drowning the years of dreams that the two of them had built together. Impossible dreams that had been so vivid in their minds until now. “If I could wish for one single thing to be different, then I would’ve wished for cancer to die instead of him.”
Everyone walked or drove back to their homes after they had paid their respects at the ceremony, except for the widower and the closest family of the deceased. The deceased’s brother approached the widower, lending a hand with a soft touch at the shoulder and a tight embrace.
“How long ago was it that he got the diagnosis?” asked the deceased’s brother, separating from the embrace with the widower but still keeping his presence close to him.
The widower had to take a moment to clear his throat before speaking. “Almost two years ago. I was presiding over Mass that afternoon but was interrupted by Father Barton, who told me that he passed out and hit his head against the floor while giving a class. I reconvened with my mother outside of the chapel, and we drove to the city…”
Of course, the deceased’s brother knew all of this already, as the story had been told ad nauseam, but he had heard that one of the best things to deal with grief is to talk about it, and so, he was there to listen.
Most of the family remained there in the chapel until they had to leave, recounting stories and fables, branded memories of their loved one who had left, while the thought of him would never fade away. After this, they said their goodbyes with tears in their eyes. A lot closer now, but not for the right reasons that should make a family closer. The widower as well drove back to his small house, now bigger on the inside with the absence of the one who had once smiled at him and promised to stay with him forever.
The widower walked slowly towards their room, one step at a time, trying not to look at all the pictures that would remind him of his lover. He opened the door and took off one shoe, and then the other, before letting his weight crash upon the double bed–a bed that only held space for a single person now. His eyes shined with melancholy and pain, as the ache of his soul slowly cradled him to sleep.
A voice echoed in the dark abyss. A tall man—taller than the widower—held his hand as his other hand rested on his waist. A handsome man with brown hair and hazel eyes, a few brown hairs sprinkled across the lower half of his face that scratched the widower’s face as he kissed him. The picture slowly recovered colour and sound, as the two souls danced a waltz of memories made and to be made–a circling movement flavoured with the taste of what had led them here and all the things they were going to accomplish together.
In reality, the widower held tight to his pillow and cried while he smiled and danced with his lover in this dream. But reality has a way to seep into the most precious of dreams, and while the two of them danced, the widower couldn’t help but cry at the dream that his broken heart had decided to play in his mind.
“I miss you, my love.” The widower cried, moving his right hand to lay it on the cheek of his lover. The deceased grabbed the hand with his own and pressed it softly to his face, holding the hand as he separated it and moved it towards his lips, kissing its surface.
The lover smiled, while the both of them danced a dance of generations, the dance that their mothers had taught them to court the lady of their dreams, and so both had chosen a gentleman and danced. “But I’m still here, my beloved,” said the deceased, letting go of his lover to let him do a spin and move him to his chest once more.
“Where?” replied the widower. “Where are you?”
“You’ll find me. You’ve always been a man of God, but sometimes, the answer lies somewhere else,” informed the deceased, smiling contently at the company of his lover.
“I don’t know if I can do that. I need you. I can’t do this alone,” the widower cried, lowering his head a little, as the support that once held it in place could only provide a ghastly hand now.
“But you can do it, my beloved.” The deceased lifted his lover’s head up. “You know what to do, and how to do it.”
The widower sighed, staring intently at the eyes of his lover. “I’ll go to hell if I do it.”
“Then we’ll go to hell together.” The deceased kissed him, separating his lips from his for a brief moment, “an eternity of damnation is nothing if it’s an eternity with you.” He kissed him again, his tongue brushing gently with his, as the widower slowly regained consciousness.
He embraced the pillow, a grey stain on it as his tears had dampened it. “I’ll do it for you, my love,” the widower replied to himself. He stood up from his bed and got the preparations ready. A knife to carve a prey, a prey to paint a circle, and a circle to bring back his love.
A few days later, the widower invited the priest to meet at his house for dinner. The priest, of course, accepted. He had been the one to help him join the clergy, his mentor. And he knew how much the widower had suffered recently; he thought his company could help. The priest arrived at the hour specified, seven in the evening, with a few minutes to spare. He knocked on the door and was let in by the widower. The widower shook his hand and offered to take his coat as he closed the door and led him to the dining room.
The both of them sat down at the table, “I’m glad to see you, Son. It's been a while, how’ve you been holding on?”
“Thank you, Father. It’s been rough, but I feel that God is giving me strength,” the widower replied. The room smelled of a ham that was being roasted in the oven. Neither of them would be eating it tonight.
“In the light of God, we can do anything.” The priest crossed himself and nodded.
The widower nodded as well, “Amen,” he replied, but he did not cross himself, for he did not follow the light of God anymore. “Could I serve you a cup of tea while we wait for dinner, Father?”
“Please and thank you,” he nodded with a warm smile, as the widower nodded and stood up. He walked towards the stove where the kettle laid, but instead, he grabbed a kitchen knife and a rag that he had carefully set there beside the stove. He stared at the reflection of grief as he took the knife and walked towards the priest, who sat comfortably at the table, looking around the house.
The widower held the knife with both of his hands—the rag in between his hands and the handle of the knife—and lifted it over the priest. In one quick movement, he curved his arm and carved the knife into the priest’s chest. Oblivious, the priest opened his mouth to gasp, but before he could scream, the widower shoved the rag into his mouth. The priest’s yell was drowned by the rag in his mouth, waving his hands and falling off the chair onto the floor. His hands tried to reach the widower, but the energy slowly faded from his body. The widower stared as the priest crawled on the floor, slowly dwindling out, until there was nowhere to crawl anymore.
When he stopped moving, the widower moved two fingers under his nose to make sure he wasn’t breathing anymore. Afterwards, he did one final check by putting his ear to the priest’s chest: no heartbeat. He turned off the oven and dragged the priest’s body to a different room, where five candles had been arranged in a circle. The widower took out the knife and let the blood slowly ooze out from the priest’s lifeless body.
He took a brush and wetted it on the crimson liquid, following the candles to make a circle. With the same brush, he connected the candles with a few straight lines in the middle to design a pentagram, where he laid the priest, letting him bleed. With a box of matches, he lit up each of the candles.
The widower moved towards the edge of the circle and started reciting a rhyme that he had learnt specifically for this occasion.
“Taketh this offer, Lord of Demons.
And giveth my carnal body what I seek.
Spilled the blood tonight, for you to drink,
So, bring back him, from the empty brink.”
The stream of blood kept flowing onto the floor, but now, it remained within the circle, accumulating. The pool of red rose, covering the priest’s body in its entirety until only a small cylinder of gore could be seen. A wind from nowhere blew out the candles, making it hard to see as the blood receded and slowly began to disappear. The candles lit up again, and in the middle of the circle was not the priest, but the naked body of the deceased, who now had a pair of red wings, horns, and a tail stemming out of him.
In disbelief, the widower approached his lover, who started coughing and wheezing, his body jerking with life once again. The widower grabbed the deceased’s face and kissed it, taking due emphasis on his lips, as he helped him up and carried him in his arms towards their room. He laid down the deceased on their bed, as his crystal eyes stared at him, still wondering if he was alive, if he had succeeded. The deceased moved his hand slowly and put it on the widower’s cheek, smiling.
“You did it, my beloved. I knew you could do it,” he said, his soft and loving voice the same. The widower embraced his lover, as his loneliness and grief transformed into relief and tears, being embraced back. He cried on his lover’s shoulder, while a hand passed through his hair comfortingly. The widower separated and stared at him, his black hair and pale skin provided a nice contrast with his blue eyes and pink lips.
“I missed you, my love,” said the widower, setting his forehead against his lover’s, who let out a sigh and smiled.
The deceased lifted his head up, passing his thumbs under his lover’s eyes to clean the tears. “I missed you too. You have no idea,” he said, moving his thumb towards his lover’s chin and reached in for a long-awaited kiss. The widower smiled and felt the deceased’s lips make contact with his own. He noticed his shirt start to get unbuttoned and hastily unfastened his belt in response. The deceased grabbed him by his back and moved him into the bed, setting himself on top of him. He brought his mouth to his neck and marked it as his own with his saliva and his scent, producing a gasp from his lover as his hand reached down to his penis and rubbed it.
With the wings of a demon, but the touch of an angel, the deceased lifted the widower’s legs and placed his nose against his, their eyes staring into nothing and everything, then, a thrust of lust with a touch of pleasure and a glimpse of heaven. An encounter of sweat and steam that raised the two of them to heaven and threw them into the pits of hell. A ceremony of sex and a ritual of marriage; the cost of their encounter would not go unpunished.