Grandfather Death and Virgin Mary by BlackRonin
Explore the provocative tale of “Grandfather Death and Virgin Mary” by BlackRonin, where desire meets the divine in an audacious erotic journey. Delve into a world of forbidden passion, untamed fantasies, and unexpected connections that will leave you breathless. Dare to indulge in this adult story that pushes boundaries and ignites the senses!
You always hurt the one you love. , Friedrich looked in the mirror. He had no reflection, of course, but he looked anyway. He ran his hands over his face, tracing the deep lines, feeling the papery flesh, outlining the hooked nose and wide brow, all the features he knew were there even though he could not see them. How did I get so old, he thought; I was supposed to live forever?
“No one lives forever,” said a voice in his ear.
“Certainly not us,” said another, on the other side. Two figures, both women, appeared in the mirror behind him, though Friedrich knew that if he turned around he would not see them. They were only ever in the mirror.
Friedrich sighed and sat down. The room was dark, and filthy, and full of dust. The windows and doors were barricaded, and everything smelled of decay. How long had he been here? He barely remembered now. He was dying one inch at a time. He picked at the moth-eaten tatters of his dressing gown, feeling as if the moths ate holes through him too. “I want to die,” he said.
“Die? Oh no, not die, that’s not what you do,” said one of the women, still visible only in the mirror.
“You kill,” said the other.
“You killed me,” said the woman on his left; she was rawboned but genteel, in her way. Her throat was torn, and blood covered the front of her. A gold ring glimmered on her finger. “I was your wife for twelve years, and you killed me the night you became a monster.”
“I know,” said Friedrich.
“And you killed me,” said the other voice, and the second woman came forward, delicate-looking with her dark hair coiled on top of her head. One of her wrists was cut so deep that the hand was barely attached. She, too, had a ring. “I was willing to love you even though you were a monster, but you killed me anyway. Why?”
“I could not help myself,” said Friedrich. He wiped at tears that weren’t there. “You were all I lived for. Now you two are the only reason I know I’m not dead yet. Only because I have you to compare myself to do I know the difference between life and death anymore.”
The women’s images vanished, but he knew they were still there. They were always there, in the glass, watching.
Friedrich sat in the rotting easy chair, staring at nothing. There had once been a clock in this room, but it wound down years ago. Occasionally he still thought he heard it ticking. The house died around him. It was an old house now, a shunned house, and people said it was haunted, but they were wrong. The house isn’t haunted, thought Friedrich, I am.
It started as a night like any other. Friedrich did nothing, the house settled, occasionally there was a sound from outside, a siren or a low-flying plane or a pedestrian who wandered too close. Sometimes Friedrich was hungry, but for the most part he’d moved beyond hunger long ago. He’d not had a drop of blood in decades. He’d expected to die, to starve, but instead he grew old. Now there was just emptiness, an emptiness different from hunger, because hunger could be satisfied but this feeling of having nothing, being nothing, would last for eternity, because nothing could fill nothing. It just went on and on, and Friedrich sat, and waited for nothing and no one, forever.
It started as a night like any other, but tonight something changed. It began with the smallest of sounds, just the slightest settling of the floorboards downstairs. Only Friedrich, his ear practiced at decades of listening to perfect silence, could have detected it. He assumed from the lightness of the step that it was a stray cat, but eventually he decided that the intruder was moving too gently even for a cat. It could only be a child. He stirred. Had one of the neighbor children come into the old, haunted house on a dare? And what was that he heard now? Was it the sound of a tiny little voice crying, sobbing even, right below him? He sat up. It had been ages since anyone had cried in this house. It felt just like old times.
Slowly, very slowly, his aged limbs aching, Friedrich stood and went to the bedroom door, locking it behind him with the old, rusty key from his dressing gown pocket. His footsteps on the stairs were lighter even than those of the child (though the soles had long since worn out of his velvet slippers), and although the house was a cauldron of gloom he could see perfectly. Friedrich followed the pitiful wailing to the tumbledown remains of the kitchen, and there he saw her, a golden-haired angel crying into the red-checked pleats of her favorite dress, little round legs drawn up under her, like a marionette trying to sit down. She could be no more than six years old.
Stiff as he’d grown in twenty years without feeding, Friedrich was still stealthy enough to approach without notice. Only when the papery flesh of his finger wiped a tear from her cheek did the little girl see him, looking up with watery blue eyes. He expected her to scream at the sight of such an old monster, but instead she jumped up, threw her arms around his bony legs, and hugged him for dear life. He ran a gnarled claw through her golden locks, making soothing noises. “There, there,” he said. “What happened, little one? Are you lost?”
“I can’t find my mother,” said the girl.
“Oh dear,” said Friedrich.
“Can you help me?”
“Can I? Ah…” he said, and then, very gently, so as not to alarm her, he put his hand on her head and looked at her memories…
She walks down the street with her mother. She is holding a balloon, and then a gust of wind blows it away and she runs after it. Her mother calls out to her but she does not listen, and her mother cannot move through the crowd as quickly as she. When the girl looks up again she is alone, and the night is waning, and she crawls into the old, abandoned house to cry…
Friedrich took his hand away and looked at the little girl again. “What is your name?” he said.
“Mary,” said the girl, sniveling.
“Well of course it is,” said Friedrich. “Little Mary, I have such sad news; your poor mother is dead.”
“She is?” said Mary, and she began to wail again. Friedrich continued to stroke her hair.
“I’m afraid she is,” said Friedrich. “I saw it happen myself. And with her very last breath she sent me to find you.”
“Who’s…gonna…take care of me…now?” said Mary, hiccupping between sobs.
“No need to worry about that,” said Friedrich. “I’ll look after you.”
“You will?” said Mary, eyes still watery.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I need a pretty little girl like you to help me anyway. You see, I’m a very old man, and very sick, and I can never go out during the day.”
The girl stopped sobbing as she pondered this.
“If you promise to look after the house for me while I’m asleep, I’ll take good care of you, and always watch over you, and love you for the sake of your poor, dead mama.”