Origins
by David Desiderio
To some, she was an anthem sung by a thousand voices raised to epiphany. To others, she was a curse summoned from a thousand graves lost to time. To me, she was my wife and, in my dreams, I dreamed both one atop the other like the settled magma of two great cataclysms. This is the story of those dreams, one true the other a veneer to hide what lay beneath.
No age is dark to those inhabiting it, but their lived truth where in my sleep Chelsea sheltered deep in a tomb with the trembling survivors of the slaughter rained upon her people in a time before this time by a soulless machine scoring the sky in scythe-like precision. Taking courage, Chelsea stepped forward. Vibrant and fearless, with tangled black hair and penetrating green eyes, she refused surrender and urged all to keep hope alive for only as one could they vanquish so formidable an enemy. “Remember!” she exhorted. “This cave is the hallowed ground of our forebears. They will hear our pleas. They will not forsake us.”
So, I watched as she desperately scoured the remains for a portent, a talisman to infuse her with the power to defeat the evil terrorizing her people. The machines were thundering near, their disintegrating beams on the prowl. There was no place to run but deeper into the tomb. Was a blink of light caught her eye. A figment of smoke and ash rose from the bones. A large medallion hung from its neck. It drifted forward engulfing her. “I’ve been awaiting you.” Its voice crackled in her ears. Its fetid breath swelled her lungs. “This amulet is your only defense. Use it wisely and you will have the power to save your people. But beware its might for all blessings harbor evils hungering to be set free. If unleashed you will be bound to them for eternity, the progenitor of endless devastation.” Chelsea now commanded my dreamscape radiant in her triumph of a faith restored after a nether time of nightmare and irreconcilable despair. Behind her beatific image surged a thankful multitude celebrating the dawn of a new, hopeful age.
Then she was gone giving way to another strangely hesitant to present herself, whispering to abandon my pursuit. I was assaulted with flashing images lacerating my consciousness. These weren’t hopeful images craving to be seen but unbearable torments demanding to be acknowledged. And I felt the cut of each one as I gasped through noxious gas desperate for a last bit of air or felt my bones shatter from an exploding land mine or cried beneath the suffocating weight of rubble crushing my chest, or felt my skull burst from an assassin’s bullet, or lay bleeding in a heap after a suicide’s blast. So, so many. Brutal. Inescapable. I saw myself torn to pieces by a pack of rabid dogs. And as each bit of flesh ripped away that image grew clearer. It required my flesh to live; my pain to thrive. With the dogs gnawing at my heart, it was finally there to be seen. It was Chelsea! The medallion flashing around her neck, her black hair matted and filthy, her green eyes dancing with demented gloat, her bloody, cruel smile enthralled at the degradation she wreaked. Behind her sounded the haunted cries of the nameless multitudes in whose pain she took delight; whose pain sustained her; whose pain was never enough. And she was of this world, risen from the odious depths of the human soul no longer held in abeyance by reason but aroused and rampaging, seeking ever new and insidious ways to succor her sadistic needs.
I awoke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my ears. “Only dreams,” I thought. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of evil and turned to Chelsea at my side. She lay sleeping peacefully, her breathing steady, her dreams serene. I thought back to my dreams, shuddering as I recalled them to life. I dared not share them with her.
Afraid to return to a fitful sleep, I hoped a brisk shower would settle my nerves. I turned as Chelsea entered the bathroom. It was the innocent Chelsea of the first dream flush from sleep, smiling demurely. “Finish your shave,” she cajoled. She put her arms around my waist and rested her chin on my shoulder. It’s when I turned back to the mirror her other image appeared. Glaring was the freed succubus of the second dream, her eyes gaping black chasms, her mouth dripping blood. “It would have been better if you’d let that second dream go, Vincent,” she scolded. “Now our child will never know his father.” Then all went dark. When next I woke, I was forsaken deep in the crypt of cries and figments with Chelsea’s fetid breath souring my nose, her crackling words ringing my ears. I then knew the truth of those dreams but like YOU are forever in a place where it will do no good.
No age is dark to those inhabiting it, but their lived truth where in my sleep Chelsea sheltered deep in a tomb with the trembling survivors of the slaughter rained upon her people in a time before this time by a soulless machine scoring the sky in scythe-like precision. Taking courage, Chelsea stepped forward. Vibrant and fearless, with tangled black hair and penetrating green eyes, she refused surrender and urged all to keep hope alive for only as one could they vanquish so formidable an enemy. “Remember!” she exhorted. “This cave is the hallowed ground of our forebears. They will hear our pleas. They will not forsake us.”
So, I watched as she desperately scoured the remains for a portent, a talisman to infuse her with the power to defeat the evil terrorizing her people. The machines were thundering near, their disintegrating beams on the prowl. There was no place to run but deeper into the tomb. Was a blink of light caught her eye. A figment of smoke and ash rose from the bones. A large medallion hung from its neck. It drifted forward engulfing her. “I’ve been awaiting you.” Its voice crackled in her ears. Its fetid breath swelled her lungs. “This amulet is your only defense. Use it wisely and you will have the power to save your people. But beware its might for all blessings harbor evils hungering to be set free. If unleashed you will be bound to them for eternity, the progenitor of endless devastation.” Chelsea now commanded my dreamscape radiant in her triumph of a faith restored after a nether time of nightmare and irreconcilable despair. Behind her beatific image surged a thankful multitude celebrating the dawn of a new, hopeful age.
Then she was gone giving way to another strangely hesitant to present herself, whispering to abandon my pursuit. I was assaulted with flashing images lacerating my consciousness. These weren’t hopeful images craving to be seen but unbearable torments demanding to be acknowledged. And I felt the cut of each one as I gasped through noxious gas desperate for a last bit of air or felt my bones shatter from an exploding land mine or cried beneath the suffocating weight of rubble crushing my chest, or felt my skull burst from an assassin’s bullet, or lay bleeding in a heap after a suicide’s blast. So, so many. Brutal. Inescapable. I saw myself torn to pieces by a pack of rabid dogs. And as each bit of flesh ripped away that image grew clearer. It required my flesh to live; my pain to thrive. With the dogs gnawing at my heart, it was finally there to be seen. It was Chelsea! The medallion flashing around her neck, her black hair matted and filthy, her green eyes dancing with demented gloat, her bloody, cruel smile enthralled at the degradation she wreaked. Behind her sounded the haunted cries of the nameless multitudes in whose pain she took delight; whose pain sustained her; whose pain was never enough. And she was of this world, risen from the odious depths of the human soul no longer held in abeyance by reason but aroused and rampaging, seeking ever new and insidious ways to succor her sadistic needs.
I awoke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my ears. “Only dreams,” I thought. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of evil and turned to Chelsea at my side. She lay sleeping peacefully, her breathing steady, her dreams serene. I thought back to my dreams, shuddering as I recalled them to life. I dared not share them with her.
Afraid to return to a fitful sleep, I hoped a brisk shower would settle my nerves. I turned as Chelsea entered the bathroom. It was the innocent Chelsea of the first dream flush from sleep, smiling demurely. “Finish your shave,” she cajoled. She put her arms around my waist and rested her chin on my shoulder. It’s when I turned back to the mirror her other image appeared. Glaring was the freed succubus of the second dream, her eyes gaping black chasms, her mouth dripping blood. “It would have been better if you’d let that second dream go, Vincent,” she scolded. “Now our child will never know his father.” Then all went dark. When next I woke, I was forsaken deep in the crypt of cries and figments with Chelsea’s fetid breath souring my nose, her crackling words ringing my ears. I then knew the truth of those dreams but like YOU are forever in a place where it will do no good.
David Desiderio is a retired and a lifelong Western New York native. His stories have appeared in Everyday Fiction and the Scarlet Leaf Review.