The Unchaste

Metamorphosis

The amorphous frenzy of the whole affair cut into Delilah like silver stylus cutting into roll of wax, engraving deep marks, such was its acute precision. Almost stoned, Delilah stared at Emily, catching the resemblances the girl held to the now dead friend, the darkness of doe-like black eyes and charming face, flanking angelic if you cared to look deep enough_ under the layers of grime and premature grief.

George had a little sister, who was dwelling here on all earth, in this feral asylum. How was George in all this? And Richard Winter? How was he aware of Emily’s existence? Why did he care?

Those were the endless mysteries.

And theses mysteries, Delilah hated not knowing.

The girl, Emily, stood rooted at the door, cautiously eyeing the occupants until the escort nun yanked her in with so much of an unnecessary strength; Delilah feared that if thus remained the manipulation, they would rip that bony arm off its seared, flesh-less body.

Lord Richard left his seat with the agility of a war horse, attaining his full height which intimidated the nearby nuns into scuttling away from him. Not Emily though.

Fear that had chased others off froze the girl to the spot.

His intense focus on the girl altered a little when Emily’s fist twitched. He saw, as did Delilah, the crucifix she held in the knotted coil of her fingers, like parasitic vines seizing the branches of oak in death-grip, to never let go. Sucking strength from it.

As if, her faith in heaven above could save her from the stinging, senile atrocities of the world below.

Instead of reaching for Emily, Lord Richard reached for Delilah and unraveled the knots of her tie, disengaging her from her constraints. He gestured her to stand and Delilah did, too astonished to see beyond and beside the girl.

“Take responsibility.” He whispered into her ear, softly, as if cloud had touched his voice. “She needs your promise. Talk to her. Tell her I am getting her out of this infernal place.”

A small flower like emotion wilted within Delilah, petals drooping low like in autumn wind. She sighed indifferently and then, heard herself ask, out loud.

“And me?”

She winced the next moment, mortified.

He seemed just as taken aback by the naïve sidle, the harmless bitterness of her question as she herself was. He opened his mouth as if to say something and Delilah flinched even before he voiced his first cadre.

“Don’t answer that please.” She entreated wretchedly, hurriedly and progressed three hasty steps ahead of herself to avoid his comeback and instead, focused on balancing her body at her unsteady feet. Emily didn’t as much as tremble within the limited air she stood in when Delilah approached.

Delilah tumbled down on her knee, now attaining the height of the little girl. Her head was spinning from getting down so abruptly, to have walked mere six feet had left her out of breath.

“Good Evening, Emily.”

Dark eyes flitted across Delilah’s face but the girl said nothing, now studying Delilah curiously.

“I am Delilah Eves.” She tried to smile. “George…he was my friend.”

Emily’s down casted eyes lifted to his face once, swift and cautious, then fell back like noises do, in rain. In that dull, weary little body; big, black, obsidian eyes glinted with liquid darkness. Suddenly saturated of sobering sorrow. Emily, so young for it, was struggling to hold back those tears of god knew what.