A/N: The dialogue below was originally written in Spanish. If you would like to follow along in Spanish, I have included in-line comments below!
❦❧♱❦❧
Lolita wept when she heard the Hungarian suicide song Gloomy Sunday.
Robinʼs piano was a coffin of blackened timber and rich, reposed ivory mourning the loss of classical Baroque opera. A swan song that kissed ghostly violin riffs and haunting illusive choruses. Robinʼs fingers caressed it the piano's keys forlornly, injuring all with the abusive blows of wishful love that came out in Korean staccatos from romanticized lovers, and out came exhaustive passion. The wondrous patrons of dark beauty and Machiavellian weddings flowed from her fingers with the affliction of Rezső Seressʼ agony on their lips, and as they sang, Robin did too.
With Evilʼs apparitions flocking towards her pianoʼs silken keys as every note escaped her fingers, the Korean goddess Eopsin: of wealth, of greed, of storage, she screamed. Mournfully, voice stricken by grief, who sang with the robbed sorrow of Robin and Lolitaʼs tears. Her voice was a ghostʼs shrill whisper, laced with regret and repulsive magic from Orderly spellbooks. Scholarly misfortunes, come to life.
Lolita wept when she heard the curse of the Hungarian suicide note in pianist vernacular and poetryʼs haunting words.
She could never hide from whispers.
Whispers were all the world knew, symmetry was all it sang:
Poverty,
Sheʼs a cold cavern of ice
With Momusʼ fabled lies wrapped in Aesopʼs fictitious truths,
Our stories begin:
A numbing alcoholic, a prostituteʼs vice
And Iʼm Greedʼs villainous face again
Abuse,
Sheʼs full of withering yellow leaves
With Greedʼs black and Wealthʼs blue face a brutal chain
In Her wroth, in Her peace
The once and future queen
Oh, my Imaginary Friend,
Why am I Greedʼs villainous face again?
Poverty,
She was the Sirenʼs golden eyes.
Heart plundered in smoking fumes.
The wind is moaning and the earth is mourning
In sorrowful tears.
Poverty,
I gave her all She would need.
Lustʼs kiss, and eyes of fire.
Blood, red as a heartʼs tomb.
Fertile, as her womb.
Where the dead sing and the musicians soothe.
But alas,
She would always be my Greed.
Poverty,
I write to You:
Your touches burn, your deafness hurts
Cities are dying, playing with srap and fail-safes.
And thatʼs okay,
I never really Loved you anyway...
Love is dead!
An end: to the World,
to Hope.
Cradling Povertyʼs pregnant belly of blood
Greed is the liberation I crave.
Poverty,
Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless.
The hunger of wanton want, are lonely and loveless.
Little white flowers shall never awaken you.
Not where the black coach of Wealthʼs shortcomings have taken you.
Poison shall touch my lips,
As theyʼve touched yours.
But I will never be martyred by Greedʼs groom.
Poverty,
But alas, it is okay.
You never truly loved me anyway.
Angels have no thought of ever returning you.
Heavenʼs grace has never ceased to stop raping you.
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
Gloomy is this Sundayʼs breath.
Tragic is Greedʼs death.
Poverty,
Dreaming, I was only dreaming.
There was a ghost in this house,
Sleepwalking,
With wrists slit by Loveʼs knife with Orderʼs prayers.
My shadows have spent it all.
My heart and I have decided to end it all.
Chaos,
Chaos is Greedʼs caretaker.
Poverty,
Death is no dream for in death Iʼm caressing you.
With broken knuckles and rotten fingers.
Soon, Iʼll be there and thereʼll be candles and prayers that are sad,
I know,
But purest dreams leave darkest deaths,
And for Greed, thatʼs never the way Iʼll go.
Poverty,
Out!
With the last breath of my soul, Iʼll bless you.
But I waited and waited.
With flowers in arms and bruises on my chest for the dream Iʼd created.
I waited, till chasteness, like my heart, was broken.
For unlike Greed,
My strife and struggle were never a token.
Poverty,
She was good to me.
She built me a Church and a Garden
With a hundred white flowers
My sweet templed shower,
My costly, painful martyr.
Thou shalt only drink my bread with sorrow,
And Greed:
If you pull me back to earth,
I will blacken your shadow.
Poverty, my Love,
Itʼs okay.
We never really loved each other anyway.
Gloomy Sunday shall come.
He will be a priest, a coffin, a maid, a prophet.
Do not be afraid of the madness.
For lo!, I embody Deathʼs carnivorousness.
Do not be afraid of the eyes Iʼm dead too...
Iʼll be open to see you again,
And Greed will fall into her damned Scottish taboo.
Poverty,
My once and future Snow queen.
Itʼs okay.
I never really loved Her anyway.
Her toxic words, Her disapproving eye.
This town, She is a temptress.
Settling its oldest score.
And out this window I fly,
A dove with clipped wings,
Clinging to wordʼs wind and its assault.
And Greed?
With Her,
Love was all she could take.
And my heart has decided to take it all.
My heart has decided to end it all.
The world went black; a vortex of fatherless phantoms lost in the effervescent pools of Eopsin's obscure curse.
"Remedios..."
"Eopsin is the goddess of plenty. She will follow the gold, little sister. The Order has written about her for eons. History is fiction. Literature is currency. Weʼre getting that damn book back. Weʼve trained for this our entire lives."
The world was hers; glowing with promise, glowing with green-eyed envy and covetous jealously and fiery backlash.
"The Hellbenders told us that so we could follow the company line. These are dark forces, hermano. Dark forces at play. Weʼre not ready."
"On the contrary. Weʼre out of options. Silver or lead, Robin. Weʼre getting that damn book."
The world was hers.
She just had to reach out and take it.
And she did. Leaping headfirst, into the vortex of fatherless phantoms lost in the effervescent pools of Eopsinʼs obscure curse, until she was lost.
In Bogotá, Colombia, on June 27th, 2004.
YOU ARE READING
Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)
FantasyTHE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO LOUISIANA - And there will be killing until the score is settled. Tortured and exiled, Robin DeMarcus came back to the United States unscathed: a ruthless heiress to an antebellum empire with a hunger for revenge to carry on...
