Rosalind - Amby Awards 2023 TOP PICK

36 - Taste Me. Need Me.

The day burned in an unsettling way.

When Agnes entered with Rosalind's breakfast tray, she found the young woman curled up on the armchair by the fireplace.

Rosalind was asleep, the red-cover book sat on her lap, opened to the last page she read. Her hands curved over the edges of the book. Rosalind's head leaned against the side of the chair. Her shawl had slipped onto the floor and lay too close to the cinders not to get dusty.

Agnes frowned when she saw the book. After setting the tray down, she walked to Rosalind and picked up the fallen shawl. When the maid's gaze returned to the book, she thought about sliding it out of Rosalind's hand and burning it. The fire crackled inches away. Another log or two would set the flames roaring. How long would it take to burn a book into nothing but soot and ash? Agnes thought. The maid drew in a breath. Her teeth gnashed under her aging jaw. She brushed whatever ash and dust had caught onto the shawl, then, when clean, she draped it carefully across Rosalind's shoulders.

The young woman did not stir, not even when Agnes called her name twice.

Understanding the need for slumber, the maid left the tray in case Rosalind woke up hungry. She gave a small curtsy to the sleeping woman and slipped out the door.

Rosalind woke when the food on her plate was nearly as cold as the world outside. Casting a look out her window, she realized it must have been mid-afternoon. Her tea was undrinkable. The once-warm buns could now be used to stone someone. There was a thin layer of ice on the honey. Rosalind shivered. When she exhaled, she saw her breath leaving patterns in the air. The fire had died down into nothing but soot. When she reached for a beggar's sliver of warmth, there was none.

"Good maid?" Rosalind called. Realizing she was still in her cream dress and not her nightgown, she slipped on her boots and hurried out of her room. Clinging onto her shawl for warmth, she scoured the hallway for the maid. "Agnes?" she said yet no one heard her except for the walls and the perpetual chill.

Rosalind stood on the top of the stairs and looked down. There was no clatter of pans, no scent of food cooking. It was as though the belly of the house was hollow.

She was cold. All she could think about was warmth. A needy longing for heat pulled her away. Her mind wandered to last night's event. The room, the bathtub, the young man with the auburn hair. Rosalind pivoted and retreated back to the upstairs area of the manor.

In her mind, the vision of him, bare as the day he was born, invaded every space. She could see every drop of water that moved along his lithe frame, every curve and slope of his body. Blinded by desperation, she found herself facing the door of the violin room.

"Do I dare?" she asked herself, her voice cracking against her thoughts. "I do not even know who he is yet something calls me to him." Her hand trembled against the doorknob. When she slowly opened the door, she was greeted with silence.

No candles glowed. No fire gave off warmth. There was no steam pluming from the bathing room. Not a sound. The violin rested on a made-up bed. The wine and goblet from last night had been spirited away. It was as though the young man who had been there was no more. Rosalind rushed to the window and pulled apart the thick curtains.

Staring out into the lands, all she saw was snow and trees spread before her. Her fingers gripped the curtains, she curled her hands into fists and in a huff, hurled the material towards the icy glass.

Turning on her heel, Rosalind exited the room feeling alone and disappointed.

"The secrets in this house make me ill." She raked her hand along the wall as she stormed deeper into the manor where candles resting on the wall grew fainter and fainter. It was a part of the large home which she had yet to explore. "There is nothing but secrets and lies. Oh, secrets atop of hell which keep every rotten emotion in here alive!" Stopping among the stone walls, she felt them getting closer. Darkness and stone surrounded her.

When an overwhelming scent, slightly acidic, slightly smelling of burnt molasses and musk, embraced her, Rosalind froze. An invisible mist with hungry tentacles reached to her. Taste me, came a whisper from the walls. When Rosalind took a breath, whether she wanted or to, the sweet-musky scent wafted into his nostrils and invaded her body. Her head felt light. She felt a gentle tingling in the tips of her fingers. Come closer, the shadows beckoned. The walls pulled her nearer; her back to the stone, her palms flat on the surface. The tingling intensified, the scent grew stronger. Rosalind felt like a million tiny insects with spidery feet were walking over her hands yet the sensation did not make her want to pull away.

Her eyes fluttered close, her lashes holding onto the scent which reminded her of the old, dilapidated building in the poorer part of Transylvania which catered to soldiers and whores.

Opening her eyes, Rosalind saw the slithering. The tentacles wove around each other in mysterious patterns, as if in a dance. Then they grew into a body, a head, arms, legs—the serpentine appendages swayed like the arms of an octopus. The figure was made of gray mist. It stepped to her and wrapped its arms around her waist. Taste me, it repeated as a snake's tongue flicked from its mouth, millimeters from Rosalind's lips. Come closer, it whispered in a low hiss, Closer. Closer. Until you are inside me and I inside you. The tentacles rocked back and forth. Rosalind realized the figure's feet did not touch the ground.

"No!" With a mighty push, Rosalind sent the creature flying back against the stones where it broke into shards and those shards flew away like a million tiny bats. She heard herself scream and it meshed with the sound of the bats screeching. She covered her head and crouched to the floor as the creatures tore down the length of the hall and vanished as though into nothingness.

Peeking up, she saw she was alone in the dark. She grabbed her skirt and ran down the long hall. Rosalind found herself being pulled into another hall very much unlike the first. The candles here glowed beautifully, all of them looked new and clean. Odd, she thought pondering where the spider-webs had gone for she remembered seeing them in many parts of the manor.

Rosalind's steps were illuminated as though she were walking on a sheet of gold patina. The scent had followed her in, yet the acidity and musk had faded. The now dominate molasses had turned into a sugary sweetness reminding her of vanilla icing.

At the end of the hallway stood a bowl of candy similar to the one constantly resting on the dining room table. Walking closer she saw the familiar polished black sweets inside the bowl. Eat me, they whispered, Need me. Rosalind's mind spun delightfully now. The sugar-aroma seeped in through her pores and into her bloodstream. Rosalind picked up a small handful of candies and put it in her pocket. Upon returning her gaze to the bowl, she saw the black sweets twitch. She listened to them cracking open. Little thread-thin legs poked out of the shells, followed by wiggling antennae and finally silvery wings. A multitude of newly-hatched butterflies flew out of the bowl. Rosalind watched them fly off in awe.

Silver wings reflected off the golden floor. Bright candlelight blinded her. Her head swam and she felt as though she was drowning. Rosalind's legs wobbled as the walls around her began to crack open just as the shells of the sweets had. A pair of hands reached for her through the cracks. A body clad in an elegant black gown emerged. Upon the figure's raven hair was a crown made of ice and thorns, between the thorns, sprigs of mistletoe had been woven in. When Rosalind looked up at the apparition's face, she saw bright green eyes staring back. 

"For all that is holy," she uttered, "It...it cannot be." Rosalind crumpled to the floor and lay motionless.