Resonant Vocatus

Anatoliy’s hands flashed over the piano keys, fingers hammering in mad counterpoint to the metronome. The maniacal click of that infernal machine permeated his focus like whey through a cheese cloth. He quickly dismissed the awareness before it could trip him up. It seemed to thrum at two hundred and fifty beats per second as he convulsed in the fervour of the music. The metronome stopped as he shuddered and the final note rang out.

Sweat poured from his brow, lining his shirt with incandescent streaks in the soft candle light. He listened to the voice whispering and let out a long juddering breath.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

He looked at her, his victim, almost tenderly.

“What do you intend to get out of these sessions doctor?” He licked his lips as he pictured the Yellow King going to work.

“I feel like we’ve covered this before Anatoliy.” She looked at him reproachfully. “I’m just here as a sounding board. When we explore your inner world, I am simply the witness, here to listen without any judgement. My questions are guidance to where we need to go to bring about lasting change.”

“A politic answer if ever I’ve heard one.” He laughed and nodded his approval. “There is one problem with this dynamic you describe.”

She leaned forward in her chair, ebony hair falling to brush her cheek.

“What do you feel that is?”

He leaned forward, mimicking her affectation. “You labour under the delusion that the things I describe are all all delusions.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically as she smiled softly at him. “Whereas I am here only for one reason which will become clear with time.”

“The more you deny the realities of your actions the longer it will take to understand their source.” She leaned back in her chair heavily. “You have hinted at some grand plan before Anatoliy. Is it something to do with your music?”

Silence settled like dust over a corpse, slow and deliberate.

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

Finally he had achieved the perfect rhythm. The intense cadence was unlike anything he had ever heard and more importantly, the Yellow King had spoken, just like those times before.

The painting, the dance, the written verse, all conduits for the ecstatic build of violent release, paving the path.

The room was lit with a circle of candles, each set at the cardinal points of the pentagram chalked in red on the floor. He stared at his trophies with pride, one for each of the six sections. Echoes of past energies, memories of blood and fear. He shivered in pleasure.

Each had their own story.

A flap of desiccated skin crowned the point at the top facing the window. In the middle two flecked fingernails, lurid with mould.

In the east and west point lay two ears, one still bedecked with the golden earring of its owner. A tiny diamond glimmered in the candle light, sparking memories of soft flesh beaten into submission, sobs and pleas ringing music in his mind.

At each foot of the pentagram bones for substance. Marrow intact; fat bearing gourds for the soul.

His fingers started their dance and he lost himself, twisting avenues of clattering keys laced harmonies with dissonance. Fury shook his form as the bile rose up to bite at his stomach and he clamped his jaw shut to prevent himself vomiting. The music reached a crescendo, he stared at his trophies as they pulsed with life and light. Crimson illuminated the wall, pulsing as unholy light shone through flesh.

He closed his eyes, gasping in orgasm as the music reached its conclusion. In final release he screamed as ecstatic pain wracked his frame.

He opened his eyes as the room thrummed in a perverted aura. There he stood. Yellow skin stretched tight over bestial skull, like age old parchment in a forgotten tomb. The jaw had no lips, icicle teeth rent his visage, violating his face. Eyes like a snake, slits echoing infinity in their depths.

He lurched forward, taught muscle seeming to wrench at flesh, trying to break forth. Arms stretched out, impossibly long as four large fingers beckoned to Anatoliy.

His other arm waved, almost casually, and a window sprang into being in the air. Light flared trails from its edges but the image was crystal clear. Anatoliy sat staring hungrily at a woman with ebony hair in the tight confines of an elevator.

The Yellow Man spoke, his voice like the thunder of a thousand waves throughout the ages.

“COME, I HAVE BENT TIME. WE SHALL GO…. TO RAPE, REND AND FEAST.

The end.