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LETTERS TO A CORPSE

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If you had asked me why I did it, I would have told you that it really was an act of mercy. Such pitiful creatures should be put out of their misery, the deluded life they lead a mockery to those of us who truly LIVE. I would have shared with you the sound of her screams as they filled the night, the haunted look in her pale violet eyes as I split her chest with bare, cold hands and pried into that jagged, gaping hole of bloody gore to search for a frantically beating heart. The pungent scent of entrails laced with copper blood, the essence of a soul as it flees a corpse. All these, I would have given you, imparting the intimate knowledge of a cultist's love of pain.

But you did not ask.

It never ceases to amaze me, how squeamish your gut. How delicate your sensibilities and weakened your resolve to strengthen through these bits of 'taboo'. In truth I can barely look at you sometimes. You gaze at my hands as I carefully pour tea like they'll bite. As though you can still see the blood running down my fingers and flesh caked beneath my nails. I smile a toothy smile and you pale as you realise I've caught where your attention lies. Yes, I see the disgust you barely conceal. And the fear. Inhaling quietly, I sit back, the warmth of my favourite tea heating my hand through the delicate porcelain cup. I sip and allow the flavours to overwhelm my senses and palate. Bliss.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your skirt and reach for your own cup, your bony fingers quivering as they grasp the dainty handle and bring it to your equally quivering lips. So faint, these traces of nerves, yet I see them. You are prey, though in the eyes of society you pretend otherwise. "It is done then?" you ask with no small amount of bravado beneath the words that break the silence. Darting a glance my way, your expression hardens, the faintest lines in your face showing that this is a mask you wear often. Really you SHOULD moisturise. A lady needs to take care of her complexion.

Giving you the endearing, false smile I so often do when I find you amusing, I reply softly. "Yes, she will no longer cause trouble amongst the council." Your nod is sharp at this confirmation, a question written upon your face that your lips dare not voice. I intercede, your discomfort charming yet annoying all at once. "Careful....steps were taken to ensure reanimation will not be an issue. Rest assured." A tiny smirk, I cannot help it really. She notices and frowns, those lines deepening. Hesitant, though unable to ignore this, she jibbers a soft, "No need to be smug, madame."

The clatter of her silver spoon against the tea tray is loud as I
suddenly lean forward, my eyes showing just how much enjoyment I've had. Gently setting my cup upon the table, I enunciating each word slowly so as not to be misunderstood or misheard. "I assure you, MADAME, I am very smug and shall continue to be so." Exhaling shallowly, I lean back, satisfied by the way she flinches and watches me like a bird watching a serpent. "After all..." I drawl, tone casual and conversational. "Some may have the strength of constitution, but few the skill. A great number lack either...." A pointed glance at her over my spectacles. She has the grace to blush.

She busies herself with tea once more, stirring it slowly before taking the few sips that politeness dictates. I studiously return to mine, with far more enjoyment. As expected, she rises, giving me a courteous smile while fussing with the lacings of her bonnet. "Pardon me, but I've other business to conduct this evening. Thank you for tea, and I express my deepest thanks for your going above
and beyond the call of duty for our City." As I graciously incline my head she pulls a folded piece of parchment from her clutch and places it upon the edge of the table. "As requested, the information you require."

In loathe to seem eager, I simply stare, allowing no hint of true emotion through. I learned early how they could be used against you, and the years of practice I've had in schooling mine are
priceless. She turns in haste, nearly tripping over the tapestry rug on her way to the door. I watch, soaking in every ounce of her discomfort to analyze later. "Good evening, Madame", I flash a parting smile for naught. She doesn't even glance back as she murmurs her goodbyes and shuts the door behind her.

Finally alone, I retrieve the note, my steady hands a lie as my undead heart attempts a nervous flutter. I've waited so long...the revenge I've envisioned so sweet. Sweet as nothing but a phantom when the reality is so near. Waving my hand impatiently and snapping my fingers I bite out, "My horse." Nearly invisible in the shadows where he stood, my servant emerges, bowing low before scuttling off as ordered. I suck on the inside of my cheek, eyes narrowed as I read the words written upon the paper in my hand. "I'm going to need something stronger than tea..." I mutter to myself.

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Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 641 AF.