Lover’s Palace
In the gray-yellow, mute-brown factory-like air of a small village in the countryside; buried in the darkest pit of the forest, among rolling plains, enshrouded by limestone cliffs; in the center of the village lies a somber and imposing cathedral. To reach it, one must take a short cobblestone path that splits off from the end of a very long, winding dirt road — one that’s been trodden and stepped on by thousands of hooves, feet, shoes, and wheels. Centuries long, they’ve been pacing back and forth, slicing the Earth, a reciprocating saw, severing open and splitting apart the land. The grass, wheat, shrubs, and bushes that decorate the passage are dotted with ribbons, deflated balloons, plastic scraps, which, unlike the travelers, will never fully disappear.
In the center of the village, next to the cathedral is the brothel, and upon the pale, exposed gray limestone, I perceive myself resting against it, back here again, my back against the wall, beating at the center of the village’s pulsing heart.
Dusk has long fallen. It’s the winter of the day, the coldest hour of the night. The moon, in its last quarter, illuminates the top crescent, and only barely, for the half-moon is blanketed by swiftly circulating clouds. Stars glitter above the heavy fog, and clouds mix with the thick vapor to form a fine cotton gauze that’s pulled across the wet ink of the galactic night. The stars and planets seem to shimmer the way light does on water, and with my back against the wall, for a second, it’s as though I’m hanging upside down. The sky is the vast ocean beneath me, the dirt and stone is the sand, and the village is the vaulted night sky, and I’m alone, in orbit, attached to a radiantly effervescent light.
The brothel is painted a creamy, pastel yellow. Rococo-blue silk drapes billow out from the curvaceous, ornately sculpted windows. Golden tassels stream from the bottom of the curtains, and the silk is so full of warm air, the windows look to be inflated, with glistening bubbles that burst from the frames. Roses and violets decorate the façade, bouquets of them are held in glass vases, each one, like teardrops, fastened to the wall by heart-shaped screws. There are garlands of flowers hung about the windows and around the doorway. The wooden entrance is cut out in the shape of a heart, and none dare open a single door, for no one wants to be the one who makes the heart break.
In contrast to the cathedral, the brothel’s façade depicts an explicit and pornographic love scene — a warrior type man and a voluptuous woman, embracing one another, their limbs intertwined, entangled, as a jewel-piece, set in the center of a disorderly, unwrapped bed. An onlooker might notice the wings of Cupid, floating above the couple, in the upper right corner, obscured behind the bed’s netted-lace curtains. Engraved roses, myrtles, and violets frame the sculpture, and the stone is so perfectly carved, the scene becomes uncanny, realistically moving, almost living.
Firelight flickers from behind the blue curtains. Echoes of laughter, moaning, whimpers, and lovesick music reverb through the cold, watery air. Crickets and owls chirp in the distance, but all else is formidably quiet, for it is only the brothel and the cathedral that stand erect in this village.
It takes six hours, by carriage, from the nearest town, to reach this small hamlet, and beyond the cathedral and brothel walls, lays nothing but two derelict outposts, in the dense forest, and a single muddied path, which leads to the gates of this lover’s palace. For reasons of virtue, the entrance to the cathedral is distinct cobblestone, built out from the marble fountain that separates the two opposing buildings.
The brothel is engulfed by light, it shines like a solitary star in the empty night. Against the cold walls, I keep my eyes on it the way I’d keep my eyes on a phone screen in another life. I stand still and feel the night air caress my wet skin. My skirt is pooled at my ankles, and my thigh-high stockings are rolled down below my knees. My red garter belt, which I always wear, is fastened with a metal heart-shaped locket, and remains in place, dangling above my exposed thigh. My hands are clasped around one another, praying, and I hold them tightly at the center of my chest. I heave shallow, panicked breaths, confused, and terribly, inexplicably lost. He’s my Mars and I’m his Venus, but he’s gone, and there’s no chance I’ll cling to him again. Despairingly, I search for his silhouette behind the curtains, I perk my ears to hear his laugh, I envision his smile, I try to remember the smell of his breath.
The drive to this historic village is a mere forty-five minutes, but we’re environmentally conscious, so we arrive by bus from the suburban train line — a full ninety-minute trip one way. This village is on our must-see list because of its unusual cathedral, its equally strange marble fountain, and its specialty pastries. They make traditional Roman honey cakes, honey breads, edible roses, and even decorate them with real gold speckles.
The cathedral’s uniqueness is defined by its plainness, compared to, quite literally, every other cathedral built during the era. The outer appearance is totally blank stone, save for the solitary feature of a life-sized sculpture of the Pietà Virgin Mother and Jesus. She holds him in her typical, weeping position, while he lays there, slumped on his back, expressionless, lifeless, terminally wounded.
What sets this sculpture apart is that Jesus’ abdominal organs are fully exposed, showing a clear anatomical understanding of early medicine men. Such a depiction is so rarely seen in religious art that this cathedral has become an international target for blasphemous inquiry and Satanic allegations. The village council, however, works tirelessly to alter public perception and maintain a wholesome image. They regularly hold weekly prayer vigils, where visitors lay hands on the organs, hoping to be healed. The town is also renowned for celebrating weddings and honoring commitments to true love. The pastry shops are a testament to that mission. Young couples and newlyweds make pilgrimages to taste the edible roses, buy heart-shaped novelty items, and enjoy romantic love-themed cafés, all nestled close to the city, yet far enough away to enjoy the lush countryside.
During the bus ride, we noticed many of the tall public housing towers that puncture the sprawling suburbs that enclose the metropolis. Advertisements beckon visitors to hike the summits of the limestone cliffs, and troops of tourists pace the avenue, then disappear into the obscured man-made paths that tunnel deep into the forest.
The main avenue into the village is clogged with traffic, as a commercial zone full of discount shops has been placed between the historic village and the modern residential area, nearer to the train station. Balloons float through the air, drawing my attention to the unusual amount of garbage covering the pavement. As we make our way closer to the town center, I count twelve couples who blow balloons and pop confetti streamers, releasing tons of shiny plastic pieces everywhere.
Upon arriving, we find the square awash with even more celebratory debris — at least a hundred balloons drift through the corridors and streets. There was more party rubbish on the ground than any visible grass, flower, or really, any bit of nature. The artificial landscape — of popped balloons, fake roses, plastic bouquets, and crumpled-up love letters — created a false image of gardens and flowers. Evidently, the village was so legendary for its colorful refuse that it sold postcards of Monet-like photographs, portraying the iconic cathedral in a sea of what, at first, seems to be shrubs and bushes, but upon closer inspection, one finds the roses, orchids, grass, and tulips to be merely a random arrangement of tossed-out, used-up, and unwanted garbage.
We exited the bus directly across from the cathedral and in front of an ancient, black-and-white marble fountain. The side facing the cathedral was black and carbon-dense, while the side facing a small, yellow château was pearly white, cream, and gold. The fountain’s centerpiece featured a Saturnine figure, holding up a mask, from which two jets of water sprang forth through the eye holes. Upon the mask’s tightly closed lips, was painted a dark red heart, giving it the impression of a promise to eternal silence. Ribbons of all colors flowed from the mask, swirling like eels through the murky water, while the figure sat upon raw, uncut stone, and held a scythe, the tip of which, pointed straight towards the cathedral doors. An empty hourglass stood beside his nude feet, which were painstakingly engraved to show his profound callouses and overgrown, claw-like nails. He wore a black-and-white cloak, with his left side was illuminated and lined with gold, while the right was darkened, part of his face covered by a layer of iron metal.
Thick rust had accumulated around the right side of his face, and water spilled from the right eye, making it look as though he wept, slow tears that ran down his wrinkled, wind-whipped, pimple-spotted face. The left side, in contrast, was completely stoic, smooth, and dry, and the sun hit this side at such an angle; it made beholding it physically painful. Only his left eye could be discerned beneath the shadow of his pronounced eyebrow bone, and this eye of his was at once gazing at and through whatever looked upon it.
We made our way around the fountain, only to realize we were in the way of couples and women taking selfies with the fountain figure. Multiple times, we were politely asked if we could please move out of frame of their pictures. Embarrassed and acquiescent, we put ourselves at a distance, and passed the time watching people pose for selfies, then throw a few wishing coins into the fountain. Some couples pulled the petals from real or fake flowers, and tossed them, one by one, into the miry water. Others sneakily poured pots of golden honey directly into the fountain. A sign indicated it was prohibited to do so, but legend tells that spilling honey here solidifies true love’s bond, and could even summon one’s true love into physical existence within mere hours of mixing honey in with the sacred water.
The couples were seemingly infinite, and soon, we grew tired of the repetition. It was only a few steps, but the square was crowded with lovers and tourists. Gradually, shifting back and forth, apologizing while confetti bombs went off, we wound our way through the couples and drifting balloons, and into the silent, still, and lightless cathedral.
Immediately, I found it disappointingly boring. Its remarkable plainness made the structure seem unfinished and uninspiring. Meandering through the barren archways, it was if the cathedral hadn’t been used once, and merely existed as a useless, gray shadow box. Even the altar could be classified as disturbingly modern, with its plain stone slabs, and two simple black and white chandeliers on either side. A stone cross loomed behind the altar, and the third, and last object was an uncarved holy water basin at the entrance, and that was all. It was the singular church into which I’ve stepped, where there felt no Godly, or even transcendent presence. It was as though the vacuum were so pregnant, there wasn’t left a single space whereby divinity could make an entrance. Allegations of satanic and demonic forces felt viscerally real. There was not another place on Earth where I felt such totalizing, absolute, oppressive absence. The longer we stayed in the cathedral, the emptier I became, the more I forgot, the less I remembered what, where, and who I was.
In an amnesiac daze, we left the desolate cathedral to find at the exit, yet another couple pulling the trigger of a confetti gun, kissing, and hugging beneath the falling colored scraps, timing a selfie for the perfect lover’s snapshot. A souvenir shop stood to the side of the cathedral, and we dizzily passed through the aisles, touching pieces of polished stones, postcards, heart lockets, honey cake plushies, roses trapped in honeyed amber, and a whole range of love-themed balloons, confetti cannons, and ribbon streamers. We stood motionlessly gawking at so many colors and the endless streams of smiling, enamored couples.
By sundown, we were languishing at a historic café, sipping rose, hibiscus, vanilla and honey tea, when a team of public workers poured out from a nondescript grey truck, and began combing through the narrow streets, picking up each piece of rubbish, down to the the smallest bits of confetti, and collecting them in a wooden cauldron that they wheeled through the town. Their uniforms were so pale, the workers looked nearly invisible against the limestone. I truly thought I was losing it, genuinely hallucinating, if it weren’t for my husband who pointed, in dumbfounded silence, at what appeared to be such lifelike mirages.
We stared while the streets were cleaned, and dirtied yet again, simultaneously. As the couples blew balloons and splattered confetti, the workers cleaned it up almost just as quickly. The speed of the scene made me feel faint and queasy, and I noticed, too, my husband was growing increasingly mute and distant.
Without speaking, we paid the sweetly gesturing waiter, then made our way to the hotel, which was built beside the small, yellow castle. Our hotel was a newer, modern structure, without balcony or decoration, but as we walked towards the entrance, I glanced at the desolate yellow château, and noticed a broken sculpture, covered in cobwebs, but otherwise immaculately engraved inside of a large alcove. It showed a nude man and a woman embraced in bed. There were no identifying signs on the building, and its windows were so dusty, it emanated a museum-like quality. Behind the brown glass, I could see bluish curtains with big moth holes eaten away at them. As I scanned the building in more detail, what I initially thought were simple rainwater ducts, I found, instead, to be garlands of dry, browned and blackened flowers, strung around the building. The pale yellow paint was chipping, and I recognized broken glass vases hanging from the façade’s walls, with the cutest little heart-shaped screws to hold them up. Curiously, I pressed my face closer to the window, hoping to find something more behind the dark moth eaten drapes, when, unexpectedly, my husband gripped my arm, and forcefully pulled me away. I said not a thing, I couldn’t, it seemed as though words were useless, unneeded, forgotten. There was no discussing anything with him, I simply obeyed, and was pulled along, aligned with his wishes. Aggressively, he brought us to the receptionist’s desk, where a charming employee in a red uniform asked our names, identity cards, and whether we were paying by card or in cash.
Mute, the information mysteriously reached her, and soon, as if by teleportation, we found ourselves locked away, shut inside of our red and pink, love-themed hotel room. Without memory of how I arrived, I found I was seated atop a bedspread of pink satin, staring at a heart-shaped door, which was sealed closed by a heart-shaped lock. Longingly, I gazed into it for what felt like hours, maybe days, until finally, I found myself asleep, as if I had just woken up in a dream.
When I came to, I was inside of the yellow château. Golden chandeliers were lit by yellow and cream colored candles. A table was set with silver dishes, full of whipped cream, pastries, fruits, jars of honey with silver spoons, and a silver teapot boiled with warm, red tea. Across the table, seashells, pearls, and jewels were thrown in beside ivory boxes stuffed with diamonds and flower petals, and sparkling rose milk sat waiting to poured from a porcelain vase. The room was all pink, blue, yellow; overflowing with wool, lace, feathers, furs, and silk tapestries. Velvet chairs, and round, marble tables were covered in playing cards, knives, makeup, and jewelry. Large and small porcelain figurines decorated the room in a shrine of cherubs, Satyrs, and doves. An ivory sculpture of Venus stood at the back room, between two red velvet chairs, where behind, a small fire burned.
The room was quiet, and I was there almost alone, with only a man I swear I had once known. He stood at the center of the room, with his back turned against me, and as I made my way to him, I caught a glimpse of myself in a golden mirror. I first noticed the bright pink hearts blushed onto the apples of my cheeks, then saw how pale my face was, with a coat of white powder, starkly contrasting against my red-blood painted lips. I opened my mouth, aghast, and found my teeth were black, blacker than rot, ink-like, and my mouth was foamy with sperm and sugar. I swallowed it, gazing at myself, licking my black painted teeth. I could taste sperm, sugar, and charcoal, all mixed together, it sickeningly, chemically sweet.
I pulled at the yellow ribbons in my hair, and patted the white lace gown I found myself wearing. When I looked down at my body, my eyes fell on a red garter belt, held together by a heart shaped locket, which was snugly tucked beneath the cream colored stockings. Raising my gaze back to the mirror, I seemed to myself a living doll, and I stood there, staring at my reflection, my hand dumbly held over my mouth, when the man turned to face me, and playfully pulled my skull down to his groin.
The rush of the present suddenly filled my mind, and I remembered that, tomorrow, he was going back to the war’s front line, and he was certain he would die. He’d been telling me his fears, how indisputable was his fated doom, how he had visited fortune tellers and sorceress who had each confirmed the imminence of his demise. From above, he patted my black hair, squeezed my cheeks, and repeated how lucky he was to spend his last days alive with me.
Nestled in his lap, forgetting myself completely, I listened attentively while he relayed the latest happenings in the war, the details of his social life, the well-being of his children, and his devoted, angelic wife. He explained, how in a recent dream, he saw me in a pink room, with another man, in a strange, mechanical world devoid of even the slightest bit of romance.
He described how everyone wore the same clothes, they dressed like chimney sweeps and coal miners, marching always in a perpetual gloom of chemical smoke, and how nearly everyone had forgotten how to experience human touch. In fact, he said, they seemed to fear it. They sheathed themselves in a durable, stretchy, gum-like armor. He went on to lament the lack of horses there, and how the new machine ones weren’t full of blood, but instead, a blackish brown substance. He told me that learning to touch came from the heart’s circulatory movements, and the machine was entirely stationary, even if it mimicked speed and motion.
In the dream, he watched this world from a distance, trying to find a way to penetrate through the smog, gears, and exhaust. Each night, he dreamt he was searching for me, endlessly, but the more ardent became his passion, the further away I was taken. The more painfully he longed for me, the greater grew our distance; until finally, I winded up locked behind the bars of some circus-prison, hidden there, forgetful of everything — forgetful even of him. His eyes glazed over, and he smiled in the most heartfelt way. He knew, he said, reassuringly, that eventually, he would be able to rescue me. After all, he laughed, he was my prince charming. The first prince charming, he clarified, of which all other prince charming’s had been molded from and inspired by.
Aswoon, in near ecstasy, I kept myself silent, relishing the moment, and continuing my work, when without warning, a troupe of men in grey military uniforms broke into the room. They released a grenade that filled the place with a din of smoke and dust. I could barely see a thing but a swarm of disembodied arms pulling at the long, curly hair of the man I was with, and their deep voices began screaming and interrogating him.
They tore off his remaining clothes and physically humiliated him. They made him crawl, nude, on his hands and knees, across the broken glass, mirrors, and debris. Others of them held me still, and tore down my dress and skirts, unraveled my nylons, before opening the heart locket, to find a picture of the man, framed within. They howled with delight at the sight of this, and smacked me in the face, as they made him watch their torture and abuse of me. From the floor, he looked up with sunken eyes, and tried to smile when they pulled him up and pushed his face close to mine. I could see he lost most of his teeth, and my heart turn cold platinum, sinking.
Gleefully, the military men ordered him to kiss me.
“Go ahead, take the last kiss of your life,” they hissed, maliciously.
Already entwined, we obeyed, and pressed our mouths together, as hard as we might. I relished drinking his bloody spit, and desperately consumed every last bit of him that I could ingest. Inseparable, unable to let the other go, the officers whipped us with their batons, piggishly squealing with pleasure and joy. Tighter and tighter, I burrowed myself deeper into the man’s chest, until finally, closing my eyes, and whispering his name, over and over and over again, only to be interrupted by a terrifying alien sound, something metal and sharp I’d never once heard before. When I looked up, in shock, I saw — lingering in the smoke — a newly invented pistol, suspended in the air, where, instantly, there appeared the hollowed out skull of the man whose warm body I now struggling to keep upheld. Hysterically laughing, the men in grey uniforms celebrated the execution, congratulating one another on the bulls-eye’s precision of their shooting. Framed by the bloody guts of the man’s exposed brains, I watched as military men poured glasses of whiskey and play a record of sweet, lovesick music.
Frightfully opening my eyes to a lavender-pink sunrise, my gaze was immediately drawn to the heart-shaped lock hanging from the door. Focusing on the keyhole, I tried to catch my breath, ground and stabilize. My heart ached, my head was spinning, I couldn’t get my mind off of him. I put my hand to my thigh, and realized the locket was missing. So terrific was the grief, that before I left the bed, I was already sobbing, checking my phone, between blurred tears, to see if there was a message, but there wasn’t, and I couldn’t resist checking e-mails, my banking inbox, every social media app on which I had an account — repeatedly refreshing text messages, scrolling my contacts list, trying to find his number — hoping and wishing he’d reach out to me from some imperceptible realm. My sorrow deepened, the room narrowed. Panicking, suffocating, I had to escape it.
My husband remained fast asleep, and I gently kissed his cheek, remorsefully ashamed that our life had come to this, but then, I remembered his work — his metallurgy and blacksmithing — and I thought, his productivity, and profits would increase much more without me. Silently, I left the bed, and took a wool shawl to wrap around my white, silk nightgown. Unlatching the heart-shaped lock, I stepped out into the florescent lit hallway, closing the door behind me, and quietly descended the hotel’s concrete stairwell.
The receptionist wasn’t there, and not a single guest or tourist could be spotted outside enjoying the sunrise. Eerily empty, I passed through the dimmed lobby, whereupon entering outside, the entire hotel seemed to disappear, engulfed in a thick, silver mist. The fog moved in, faster and heavier, and the water vapor seemed to glitter as the air shifted, becoming cooler and crisper.
Pacing my way towards the fountain, I listened to the water bubble in a soft melodic harmony — its crystalline water, forming laminar flows between the hourglass and the scythe, between the mask and the Janus-like face of the marble figure. Bushels of wheat and grain were piled up around the fountain, and a white horse was tied to a patience pole near the yellow castle. The quaint building glowed from within, shining brilliantly once again, as if restored to the fullness of its former glory.
The sky deepened to a cosmic violet, almost as if reversing back into the dead of night, and I could feel the grass dampen with a watering of evening dew. My bare feet touched the fresh mud, and I could see dim outlines of blooming vegetation bursting forth from the ground. The soil was overflowing with insects — thick worms, giant snails, slimy slugs, moths, butterflies, fireflies, all swimming like schools of fish through the muggy air.
Slinking towards the château, I sheepishly knocked on the heart-shaped door, and as I opened them both, I found my prince charming, serenely reclining there, sprawled out on a carved, wooden sofa, with a set of handmade hunting equipment laid out next to him. Gone were the silk tapestries and porcelain cherubs. The floor, once buried under silk and fur, was bare, its black-and-white tile exposed underfoot. Clay pots sat where jewelry and makeup had previously been, and above me, wooden engravings swayed from the ceiling, casting long shadows in the firelight.
A silver mirror glinted above the burning fireplace, and as I entered, once again, I caught myself in a new reflection. I was bare-faced, and my wavy, wiry hair was tied back in a white cloth ribbon. My dress remained white linen, with a red, heart shaped smock tied around the waist, and beneath it, a lace undergarment and corset kept everything snugly in place, as it seemed I had gained a significant amount of weight.
I ran, breathless, to kneel at the arms of my prince charming, my heart pounding as I watched his eyes widen. He pulled me close, my warmth soaking into him as he pressed his lips up to mine. I clung to him, burying my face against his abdomen, desperate to hold him again, but as my cheek brushed his skin, he winced — a sharp, involuntary flinch that sent ice through my veins. My fingers traced the source of his pain, and there, jutting from his body, were three arrows. Their shafts trembled with each of his labored breaths. The arrows remained stuck inside of him, staunching the blood, keeping the wounds from opening.
His drowsy, fevered eyes met mine, and, again, I sensed death, waiting, impatiently nearby. I wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. When I tried, my tongue twisted, my throat locked; the language I spoke was incomprehensibly foreign. He answered me, his voice weak, yet urgent, but I couldn’t understand him — his words were indecipherable. Panicking, his pallor slackened, turning a sickly shade of bluish-grey, and terror began coiling around my ribs, breaking me.
Desperate, I kept speaking, annoyingly. My voice broke into frantic syllables, but the more I tried to communicate, the more restless he became. His eyes darkened with frustration, exhaustion, grief. His breath turned heavy, exhaling, unevenly. Then, with a sudden, sharp stroke of his hand, he violently dismissed me. Recoiling on the marble floor, placing my hand over my red, stinging cheek, I crawled further and further away, my limbs weakening, as the scene, itself, began to fade.
From the fountain’s edge, I watched, paralyzed in time, while his body became flaccid, his chest rising and falling in increasingly shallow motions. Eventually, he laid there, unmoving, slipping past me, and all I could do was stare — helplessly — as he decayed, unraveled, right before me.
Over time, the wooden furniture crumbled, the legs snapping like twigs, splintering into fragments, carried away by the wind. The clay pottery, formerly painted with intricate scenes of intimacy and romance, fell and shattered against the marble floors, disintegrating into colorless dust. His body rotted and putrefied, swelling with sickly bulges of red organs and yellow intestines, the stench thick enough to cling to the air long after his corpse had liquefied. Months passed, and what remained of him faded into a heap of gray, mute ash; indistinguishable from the soot that covered the marble floors throughout the loveless palace.
Cobwebs sprawled across the room, like funeral veils, and an impenetrable coldness settled into the structure; crept through the halls, seeped into the very foundations of the lonely castle. Soon, foxes slunk through splintered doorways, their glowing eyes flickering in the dark. Wild cats prowled empty corridors, boars rooted the remnants, and snakes curled in the hollows. Even the deer, once timid, wandered through the ruins, their hooves clicking against the cracking, deteriorating marble.
At last, the walls themselves collapsed. The marble floor, all at once, eroded away, revealing wide deposits of limestone, white as once had been the bones of my prince charming. A gaping recess opened in the Earth, and at the very bottom of it, in the dark embrace of the gouged-out world, I found myself waking up again — curled around a burning hearth, warm embers from the flame flitting about my face.
There was nothing but a bearskin hide beneath my nude body, and the night sky above was alight with so many glowing stars, the expanse looked more like an ocean of glistening, oleaginous black goo. Rolling over onto the rocky, fur-lined surface, I realized I was unable to fully articulate my limb’s movements. I looked down at my ankles, and found I was bound by two pairs of makeshift animal bones formed into handcuffs, fastened together by strips of leather. My wrists behind my back seemed to be tied up in the same fashion, and when I shifted from side to side, a terrible puncturing sensation dug into my neck and collarbone veins. I tried to see beneath my long, knotted hair, full of twigs and leaves, and discerned what seemed to be a collar made of large fangs.
I remained still, listening to the gentle crackling of the fire, and the cacophony of nocturnal animals: croaking, growling, hissing, howling. I lost the sensation of time, and grew unable to recognize what surrounded me. There was only “the sound,” “the feeling,” “the sight.” Though I could identify objects, like fire, rock, tree, animal, man, all else was without signification, and I mindlessly stared into the limestone beneath my face, watching, as innumerable large and small insects slithered and slunk across the rocky surface, like water fills a stream. What I understood was simply, “movement,” and nothing more. There was only sensation and awareness of the present, and in that perpetual stillness, I remained, while the sun ceased to rise, and the blue hour of the predawn persisted, completely liberated from the gears of time.
In a single blink of the eye, the world revived, and I found myself in the arid, sharply magnified afternoon light, below the gargantuan sun that blazed wide in the sky. I was hot and sweaty atop the bearskin hide, and could taste Earth in my mouth, caking and dry. Male voices were approaching, and instinctively, I closed my eyes, slowed my breath, and began to feign that I was dead, or at least, dying.
The voices advanced and a booming resonance echoed from one of the men. The other, I realized, either humbly obeyed his commands, growling in dissatisfaction, or grunting in approval and understanding. A coolness settled over my body, and I sensed the sun hidden by the men towering above me. Carefully, I squinted open my eyes, and saw my prince charming again, this time, his dark eyes were saucered by a thin, muscular frame. His long, wavy hair was thicker, wilder, full of of leaves, twigs, and feathers. He wore a crocodile hide loincloth, and a bone necklace, decorated with lion’s fangs. The voice that spoke to him was invisible to me. It seemed to speak through currents in the airwaves. Eavesdropping on their exchange, I kept myself relaxed, not wanting to draw any attention away from what seemed to be a very important and strategic conversation.
Following the voice’s commands, my prince charming knelt down on the stone ground and stuck an ivory dagger to the side of my abdomen. The booming voice spoke in an alien language, instructing, almost puppeteering my prince charming. While I remained bound and tied, he was dispassionately ordered to expose my organs. Deftly, almost surgically, he seared through my flesh, puncturing it, precisely, until opening up a small hole, through which he could access my spleen, kidneys, and liver. Miraculously, I felt no pain, no suffering, and it was as though the airy voice also began communicating something unintelligibly spellbinding to me.
Once the segments of my innards were removed, a cold, wet linen was delicately draped over my torso — compressing my injury, and warming me under the radiant, purifying light of the burning sun. Woozily, in a trance, I watched as my beloved took the freshly removed pieces of meat, placed them into a curved wooden bowl, formed from the bark of a tree, and which sat between my ankles. The voice of the air spoke, and my prince charming began touching himself, fixating on my face, unblinking, as if transported into worldlessness, even the animals and insects went silent. The sun hung in the sky, motionless, waiting for my prince charming to ejaculate into the bowl, and fuse his sperm with my exenterated organs.
Night finally fell, and my beloved curled himself around next to me, and together, we shared our stone and fur-lined bed. He kissed my cheeks and lips, and we held one another, as the currents in the air sang sweet lullabies, and told us stories of how all worlds would end.
In the morning, my eyes opened to witness my husband, seated at a heart-shaped table, with a plate full of overflowing heart-shaped pastries, cakes, and big, edible roses, each in full bloom, glazed over by an amber layer of fresh honey. He ran up to me, and kissed my cheek, with a cheerfully sweet, “Good morning.” He then held my silk nightgown, helped me into it, and walked us over to the table, where we began chatting about our sleep, our dreams, reflections on the village, and our plans for the day. Restlessly, he mentioned his gladness that we were only staying a weekend, because he was stressed about work, the bills he had to pay, and one of his projects was being delayed. He checked his phone at the table, and I looked out the window, where my gaze fell upon the yellow castle, lackluster and desolate, ignored by the rush of guests swirling around the fountain, gushing from the buses, then streaming into the cathedral.
After breakfast, we packed up our things, and I got myself ready, while my husband threw away our uneaten food, empty containers, and crumpled-up plastic bags. Preparing my face in the mirror, adding anti-aging cream and sunscreen, I realized I had somehow gained weight, overnight. Dismissing it as a consequence of the red tea and sweets, I finished dressing myself by putting on a white linen dress, which I had bought especially for our holiday.
The dress fit snugly, too-tight in the chest and abdomen — I couldn’t comfortably breathe, but I figured it would be worth it for the pictures I’d take later on in the day. I combed my dark, graying hair a final time in the mirror, and saw, in the reflection, the heart-shaped lock that dangled from the door. My husband was busy on his phone, so I decided to inspect it, before we left the room for good.
It was heavy, cool metal, engraved with a strange symbol, an almost butterfly, sort of heart, balanced by an upside-down V, with a straight line dividing the two arcs. As I held it in my hands, I found a small switch on side, which, upon pressing, opened up to reveal a picture-frame locket inside. Within the metal casing, I identified a picture of a man with dark, curly hair, wearing a felt hat, decorated with long, plumed feathers. It seemed to be an antique photo taken from a long bygone colonial era.
My heart fluttered, beholding the yellow, sun stained paper, while a sense of being watched slowly came over me. Uneasily, I tried to snap shut the locket, but in my hastiness, it broke from the door, and fell directly into my pocket. Nervously, I bit my lip, and pretended to cough, then turned around just in time to bump into my husband, who happened to be holding a fresh cup of steaming red tea. As I turned, the cup spilled its contents over my new white dress, and I stood there, smiling, trying to avoid inciting his ire. I apologized profusely, squeezing the tea from the dress. My husband huffed in annoyance, then darted into the water closet, where he brought back a towel to dry the rest. We tried to laugh it off, but the damage was done. He felt guilty and I was embarrassed. Strangely, the spilled liquid fell almost exactly where an apron might be. I made an effort to cheer up my husband, by pointing out what a romantic coincidence that the stain formed the shape of a heart, but we both knew it looked sloppy and messy, and I couldn’t hide my sadness at having ruined a brand new item. The pictures wouldn’t be as cute, and the dress would probably have to be thrown in the trash. Another waste of money, for which, I would certainly, eventually be punished.
A tension built between us and we somberly closed the hotel door in agitated silence. Without speaking to one another, we made our way down the concrete stairs, and into the hotel lobby, where my husband deposited the keys, and politely thanked the employee for such a pleasant stay.
The highlight of our trip was to take place today. Each Sunday morning, the cathedral held faux-wedding ceremonies, where guests walked down the aisle of the empty cathedral, and had confetti and roses thrown in the air, celebrating their love, with photographs of the couples available for purchase afterward. We were among over two hundred couples waiting in line for the experience, and patiently, we stood, as everyone around us held hands and laughed, taking pictures, flirting and smiling. Looking around, inquisitively, I discovered how many ants had gathered around the fountain, guarding and eating up big globs of spilled honey. Confetti and postcards littered the small cobblestone trail, so I took my gaze upward, hoping to escape into the air. Airplanes crisscrossed and zoomed through the sky. Ambulance sirens went off in the distance. Irregularly breaking, then accelerating cars off the main road created an omnipresent, yet unpredictable, disjointed humming. I tried to focus on the warmth of the sun, but the smell of synthetic fragrances, hot polyester, sweat and exhaust kept me tethered to the unpleasant moment.
Confetti exploding, crowds ceaselessly awing and laughing — the couples kept kissing, and in a state of hyper-awareness, I could hear the loud, smacking, wet meat sounds of their mouths and tongues interlocking. As they kissed, I picked up their involuntary, nearly inaudible moaning. I heard gushes of liquid, the rushing noise of blood pumping. A raw thumping roared in my ears. It was the echo of hundreds of hearts beating in perfect unison.
The procession rotated around the fountain. Momentarily, at a standstill, on the golden side of the fountain, then making small advances, only to come to a halt, yet again, under the scythe beneath the darkened face of the figure. We sluggishly drifted into the shade, inching towards the cathedral’s narthex. A ticket agent, stationed in a pink plastic cubicle, scanned our QR codes. In exchange, she gave us a confetti streamer, a packet of balloons, and two pink condoms, then gestured goodbye with a wink and a smile.
Under the hundreds of flashing phones and cameras, we moved like mannequins — still, then stepping. Streamers, balloons, roses, and confetti rained down, as we floated through the parade, smiling, waving, posing, kissing; pretending that we had just been married. Some couples wept, while others tried to dance, but the crowd shoved forward, keeping the parade moving as efficiently as an assembly line.
Everything around me seemed to swell, then sink. The pressing of phone buttons rang in my ears; the bright flashes blinded my vision. The air contracted when the phones stopped moving; when the calls, messages, and notification vibrations were, if only for a few seconds, snuffed out and silenced. I could taste the exhaled air that each couple circulated through their lungs, then emptied out into the vacuous room. Between flashes, as we posed and stepped forward, I glimpsed workers in camouflaged grey, clinging to the cathedral’s edges, mutely collecting the event’s remains. Grey hoses lined the corners behind them, sucking up the debris.
I kept up the performance, until we reached the end of the passage. In the grassy space between the exit and the gift shop, men got down on one knee to pretend to propose for pictures, while others may have been asking for hands in marriage, genuinely. Either way, my husband and I were still not communicating, since he went back to his phone immediately; needing to check stock prices and refresh emails, while I scanned the landscape for the troupe of workers, and their cauldron of rubbish, which I knew, was stationed somewhere nearby.
The crowds continued their increasingly abrasive celebrations, and I decided to temporarily leave my husband to pursue his life’s purpose. I slipped away, drawing back to the Pietà at the entrance. At last, I could see the famous, dissected Jesus. There, his liver was made of gold, and symbols and carvings were engraved into it. Couple’s had signed their initials, and cut hearts into his stone flesh. The Virgin Mother was carrying a Valentine’s Day card, and around her head, a halo bouquet of plastic roses was placed. Women left lipstick and men deposited used condoms around the statues, and a couple was nearly undressed, together, unbridled in a moment of passion, beneath the sculpture.
The swarm of people was relentless, I could barely make my way back to the souvenir shop near the exit. As I looked to the ground, trying to identify a path around, I found I was able to snake my way to the other side, where the yellow château stood in isolation. The castle’s doors were painted, seamlessly, to fit in, almost invisibly, with the rest of the building. Drawing closer, I realized the doors were formed into the shape of a large heart. Curiously, I looked behind, and I saw the couples, the cathedral, and the workers, though no one seemed to notice me in return. Seemingly invisible, I discretely tugged at the heart-shaped doors, until they both opened, conjointly.
A clanging echo reverbed through the château as I furtively shut the large, arched doors. I was greeted with dried leaves that speckled the cracked black and white marble floor, and a mirror loomed above the dormant fireplace, at the far end of the salon. In its reflection, I noticed my hair, dotted by shiny confetti and plastic-pink rose petals, and my dress was nearly transparent with sweat after escaping the thronged crowd. The red tea-stain on my skirt had spread, and streams transformed the heart into something that looked like it was still wet with circulation. When I saw myself, I thought I looked like someone pulled from a forgotten memory, and, then, I remembered the locket. Quietly, I stepped into the center of the room to pull it from my pocket. As I did, a cool draft unsettled the dust and leaves, dragging them into a spiral around the marble floor, stirring up the blue curtains in the breeze. Swept up by the current, even the locket slipped from my fingers — when, out of the darkness, a shadowy figure emerged. I recognized him immediately, it was the man from the photo, framed by his unforgettably dark, curly hair.
He approached, utterly unchanged, still wearing the plume-covered felt hat, with his French court attire ablaze in red, burgundy, and orange — deep and bright, like a fire. He embraced me — our eyes both wet with tears, then he brushed the plastic debris from my hair, and remarked how I had remained beautiful throughout those long centuries and endless years.
We clung to one another tightly. For a second, he’d release me, only to plant kisses across my arms and neck, then fold me back into his arms once again. We reunited, as long lost lovers, who’d been inexplicably separated for aeons. Bewildered by the unraveling of events, I went along and trusted every word he said. He explained how he had reached through a space between the exhaust and mechanical gears, just narrowly, before the world would revolve again.
Urgently, he rushed me to the side of the room, where he looked out from behind the curtains, almost paranoid and grappling a primal fear. “They’ll arrive soon,” he whispered into my ear, eyes still set on the crowds growing ever larger, louder, and louder, just outside the castle’s walls. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close to his chest, when abruptly, one of the windows shattered, and a balloon floated through, popping loudly on a piece of broken glass.
That was all it took for the mob to become aware of the inconspicuous yellow château. Screeches and squeals rung out with loud exclamations of adoration over the charming heart-shaped doors. Flashes of photography flickered off the walls and floors, capturing the castle, as if conducting a crime scene sweep.
The crowd began to push against the door, banging against it hard. They broke the glass and tore apart the curtains. The closer they came to us, the deeper we retreated into the castle. Obscured there, in the farthest corner, we coiled ourselves around one another, knowing we hadn’t much time left together. Temporarily protected by the darkness, we desperately kissed one another, until, ever so sweetly, he reminded me how an eternity spent in the underworld was worth a single taste of true love’s divine embrace.
The crowd took pictures of everything they could find. They smacked away the cobwebs, dressed themselves up in the ripped curtains, and took turns posing for selfies in the antique mirror. Eventually, one of the guests completely removed it from the wall, where upon it fell from their hands, shattering and cracking the dilapidated marble floor. The crowd screamed before taking photos of the destruction, posing with peace signs, and kissing one another above the ground’s busted, serrated stone opening.
Confetti choked the room and balloons stifled the air. People grew hysterical, delirious, realizing the exit was too small for the entire crowd to fit through. My prince charming sensed the mob’s panic, and, like a herdsman, he called out to the flock, pulling out from his side a magnificent and beautiful longsword. The crowd gasped in awe and delight, then snapped photos and tapped their phones to begin recording, digitizing him as another tourist site. A woman ecstatically screamed from that he must be prince charming, and the horde, at once, barreled toward him, thunderously cheering.
Cracks in the castle’s structure deepened. The right corner, where we stood, gradually buckled, bit by bit, under the weight of the stampede. Dust fell like snow from the ceiling, when, without warning, a group of workers clambered through the congregation, chanting a solemn hymn.
Saturnus, dominus deorum, multos filios habet.
Exaudi orationem meam, ad eum omnis caro veniet.
As they sang in a discordant tone, a gulf drew open, splitting apart the crowd. Backslapping and fist punching the other men, it was my husband forcefully emerging to face me and prince charming. His phone vibrated with endless notifications, as he sinisterly grinned, teeth showing, lips parted wide and threatening. The crowd couldn’t get enough, even as the bedrock of the castle became increasingly, sharply exposed.
Prince charming bowed his head, chivalrously removing his plumed hat, then he spoke in an ancient, courtly French. The crowd went wild. Women removed their clothes and the men ignited theirs. Couples wrapped around one another, sometimes swallowing up a random stranger. A black smoke, chemical burning, drifted through the air. Balloons caught on fire. The crowd groaned and winced at the unexpected popping, hit with the scorching rainfall of smoldering confetti.
My husband reveled in the moment, and pridefully cried, “Now, I’ve caught you, and uncovered your traitorous lies!” The crowd burst into laughter, cackling, pointing their fingers at me and prince charming. They barred their teeth, writhed naked and screaming; some were taking selfies in the orgy, while others, in apathy, listlessly recorded the pornography.
Prince charming held me close, our pupils dilated, both horrified by the vast sea of faces submerged around us. My beloved remained brave-faced, and tried to manage the crowd, defend me against my husband, but I could sense his profound fear, and felt the pain at how his efforts resulted in more condescending and hateful cheers.
My husband prowled closer, zipping through the bodies, while the workers continued to pray. They seemed to be employed by him. Burnt plastic smoke rose out from the cauldron, and phones were being thrown into the basin, crackling and burning as their circuits exploded.
When my husband came to face us from out of the bestial crowd, Prince Charming stopped him by pressing the sword’s blade to his throat, triumphantly declaring that true love was without limits, beyond containment, and subject to no bounds. This ignited the crowd anew, and they giggled and booed, throwing their cakes, confetti guns, and roses at him. Beneath the pelting, a gorgeous woman leapt at Prince Charming, prostrating and confessing her devotion to him. Taking advantage of the opportunity, my husband charged towards my beloved, brandishing at him a freshly polished, silver revolver.
Cowardly curled around myself in the corner, I watched, paralyzed, as my husband pulled the trigger, shooting Prince Charming, right in his center.
He was struck motionless, dropped his sword, the feathers of his hat floated, stained red, onto the stone floor. His blood spurt out over the bodies, and the woman grew hysterical as she was dragged back into the crowd, where others took turns snapping pictures with her. My husband stood firm, proudly wielding his superior weapon.
Prince Charming’s body fell backwards into my arms, and my husband defiantly picked up the magnificent longsword, then held up both weapons to the rapturous applause of the crowd. I cradled Prince Charming’s limp body, gently pet his wet hair, and repeatedly confessed my undying love for him while he coughed up pools of blood through shallow, excruciating breaths.
Closing in on us, the workers ceaselessly murmured their sorrowful chants, preparing to harvest the prince’s organs, like treasures buried beneath his wounded flesh. My husband captured a few photos of his hunter’s trophy, then took his place at the helm of the ferocious mob.
In his last moments, Prince Charming blissfully gazed into my eyes, promising his eternal love in return to mine. He whispered how grateful he was to die in my arms another time, when, all at once, my husband violently jammed his hand into the prince’s chest, and ripped out his still beating heart. The bloodthirsty crowd roared when he showed it off to them, standing tall on the backs of the workers. Exploding into ecstasy, the mob cheered and shrieked, “More, more, more!” they boomed, savagely.
The workers surrounded us, and drove their arms into him, ripping out his liver, kidneys, intestines, lungs — unraveling his innards, like confetti and ribbon. Petrified, clinging to his lifeless hands, I saw my husband control the crowd by throwing his still-pulsating heart into the wooden cauldron. In an uproar, the crowd added their confetti, balloons, condoms, love letters, lingerie, and makeup along with it. Once the basin was filled, hypnotically, the whole congregation began chanting in unison, untangling themselves from their debauchery, and lining up to circle around the burning cauldron.
My beloved’s disemboweled body was lighter to carry, and in the chaos, I pulled the desecrated shell of him across the village, under the surveillance of the ever-watchful fountain, and into the cathedral, where not another living soul could be counted. Behind the wall of the Pietà, I protected his slumped corpse in my lap, and wept until my tears completely filled in his emptiness.