Categories > Anime/Manga > Yami no Matsuei


by Ariss_Tenoh 0 reviews

"It is said the moon inflicts madness upon the poor souls who gaze long at it, most especially when 'tis waxed to its prime. Yet.. What if the madness in humans was but abeyant and merely lies in w...

Category: Yami no Matsuei - Rating: R - Genres: Drama, Horror, Romance - Characters: Muraki - Warnings: [!] - Published: 2005-12-30 - Updated: 2005-12-30 - 1482 words - Complete

Disclaimer: "Yami no Matsuei" and characters belong to Matsushita Yoko and associates. Only the actual text and ideas are mine. This work is not intended for profit.

Special thanks to Sherri, Hotaru, Flore, Manon, and Christou for their 'French help'^^

by Ariss Tenoh

A man is sitting in his study on the second floor of his mansion, surrounded by stacks of papers on his desk. He blinks. He blinks again. He shifts restlessly on his chair. His mind keeps wandering into a thousand inconsequential things. He can't focus. He shakes his head to clear his mind, but to no avail. His body aches. His skin feels tight, overstretched as if it will break open and expose the tender redness of his flesh. His throat becomes very dry.

Most disturbing is this.. Sensation...

A sensation that is spreading throughout his body, into the very ends of his limbs and the very tips of his pale hair. It strikes him with the force of a tidal wave, drowns his hearing with the rush of blood in his veins and the drumming of his heart, and pours forth to consume his reason and all his senses like wildfire.

He grits his teeth. Liquid fire is now coursing through his being, he feels suddenly alive. Awakened from a long slumber.

His shoulders slump forward and his arms lean heavily on his desk. His body's temperature is rising steadily until the heat seems to pulse with every heartbeat. He takes a deep breath and struggles to control himself.

Then... Suddenly.. Slowly.. He turns to look over his shoulders at the moon illuminating the sky. His lips twist into a wicked smile. The smile of a beast.

Ah, of course.

His grey eyes glitter in malicious delight.

I should have known it. There would be no other reason. All this paperwork has been taking up my time, dreadfully boring and tiring as well.

The man swings his chair to face the floor to ceiling window that composes the entire wall behind him. The moon's light bathes him in an eerie glow.

The light of a crimson moon.

A crimson moon.

A crimson moon. A crimson moon. A crimson moon. The words chant spell-like over and over again in his mind. A red moon. Red moon. Red. Red. Red. Red....

" ... red like blood," he murmurs the words to himself with an unholy air of reverence. The thought falls into the pool of his mind like a heavy pebble, makes a loud dissonant noise, and spreads little ripples throughout his conscious mind, tainting the fabric of his being with its touch and seeping quietly into his subconsciousness until the waters of his mind are still once more.

Still waters run deep.

He stands and steps nearer to the window. The moon's strong light almost dissolves his white silk shirt and black trousers into mere veils of shadow and light over his body, blurring its outlines. He pushes one of the the window's panels, and it slides to his left to overlap the adjacent one.

The sudden burst of air causes the papers to fly off the desk and flutter to the ground, it is even strong enough to flip open several leather-bound books.

He holds his trench coat in his hand, its white ends pool on the floor, and takes one final step. Dropping into the night's darkness, like a fallen angel....

........... Blood. Blood everywhere. So pretty. Pretty red on white. No colour looks so pretty. So vibrant and full of life.

Dark chuckles.

But then it IS full of life, isn't it?

Two bodies intertwine in a mockery of an embrace. One body lies on the bed limp and unmoving, its eyes are wide with shock, terror, and another unnamed emotion. Its lips are parted in a silent scream. The other body's lips kiss it tenderly, tenderly. Both of their lips are bloodstained, but only one set still has blood flowing in them. A tongue licks its owner's lips dry. The other body, that of a man's, bends over the smaller one's, that of a young boy. The man's fingers run through chocolate-coloured hair, pass over the bitten white neck, and play across the naked chest. His hand returns to delicately grasp the boy's chin and raise it so he can look at the boy's eyes.

He sighs melodramatically.

Dark blue, not purple. What a pity, and he truly was delicious.

His eyes drink in the youth's lean body, dark brown hair, porcelain white skin, and beautiful blue eyes.

In more ways than one. And so eager to please.

Mischievous chuckles rise and morph into hysterical laughter that rings and echoes throughout the room. His grey eyes lower seductively as he lets out a contented little sigh, he is feeling so good at the moment. The man rises slowly to his feet with the heaviness of lethargy which only satiety can bestow. His clothes are spoiled by a myriad of fluids... but then again so are the boy's.

He reaches into his coat's pocket and withdraws a solitary white rose. He places it on the boy's chest.

He smiles and his eyes narrow beneath the fall of his hair's silver strands.

Next time it will be a red rose, I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint you. His finger taps the side of his face thoughtfully. And chocolates, musn't forget those or you'll start to pout and wail. Though you look quite cute doing so.

Another smile graces his face.

You will be mine on that night/, he pauses, /Tsuzuki-san.

He utters the name with as much piety and devotion as one does the last word of a prayer to God. The tall man turns and leaves. He needs to prepare a gift for his beloved. After all, Valentine's Day is only a few days away. And what he left behind him was only the invitation card.

The lucent moon casts the place in stark relief, everything here basks in its light.

Here, a work of art awaits its discovery. For past the main doors, up the winding stairs, down the long corridor, and into the bedroom, one will find a beautiful doll clothed in soft spoiled fabrics and decorated in rich colours. The moon bathes it in a glowing circle of light for the world to see.

This doll, however, is broken.

For it once was a boy.

The 'boy' lies still and silent against the headboard of the bed. Behind him on the wall, is a splatter of a red liquid. It is mostly surrounding his head like a halo of crimson flames. His chest is bare and his shirt has been lowered from around his shoulders, though his forearms are still encased in its long sleeves. His leather pants are half undone and low on his waist, they look as if they had been carelessly placed on by him or someone else. On his chest sits a blooming white rose, waiting patiently for its intended to claim it. His body is covered in swirls of purple, blue, and green. Red blood covers the remainder of it, along with lesser traces of an almost white fluid. His neck is encircled with red ribbons that emanate from an open wound on its side. Some of his brown hair clings to his face because of these ribbons.

His dark blue eyes are vacant and unblinking. His lips are drawn for a scream that was never heard.

He is dead.

Such is the price for those who seek fulfillment on the night of a full moon.

...... In the man's empty study, a book was opened by the wind's force. Its pages, yellowed by centuries of passed time, desire one to come and read it. The crimson moon nears the East and its hue fades to its familiar silver. The last traces of its radiance dance upon the book's pages and illuminate a long paragraph in small handwriting.

It reads:

LUNACY: A person suffering from lunacy is presumed to be insane. The word has its origins in Middle English 'lunatik', from Old French 'lunatique', from Latin 'lunaticus', from 'luna' for moon. It is also believed to be caused by the phases of the moon. Its symptoms are supposed to be more aggravated as the moon grows. In Matt.17:15 the name 'lunatic' is applied to one who is declared to have been possessed by daemons.

At the foot of the page in even smaller handwriting, is a note:

If I, your author may be permitted a word, I would fervently wish you to pray to the Lord that the last opinion is false. Blasphemous though it be, may the Lord forgive me, but I wish not for any man, or woman for that matter, to be possessed by daemons. Yes, it would be better if it weren't true.

The signature at the end reads:

Francois Muraquies.

~The End... or merely The Beginning~
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