Writing Anathema

[Ravenstorture]

Aha! The long-awaited story has arrived, at last. I know people find it hard to tell me it's good to my face, but despite that I have been told that this is an excellent story and that I am probably the best writer [people] have ever read!!! (you are right, [person] does not get out much.0
But I am very proud of this story, and I think you will enjoy it!!!!

(BTW, this is only the beginning....)

Anathema

She sat, devilishly, picking the recently devoured nectarine from her teeth and staring me dead in the eye. I felt myself pinned to the wall by her green jewelled gaze, the irises highlighted as it seemed the only coloured part of her. White skin, jet black hair, even the sleek reflective feathers coating the massive pair of winds sprouting from her sharp scapulars were pitch black, the faintest tint of midnight blue edging the reflections of light.
I was quite sure it was a she - her nakedness betrayed that. I called her Nowonmai, which is backwards for I am no one, my interest in horror films paying a part in that decision. Her voice had a rough, scratchy quality, probably through disuse I assumed, and although she was naked she seemed clean and unflawed. A closer inspection from a safe distance did not turn up any scratches, stains, bruises or the like on her skin and her hair was slightly ruffled but well looked after and was untangled.
We sat in the kitchen for what seemed like hours, her perched upon the bench in front of the open window in which she flew, I having slid down the wall and now sat in the corner opposite her, our eyes locked in a confusing battle. She seemed terrified, quivering and tense - but her eyes conveyed a different set of emotions. Trust mainly, intense caution, and acute mounting curiosity.
I dared not move, but the sudden attention from a neighbourhood cat hissing at the back door startled her and she attempted to fly out the window. Her wings outstretched suddenly measured what could be three metres at least. Caught up in the framework of the window, she quickly became a screaming, thrashing mass frantically struggling and twisting to free herself. My aunt was a falconer, so I had some experience in the matter of struggling birds and I felt if I did not do something soon she might smash the window and injure herself. I went to her and reached up and out, grasping the top of her wings and pushing them in towards her back. She was incredibly strong, and I found myself torn suddenly between her power and animosity and stunning allure. Momentarily distracted by the twisting, smooth curves of black and white under my fingers, the pressure I was applying waned. She seized the advantage and turned to face me, ducking under my left arm. There was a pause, and I detected the scent of rotten flesh mingling with the aroma of nectarines on her breath. This was not enough, however, to bring me back to earth about what I really held in my arms. Still breathing heavily from the struggle, my heart beat quite strongly and this became apparent to her when she suddenly reached forward and placed her palms against my chest to push me away. She stopped, however, when felt my racing pulse. Changing tactics swiftly, she took my fascination to her advantage and pushed herself closer to me, laughing savagely. A long, rancid black tongue curled from behind sharp, yellow teeth and ran itself up my cheek. Her approach had the desired effect - I found myself recoiling quickly across the kitchen. Long, talonous nails scrabbled across white tiles and I closed my eyes tightly against the pain when she stood on my bare feet and rose to her full height, pinning my arms to the wall behind me.
"Insolentia?damnum!" she breathed into my face.
"I don't understand you?" I whispered back, frantically trying to understand what she was saying.
Slowly, she lessened the pressure on one of my wrists, and pulled my hand towards her, fingers outstretched. I resisted, but my strength was no match and her fingernails, an inch long each at the least, were dangerously close to the delicate skin on my inner wrist.
She smiled horribly and pressed my open palm against the soft curve of her breast. I gasped, my heart racing, the blood draining out of my head and finding business elsewhere. She laughed, placing both of her hands on my shoulders and leaning in towards me, smiling. I found I could not pull my hand away, and was confused as to whether I wanted to or not. Leaning close to my ear, she whispered something that sounded startlingly like "you don't want me, so don't touch me?". I gasped again, and looked at her confusedly. Pulling my hand away quickly and scrabbling into the corner once more, I said to her, "I was? trying to help you? you were going to hurt yourself?" thinking that a show of amazement over her sudden language change would bore and infuriate her. She gave me a confused look and stood up over me once more. Her beautiful figure (what made me think that?) was momentarily silhouetted against the window light, giving her the appearance of an angel. I had no idea what she really was, she may have been an angel, I had no prior experience of paranormal beings so I was not sure. Whatever it was, I was disgusted at myself for being turned on by it. She sensed it, and kicked me in the groin before stalking off down the hallway. I passed out from a combination of shock, distress, fear and pain.

When I awoke, my watch told me it was eight o'clock. Four hours had passed. I found her lying asleep on my bed on her stomach, a half-devoured nectarine on the pillow beside her head. I felt a great sense of awe as I leant in the doorframe and watched her as she seemed so fearless and relaxed, whereas if I were in her position I would be so scared that I would have never ceased my struggle with the kitchen window. She was still unclothed, and night had fallen bringing the cold with it. Resisting the urge to touch her pallid skin, I held my palm above the small of her back and was surprised to feel the iciness radiating from it. Glancing around, I found a spare blanket folded up under a chair and threw it over her, careful not to run it up against the feathers on her wings. Pulling it down to cover her feet, I went to sleep in my housemate's bed, hoping he would not return for the night.

"Damien, wake up." I opened my eyes groggily and blinked in the darkness. Greg, my housemate, was sitting next to me.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"About eleven or so. I just got in. Why are you sleeping in here?"
Straight to the point, he was worried.
"Go and have a look why. Don't touch her, mind."
"I saw that. It's not Melissa, I know that."
"It's not human, either."
Silence.
'Um, well? I suppose tonight we'll sleep here and? sort it out tomorrow." Greg and I weren't that close, but this was really the only option.
"Sounds good." I said, and rolling over to the far side of the bed, I fell fast asleep.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of nectarines. She was sitting on my abdomen, straddling me, a half-devoured nectarine in her hand. Greg was not yet awake, and I felt the urge to keep it that way, at least for the time being. She offered me the nectarine, but I could see she didn't want to part with it. This confused me, as it implied some sort of courtesy, which was quite out of place for some demon beast that flew in my window late yesterday afternoon. But my life seemed full of surprises lately.
"Last one." She said.
"We'll get some more, if you like." I whispered, motioning for her to keep quiet. When she looked at me questioningly, I thought she didn't understand me at first, but when Greg stirred beside her, she clamped her hand over her mouth and looked at me apologetically. Greg was sound asleep however, and I continued the conversation in a hushed tone.
"You speak english now? I asked her.
"Yes."
"What do you speak usually?"
"Latin." This made sense - the phrases she spat at me yesterday sounded familiar yet I could not place them. I motioned to the nectarine in her hand. "You like those?" I asked her. She nodded and shoved the rest of it in her mouth as if to confirm the statement.
I suddenly became horribly aware of the presence of a naked angel/demon thing sitting on my pelvis and the consequences it brought, and immediately became scared as she seemed to be able to sense it and it tended to infuriate her, as yesterday showed.
"Can you tell what I am thinking?" I asked her.
"Sense emotion sometimes if strong." She told me.
"And now??"
"Fear?" she mused. I showed relief. "?Arousal?", she continued, noting with obvious glee the horrified reaction I gave. "It's alright," she reassured me. "I know you won't try anything. You are too scared of me." She was right.
This was the most I had ever heard her speak, and a slight european accent was showing through the rasped edges of her voice. By now, her voice had taken on a tone not of disuse, but a tone of evil. She sounded demonic, baneful. She suddenly appeared to me in a different light - not a scared creature shot from the sky, but a nefarious, vile creature from depths only the mad speak of. Her incredible beauty did not contradict that, either, but rather compliment it - a tool with which she could reach people easily, a cunning deceitful trap or guise. Pure evil. I suddenly realised that she was a magnificent and wicked creature that deserved as much reverence as caution.
"Anathema?" I muttered under my breath.
"As you wish." She whispered in apathy, she had other things on her mind. "What you call me is your choice. What I call me, however?." She paused.
"Yes?"
"?is irrelevant." Anathema glanced around, taking in her surroundings. I noted, with some surprise, and much confusion, that I was not scared of her in the slightest any more. She had obvious tendencies for violence, pain, and I was assuming bloodlust, but why I did not think it would apply to me I was not sure.
"Anathema?" I started, still careful to keep my voice down, as Greg was still fast asleep next to us. She looked at me sharply. "Why am I not scared of you?" I asked her, an intelligence test of sorts.
"Because you have nothing to fear of me."
'Why?"
"I would not harm you. I have no reason to. You seem to think that I am the type of demon that harms people unnecessarily. You are quite right - I cause harm because I enjoy doing so intensely. But with you? you did not cage me, you did not attempt to fight me, neither did you run from me. In fact, you helped me, and fed me."
"Well, actually, you fed yourself."
"No matter. I have experienced people with evil that exceeds my own. You are different. Besides, you actually really like me. Even though you know what I am capable of. Well, you think you know?"
"I have a feeling that I have no idea what you are capable of." I said, a compliment to her more than anything.
"You are right." I had a feeling she was not bragging , simply telling the truth, as she would have no reason for modesty. After all, she was right.
Another thing sprang to mind.
"Where are you from?" I asked her, genuine interest on my face.
"I can honestly say you would not believe me."
"Don't standardise me."
"I was created out of the minds of those who know the real truth of evil. The broken, the?" she paused, searching for the right word. "?insane." Startlingly like a previous thought of mine, I realised. "The knowledge and truth of darkness was too much, it shattered their consciousness and drove them mad."
"Who, specifically, are they?"
She just snorted, and stood up, muttering under her breath, "Chemical imbalance my ***." This statement told me alone that she had been in this realm before. The english she spoke was fluent, but the sudden use of slang surprised me. It also implied that she knew much, perhaps all, about who she was and why she had come to be. In fact, it would not surprise me if she knew everything. Perhaps I had just read too many Anne Rice novels.
"What are you?" I asked her as she stood over me eating the nectarine, oblivious of the view her position gave me and the effect it had on my genitalia.
"I don't know."
"You're lying to me," I said, with some sincerity.
"I know." She replied, with complete sincerity. Suddenly Greg awoke beside me, and as I turned to him there was a fluttering sound and Anathema had disappeared. A black feather lay beside me on the blanket. Greg looked at me and blinked.
"Have you been eating my nectarines?" he asked me.
"Yes." I said, and left.

[Ravenstorture]

I did not see Anathema again for a whole day. The suspicion that she had left me saddened me greatly, yet it did not come as a surprise.
I was sitting on the back veranda with Greg, looking out over the overgrown garden and vine-covered trees that banked a winding stream below us. We lived in an old, wooden, colonial house. The white paint had nearly all peeled away, and there were piles of interesting-looking junk everywhere. It was dark, draughty, and was older than both of us put together but I loved it and Greg couldn't give a damn about where he lived. We were both pretty involved in our studies - Greg was doing a TAFE course in food prep and I was at uni doing a medical strand that included biochemistry, toxicology, psychology and anatomy. My abnormal fascination with death and the human body was frowned upon by my conservative, rightwing family, even though my tendency to wear black and live in run down houses and fall madly in love with evil, satanic beasts that flew in my kitchen window didn't help either. Mind you, nobody knew about that last one. In fact, even I didn't know why I said I was in love with her - I had known her for about twelve hours, and I had been asleep for ten of them. Now that I thought about it, though, I realised that it was true. I missed her desperately. The smell of nectarines was enough to give me a pretty embarrassing erection, and I carried the feather she had shed with me everywhere. Greg noticed that something was wrong, but was hesitant to ask. At the moment, it was just two nineteen-year old boys sitting on a dilapidated porch, one in the dark and the other in love with it.
"Tell me what the **** happened last night, Damien." Said Greg, suddenly, startling me out of my depression. I ran my hand through my long, black hair and closed my eyes.
"I don't know." I said, only half telling the truth.
"There was a girl in your bed last night?" he began, but I cut him off.
"There was something in my bed last night, but I don't know what it was." Luckily for me, Greg was very open minded, and rather intelligent.
"Good or bad?" he asked me, thinking of something.
"Both. Well, bad, really, really bad, but?" I was lost.
"Safe?"
"More than that." I really didn't know what to say.
"What did you suspect it was?" he asked, still deep in thought.
"She appeared to be a? um, angel of sorts, but a demon of others?" This did not sound right at all. What was a fallen angel, I thought? I had heard the term, but did not know what it meant.
"Where from?" asked Greg, suspiciously. I told him everything that happened, leaving out the parts I thought he didn't need to know. When I had finished, Greg sat for a while, digesting what I had told him. I was surprised to see that he believed some, if not most, of my story.
After a while he said, "That doesn't explain the way you have been acting lately."
This I did not know how to respond to. "Would you believe," I began cautiously, "that I have fallen madly in love with her?"
"No, I wouldn't." He said slowly. "Although? I wouldn't put it past you."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, for one thing - look at yourself." He gestured to my various facial piercings, blue-black chin length hair, my long, black clothing, the black nail polish on my fingernails, the army boots, and the black feather in my hand. Probably the track marks down my arm too, if he had known the real story behind them. "Secondly," he continued, "I saw her myself. If I wasn't so bloody queer I'd understand exactly how you feel." Greg was more than unashamed about his homosexuality, he was damn proud of it. He knew that some of the nicest people in this world were bent. Greg was a beautiful person, blond, blue-eyed, tall, tanned, well-built, well-spoken, well informed, a pleasure to be with. It wasn't intimidating in the slightest having a gay housemate - he showed no interest in me whatsoever. He loved me, but he loved everyone he was close to and I accepted and was honoured by the fact that he thought I was a good person. Greg was amazing - a flower growing in a crack of the thirty-acre parking lot of this broken planet earth. I hated what we had become as humans, and revelled in anything that seemed unaffected by the general destruction of the human race. People destroyed - Greg created. I loved that about him. The fact that he was discriminated against and hated throughout the community because of his sexual orientation, and that it ran right off his back, just added to the amazing qualities he possessed. I am a Libran, a great appreciator of beauty. I could find beauty in a motorcycle accident, so my fascination in my housemate really isn't the contradiction to my heterosexuality it seems.
"You saw her?" I asked him, thinking back to how I had left Anathema that night.
"Yes, she was lying on her back. The blanket you must have given her had been thrown off. I was? well, not entirely surprised until I saw her?defect."
"I don't see her wings as a defect." I said darkly.
"I thought you wouldn't, which is why I'm not surprised you love her. Or, at least," he added, "are attracted to her."
"Anyway," I said, on a lighter note, "You think her wings are a defect? You should see her tongue."
"I don't think I want to get into that?" Greg replied uncomfortably. I laughed and twiddled the feather in between my fingers, dreaming of stonefruit. It was a pleasant Saturday morning.
"Is she coming back?" he asked me.
"I don't know." I said quietly, suddenly close to tears.
"If you love something, set it free?" he whispered, more to himself than to me.
"If it doesn't come back to you, hunt it down and kill it." I said, feeling my consciousness allocating 'delirium' as a descriptive. "I'm going to bed." I said sadly, and left Greg to his thoughts.


I awoke again to the smell of nectarines. I was in an orchard, it was winter - the fruit trees that surrounded me were either dead or dormant, their branches laden with rotten fruit and thousands upon thousands of ravens. A gunshot startled them into flight, a swirling black tornado above me raining black feathers. From the fluttering mass above me, droplets of blood began to stain the snow on which I lay, causing me to look up and see Anathema hanging above me, her white skin cloaked in green robes, her eyes bleeding profusely. She seemed suspended above me by some invisible crucifix, her wrists and ankles stretched and immobile, her robes hanging loosely from her frail body. All of a sudden, she dropped slightly and seemed to open from a slit directly down her middle - a sudden deluge of blood engulfing me and causing me to sit upright -
- in my bed, covered in sweat. What a cliché way to wake up, I thought. I will have to try harder next time. Bad dreams were not uncommon to me, most nights I spent in strange, dark gardens, windowless dungeons, my childhood home's kitchen, where I was frequently abused by my father as my mute stepmother was forced to watch. Contrary to many fairytales, she loved me more than my father did, and I felt the same affection towards her. My father had never forgiven himself for the way he treated me, but I had, as physical and sexual abuse was hereditary in our family, to a point. My mother told me before my father killed her when I was six that I was strong, and it would not have the same effect on me than it did on him. I had had problems with my sanity in the early years of my adolescence, but apart from that there were no other manifestations of my childhood treatment. My mother was murdered, my father committed suicide on my eighteenth birthday, my stepmother mute as the result of an attack from my father but otherwise unharmed. I pitied her for falling into such a harmful trap as my father, but she was a kind, intelligent woman and dealt with the 'evils of the world' as she called them, with grace.
She took care of me when my father was jailed when I was fifteen, having married him when I was seven, and taught me sign language and everything I needed to know but was never taught. When my father was released three years later, he talked to me one night about his time in jail and how he did not deserve my forgiveness. I gave it to him anyway. Seemingly content with the way things had ended but scared of it getting any worse, he hung himself later that night. My stepmother, a seemingly sweet woman, approved of his decision and watched him do it.
Although I could not see my father, I could see her in the doorway to the living room, and was in plain view of her face, and her beautiful smile. It all made sense when I walked towards her and saw my father hanging from the exposed rafters, jerking like a marionette puppet from the electrical cord and grasping at his neck like he'd changed his mind. Perhaps he had, in those last few moments of his life. Perhaps he had glimpsed death and shied away from it, promised to be a better father, a better man. Perhaps they all had? but a few seconds later he was still.
I don't tell people my story because I myself am surprised at how unaffected I was by it. If I had told them the truth, about how my life got better after I watched my father die his violent death, how that event made me a happier person, they would just think that I was messed up and leave me alone. I am confused as to whether or not I want this from people.
My uncles, aunts and grandparents all frowned deeply upon my father and both of my mothers' lives, and this did not change when two of them passed away. My immediate family was corrupted, understandable, forgivable, but nevertheless wrong - my lesser immediate family was cold, heartless and ignorant. I was stuck in the middle of it all, ensnared in many webs of many descriptions. I was distant and peaceful, quiet, dark, brooding - an enigma. I had scars, both emotional and physical, but never did I let my past direct me. I distanced myself from people, as not to hurt them, but those I came close to I didn't hurt anyway. I preferred to not ponder too hard upon why.
It was Monday evening when I saw Anathema again. I was walking home from work when I passed her in the street. She had tied her hair back into a stylish bun, and was dressed in a black business suit, a blue mobile phone on one ear, a briefcase in the opposite hand, wraparound sunglasses covering her daunting green eyes. She looked completely different, yet I knew it was she. She smelt strongly of nectarines, and spoke into the mobile phone showing neither teeth nor tongue. It were as if she was only there simply to walk past me - to assure me of her existence, her safety. I did not see her eyes but felt watched enough to know. Her sudden appearance and disappearance - she was nowhere to be seen when I turned around - promised a return. I walked home quickly.

A garden, cloaked in shadow, every plant withered and dieing, all stems writhed in thorns and spikes. Monochrome. Crumbling stonewalls still impassable. A flash of colour. I look down - a nectarine. I pick it up, it seems supple, ripe - it's aroma is strong and erotic to my seemingly dull senses. I rip the flesh open with my hands and watch as the inner flesh writhes with black maggots, fattened on blood and rotting flesh. I hear a laugh, and look up - Anathema is standing before me, clad again in green robes stained with blood and (I suspected) the juice of nectarines. She snatches the nectarine and eats it greedily, swallowing the stone at the centre and smiling contently, wickedly. She reaches out for me and I do not resist, she kneels down pulling me with her, and then on top of her as she lies back on the mat of dense, rotting foliage. I closed/opened my eyes to see Greg sitting next to me, a cup of coffee in his hand.
"Sleep well?" he asked me brightly, showing no knowledge of any sign I may have shown of my dream.
"No." I replied, taking the coffee from him. Greg suddenly leant forward and took the cup from me, placing it on the floor and then kissing me passionately on the mouth. A long, rancid, black tongue curled out and parted my teeth, moving inside my mouth and taking me completely by surprise. I was to shocked to move, but when I pulled away however it was not Greg who sat beside me but Anathema, sitting naked and as lovely as ever on the side of the bad. She ruffled her wings excitedly and laughed. "You sure?" she asked jestingly. I laughed and lay back on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. Anathema crawled under the covers with me and, to my utter astonishment, retracted her massive raven black wings into her trapezius, leaving only two slits about twenty centimetres long each, running parallel down either side of her spine. She kissed me again, this time not tasting of rotting flesh but of nectarines, her sharp teeth abrading my tongue as I slid it inside her. I tasted blood, my own or otherwise I couldn't tell. It was the most enjoyable sensation, I had ever experienced in my life. Anathema seemed to think the same thing, and after what seemed like hours, she pulled away from me and fell fast asleep next to me.
I picked up my cup of coffee and noticed the newspaper beside it. Picking it up, I read the headline with mounting horror:

TEENAGE STUDENT MURDERED
Late Monday night, residents reported screams in the CBD area of the city. Early this morning, the body of Melissa Harding was found by investigating police officials. The eighteen year-old's body had been horribly mutilated and appeared to have been fed on by something human, according to a coroner's postmortem report. Much of the girls flesh had been removed completely, bitten off by what appears to be sharpened human teeth, and the body had been scratched deeply by human fingernails approximately 1.5 inches long.
No part of the girl's body was left in tact. The only evidence to the killer was a multitude of black feathers found at the crime scene. Close study of the feathers turned up no match to the animal they may have some from. Investigators are baffled as to what creature could have been capable of such a crime?

The rest was lost as Anathema reached up and expertly slit the newspaper in half with a bloodstained fingernail, and shredded the rest in much the same manner. I, adapting much the same nefarious attitude in my stepmother and in Anathema herself, kissed Anathema on the forehead, lay down beside her once more and went back to sleep.


To Be Continued.....

[liamc2]

As I said before when I read it, very nice work there :)

*can't actually remember what he said, replies with talk of the weather when investigated further*

It will be good to see the continued version of this. .all in all, even with out the continued version, a job well done:)

[Biida]

:eek: wow...

*hopes the rest will be posted soon* ^_^ That was amazing! I mean, I'd kill to be able to write like that! o.o and I'm not kidding either... :)

*wanders off, thinking someone should start a Ravenstorture fan-club or something*

[liamc2]

*clears throat*

yes, and I'm feeling just peachy with recovering from whatever goddamm awful virus I've got, how about you?

:p
______

bys a way, Imza smart one :drunk:
______

let me try this again. .apologies raven. .this will not happen again, in your threads anyway *cough* no wait. .that didn't come out right. .