The night wore a purple veil.


I have a rather vital memory of that grotesque ordeal, of which in its signature, my whole volume of being, has derived a monumental tragedy of existence. It is not that, some cartilage of gesture, has become impaired, and dysfunctional, in its usual husbandry of expression, but rather my inner most conscious has become putrefied. I would say putrefied by trauma, but even the Lord knows, that no human has surmounted the strokes of disinhibited evil, only to call, its extensive effect 'trauma'...no...this is too pathetic. I shall leave it here for now. That night, I was alone, abandoned by my kinspeople, who would enjoy the rejuvenating pleasure of the new years in the outdoors. They wandered off I suppose for those chuckles of merriment, seemed to wane from my lucid adoption, into obscure, and nocturnally uncharted fringes. It was my twin sister, of three and thirty and my niece of a tender eleven. I heard neither mischievous gossip, nor a faint footstep in the house's proximity and the air was eerily still. My conscious remained as passively abeyant as the hymen of a virgin maiden, to the pluck of breakage and so quietly I listened, as the very breaths of darkness remained unheard of. Were there no celebrations? Why had the globe subdued into wistful dearth? At length, I heard something, it was piercing screams, of a slender altitude beyond the frequencies of a distorted, fizzle of thunder. I gazed out of the window, and many fires had been unleashed into the mazarine of night. I thought perhaps there was some arcane ritual that had caused the eruption, and all had been celebratory, but my surmise was axed cold, by the ensuing interval of desperate screams of agony. Yes, agony such as imagined ascending from the pits of hell. I waited, and the fizzle became more audible, and dense, but much less thunder-like. It sounded, more in the dialect of a sonic refraction, unravelling with an animated, cadence, of combusting machines.

I waited in the house, unable to avert my eyes from the window, until I saw, my flurried sister, Lucina rushing to the threshold, and upon attending it, she immideately began sobbing, the words,

"It took my daughter, and now everyone shall die" and burying her face, so that my eyes could not intrude its disconsolate bitterness, I braced myself, unsealed my awe-agglutinated lips, and pursued the question..

"What is it that you speak of Lucina?" and suddenly, the shrieks abound the globe, rinsed the dense clotting of solemnity with a fresh, oozing chill. I once more heard that ethereal drone, fragmenting from the eclipse of spheres uncharted. I turned to the window, and unto the moonless sky, but now, it was a deep purple, engorged with the lurid saturation of magma. As I winced a tear, at the sight, I heard the voice of Lucina, subdued and ridden with despair,

"They appeared to have come, from the sky, Nelson like fallen angels. But they were no angels, not in semblance nor in character. I cannot explain the deformity, informed in the emblem of their mold..." And now the extemporized draft of the passage was paused, as the speaker sobbed into her palms. I should have comforted her, but nothing in my fibre could translate a tangible pulse of sensation, and so I could not move. She continued, presently, dredging all that she could from her spirit,

"We were meaning to return home, me and Anita but she was taken. I am not worthy to be called a mother" and now I heard a familiar sound, but much louder. The precinct dilapidated into debris, as a bohemoth, creature ingressed from above. I cannot forget, the sight of its elongated serpent-like neck, suspended from the unclad humanoid torso of a woman, which ensconced grotesquely upon manifold arachnoid limbs. It had wings, those of a dragon, or perhaps a bat, and its face, had the seemings of wax-like amorphous, globule of protein. Its shape remained, obscene until, there bled fourth from its effluviant portrait, the youthful visage of Anita. Here we heard, the wept words,

"Help me mother, I cannot move"

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