Immortalitas

The bleak shroud of winter's decadence, embraces, the vestigial foliage of the soul, and thus ensues the wholesome clemency of death. It is serene, this ostensible evanescence of vital engorgement, as the blushy rose cheeks, turn pale and all expressions of the moribund physiognomy become an unpleasant dearth. The eyes are eerily still, and the flaccid lips no longer quiver the mutable soliloquies of mortal earnest. Tonight, she is deceased, and her hand weakens from my grasp, with receding relinquishment, while her chest subdues into torpid abeyance. The subtlety of it all, is sublime and the reality, that my wife is no more, numbs me to the marrow. I can only feel, the culling of fresh tears, cleanse my eyes with overwhelming inundation, until it is as if my very soul is wringing out from their burden. A chill pervades the precinct, but it does not stir my volition to any further subordination of agency for I am defeated, and have been ridden of all cause. I only regard her sapped visage, the maiden Bertha, whom I have loved, unto the superabundant altitudes of reinless passion, with a melancholic listlessness. A darkly chill pervades the room, and the threshold of our chamber is swung open by some inscrutable conduit of seemingly preternatural predominance. I concur with the audible requisites, of circumspect envisagement, to divine some plausible appellation for the shadowy visitor. I hear a footfall ingress, amidst the stalking silence, but i cannot salvage any image, from the clandestine protrusion, despite the amber illumination of the lamp. There is only the cast of a dense silhouette, venturing forward. There is a pause in its stride, a delicious summit from my proximity, and I perceive that it is a woman, adorned in ebony drapes, videlicet an ebony shroud of motley fabric. She wields a violin, which she ensues to play, with vapid caresses of phlegmatic mesmerism. I bury my visage into my palms, and speak half swooning, in the engulfing astonishment of epiphany

"It is you. I did not expect your presence so soon, will you not let me, indulge in these last moments with my deceased wife. I agree, I have avowed the conditions of my deal, this is my sacrifice, but I implore you, to spare me some minutes". She does not pause, the music continues, with those agile intervals of the discordant tritone, suddenly rapturing from the chords of a soft nocturne. I weep, as the Hippocratic countenance of my wife and her whole corpse withers, into a miasm leaving only a garment for vestige. The music pauses, and it ensues with the words of the musician herself, spoken with the voices of both man and woman,

"Your wife is no more, but I, Sigami have given you immortality, a perpetual augmentation of life, lest some disaster destroys your vessel. This stipulated condition has been met with concurrence, and I shall bear no obligation to any feasible recoupment, nor shall I give any commiseration to your bereavement. The winter has gone, and the spring has come, such is life" and unto this, I arise with a lather of rage, fermenting my hostility, but I can no longer regard the woman, for she has evanesced.