Blood of the Pure – Prologue

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Blood of the Pure – Prologue



“There are things that never change, in the World we know as Human World. Things that obey a Law as ancient as Time. An unbreakable Law which, in its inflexibility, is in itself the supporting pillar of the World, keeping the dimensional portals that allow us to arrive, and leave here, opened.

In this World the oceans are liquid, even though their temperatures, currents, depths and tides are many. The earth is solid, although it has many different textures, constitutions and colors. There are mountains, plains, valleys, rivers and lakes, but, in time, they all end up changing places and shapes. The sky is blue, though it can be white, grey or even black.

When we arrive into this World for the first time, we are eternal, incorporeal and vast. However, in order to stay, we become material, heavy and mortal.

Some call this World a school … maybe they’re right. But even if we define it as such, this World we call ours, in truth, doesn’t belong to us at all.

In this World we are nothing but fleeting passing lights. We arrive here to grow, live, experience … but we always end up leaving and very few choose to remain.

To us, mere guests, the Law doesn’t apply completely, and we call the crack that remains opened, almost as a fatal error on a system otherwise perfect, Free Will.

Because we are the only ones who benefit from it, in our insignificance and arrogance, we think ourselves almost divine. We claimed and named this World as our own, forgetting the existence of its true owners — those who have no choice, who never arrived here and never shall leave ... those who inevitably have no choice but to live by upholding the Law.”

Am I alive ... or am I dead?

Maybe my existence has been over a long time ago and I’m just a wandering spirit, attached to a world of shadows. Yes, because shadows are all I see and all that surrounds me.

Maybe it’s best if I’m dead. Because if not, what kind of life is this? And strangely death doesn’t sound so bad at all.

The wind that roars in my ears, tossing my hair here and there, is cold, and I can’t help ask myself how come I’ve just noticed it.

I hear the rustling of paper and look at the notebook at my feet. In an apathetic numbness, I pick it up and gaze at it with something similar to curiosity.

On its pages strange symbols have been inscribed as well as some nonsensical words I have no recollection of writing, some even in foreign languages completely unknown to me. I try to read a few lines and find no meaning whatsoever. Some are fragmented thoughts, others the ravings of a lost mind, others yet what looks like some strange magic recipes. And yet I recognize my handwriting on all of them and know I should feel shocked for not remembering, but in truth I feel nothing.

As of late, I really can’t tell where my mind has been. All I know is that when I wake up from the apathy that keeps me company the whole day, I’ve been staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts that I can never recall. All that’s left is this vertiginous sensation of falling into an endless abyss where all that awaits me is pain and emptiness, a dark pit from where I know I’ll never be able to return.

I raise a hand and notice that I’ve almost forgotten how to move it. Ironically I notice that I’m not even sure this body belongs to me. Maybe I’ve just taken it by surprise. Maybe it was the shock of the sudden intrusion that stole my memories of whom I used to be, before being locked up inside this box of flesh and bone that, even though it should be warm and comforting, appears to me as cold and unfeeling as any prison.

I hold my arms in a small embrace. Feel how thin they are, how my skin is freezing cold. Once more I wonder how long I’ve been standing here, sleeping with my eyes wide open, staring at the faraway horizon. I try harder to remember, make an effort to recover the time that I seem to have lost, try to find an answer. But the memories come to me deformed, like a landscape you can’t clearly see, lost in the mist. I know that normally this misty canvas is enough to make me give up, to make me choose to simply return to my apathetic and unfeeling existence. However, never before, in my continuous and unconscious wandering, have I ever found myself in a place such as this. And, although the view is indeed magnificent, the hidden meaning behind my presence here leaves me unusually awake and curious.

And so I decide to insist.

I tell myself that if I’m unable to remember what brought me here, or how I got here, maybe I can recall what happened before ... or even before, or much, much before ...

I stop for a moment.

What, exactly, is the last thing I remember?

The question echoes unanswered in my mind. The last thing I recall ...

And then sounds come to me from faraway, as if my ears could capture the voices from the past. I feel my heart jump in anticipation, a sensation all together strange to me. I’m not used to having these feelings.

I recall a touch and, at the same time, know that it’s not real. I close my eyes trying to stop reality from interfering with the frail thread that is my memory. Now that I’ve finally grasped it, I want to try my best and hold on to it. I focus even harder and, slowly, let myself be carried away by this strange feeling of warmth.

I grab the pen I find in my pocket and open the notebook on an empty page. I want to make sure that something will remain, something that will be able to spark my memory once I’ve forgotten myself again. I allow the voices and sensations from the past to fill me and pass through me as if they weren’t really mine, as if the eyes through which I see them now weren’t my eyes as well ... and write.

The lips that kept me silent were soft but cold, stealing my breath away. The hand that held my wrist against the bed was big, its fingers long and thin.

The weight of his body, the electric touch of his skin against mine, the sound of his heavy ragged breath on my mouth between passionate kisses ...

For a moment I tried as hard as I could to master something similar to a coherent thought. Somewhere inside me a small almost mute voice kept telling me that this was wrong.

I placed my free hand on his naked shoulder and a shudder went through my body. His cold skin was smooth and thin, his shoulder strong and firm. I pushed that rock with all my strength, or at least willed it so. I would never be strong enough to push his heavy body away, but that didn’t matter anyway. My hand simply trembled as a feeble expression of my weak resolve and slid around his neck, grasping a strand of silky hair.

His lips left mine as I lay there, dizzy and gasping for air, and his breath caressed my face, stopping near my neck.
Cold fingers touched my leg, pulling it around his waist, making me tremble. All I could feel was his skin, his body molded against mine, or was it the other way around?

His tongue, soft and strangely hot, traced the outline of my ear lobe, gently nibbling it, leaving me breathless again.

His low velvet laughter left me suddenly alert, but still, that deep sound only made me want him even more.

“You’re mine …”

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