Bella Morte

It is cold, dreadfully, wretchedly cold. The sun is nowhere in sight this afternoon and the birds, screeching like banshees overhead, only add to the eerie atmosphere. Trees overhead rustle about as a slight breeze chills me to the bone. Though I am wearing a black, knee-length skirt with cranberry-coloured wool stockings and layer upon layer of long-sleeved shirts under my deceased father's old Navy peacoat, I am shivering.

Along the while gravel trail that winds through the forest, I sit. I sit and I stare, staring at the vacant pages on my lap. They mock me, I know it. Ridiculing my inability to spin emotions and thoughts into a sparkling web or words on their blank faces. As yet another breeze passes by, tickling the pages, they giggle amongst themselves.

I am searching for inspiration, for beauty. Yes, for beauty. I want to create something truly beautiful. Something so splendid, eloquent and sublime that it takes one's breath away. I want to bedazzle.

Pen in hand, I manage to scribble out a single phrase: ci e la belezza nella morte. I stare at the phrase in absolute bewilderment and confusion, wondering what could have possible possessed me to write such a foreign phrase. Suddenly, a gust of wind whips my hair over my face and the ivory pages dance away, still mocking, still laughing.

Sighing, I decide to accept the fact that neither inspiration nor beauty will reveal itself today when I notice a slight humming coming from the forest’s abyss. The humming sounds like that of a child. Fear grips me in its icy fingers and I gasp as the droning begins to take form as a young girl. She wears layers of white robes over a thin white nightgown. Her pale skin, almost as light as her garments, are a striking contrast to her ebony hair, that reaches the waist of her petite frame and partially covers her narrow face. She prolongs the humming and I recognize the tune as that of the familiar children's song, "London Bridge." She sings in a chilling tone and reaches her hand out to me, beckoning me to rise. Mindlessly, I obey. The girl takes a step back, pivots, and begins walking back toward the forest. I know she expects me to follow.

She leads me into a part of the woods I am unfamiliar with, but I know better than to turn around and run. I've been running for the past two weeks. That is how I deal with most issues in my life, foster care being the most recent trauma. I ran away a few weeks ago, hiding in the forest most of the time. I managed to pack a few necessities, as well ad a notebook and writing utensils. I will not run now, however. I know better than to irritate a spirit.

We walk for a good bit, deep into the desolate forest. The girl leaves no footprints, nor does she cast a shadow, but I wouldn't have expected her to. Finally, she slows to a halt and I take my eyes off of the undisturbed snow in front of me and glance at our final destination. We have arrived at an ancient log cabin in the middle of a snow-covered clearing. The girl walks into the cabin and gestures for me to join her.

I walk in with a feeling of dread and observe the gloomy walls, hanging spider webs, clinging cobwebs, and a dim fire. I'm assuming the girl started the fire, though it is just barely blazing. I begin to think. I am the fire. I have nothing else to live for, no one to love, and am just clinging to the glowing embers that have just barely managed to stay alive these past few years. Curious, I realize, that this fire gives off no smoke, or heat for that matter. For the first time, the girl speaks up. "You are the fire."

Astonished, I ask, "Why do you say that?"

"You were thinking it. I could tell by the look in your eyes."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, and I know what you want."

Smirking, I reply, "Enlightenment?"

"No. You want what we all want. You want satisfaction. You want to rest in peace."

"What do you mean, rest in peace?"

She ignores the question.

"We can help you with that."

The look in her eyes horrifies me and I slowly rise to do what I should have done a long time ago, run. I race toward the door, but just as I reach it, the girl raises her hand and the door slams shut. I turn around frantically to find another escape, only to see that the girl is not alone. Three other ghosts stand behind her and, in a haunting tone, the girl repeats, "We can help you with that."

I stand, petrified, and get the sensation that I am being lifted off the ground. When I look down, I realize my suspicions are confirmed. The girl, arm still raised, pushes her hand out and my body slams back into the closed door. I fall down into a barely conscious heap on the floor. The three other ghosts race toward me in a hungry frenzy. One of them smiles, a psychotic smile, and reveals glittering white fangs. I feel a piercing pain in one of my wrists and look down to see another feeding off of me as the two others join in. I feel the blood being drained from my body and the girl, hovering above me now, begins to talk. "You are the final one, the one that will set us free. You, too, will rest in peace someday. Once we take you, we will be set free and you will join all before you in the quest for release. You and all before you shall stay here, taking lives and collecting souls for your own admittance into the afterlife. Have fun!"

She smiles, and, bending down over my neck, sinks her own fangs into my flesh. The spirits jest and laugh as they suck the life from me, their final victim and ticket to the world beyond this. My eyes roll back and I grow weak, falling into a deep slumber.

I open my eyes and rise. Who knows how much time has passed. I stand and take a few steps back, nearly weeping at what I see just in front of my feet. It is I, eyes half closed with only the whites showing. Skin so pale and body so limp. I investigate the room for a brief moment, and freeze when I notice a white piece of paper beyond my corpse, the same one I had written on. On the paper, I read, written in my blood:

Ci e la belezza morte

There is beauty in death.