The Queen of Dead Hearts – A Story By Jonathan Wood

Advisory:

The following contains scenes and sexual references that some may find offensive.

“Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven”

Milton – Paradise Lost. 

I watch him from across the other side of the bar.  He brings her here a lot.  The hotel bar has a swanky restaurant attached to it and they serve gourmet food here. The smell of cooking meat turns my stomach. I know why too and it really shouldn’t bother me anymore.  Not after all this time.  It has been ages. Literally. But, it still does and the smell reminds me of the screams.  Screams from a long time ago.

Watching the couple from a distance, I observe. I take everything in.  Every little detail, making mental notes.  I hear them both from thirty feet away as if I myself were sitting right there at their table.  I mimic her reactions subtly, to his jokes, his attention and how she acts when he pushes back her hair and runs his fingers lightly down the side of her face.  Those doe-eyes she pulls that I know I can do so much better than her.  She’s a platinum blonde- from a bottle, pretty but manufactured. She has cosmetic enhancements on her lips and cheekbones. She eats her food gingerly and I can see anxiety bleeding from her eyes at every mouthful she chews, conservatively.  Calorie counting, already worrying about the hell she’ll have to go through at the gym tomorrow to work off the food. She’s already panicking about looking sexy in the lingerie he’s bought her to wear for the weekend and looking good when he rips off her panties with his teeth on an extravagant hotel bed and forces his tongue in between her legs.  Everything must be tight and nothing must sag.

I’ve watched them fucking many times.  

From the ceiling. 

I’ve been following him for a month now. Monitoring, observing, plotting my course. Some might call it stalking.  I think I like that better.  He works for an investment bank in the city.  I’ve watched him walking into his office building early in the mornings wearing expensive tailored suits from a car park where he leaves an expensive silver sports car that gleams majestically in the early morning sunlight. That car will soon be mine.  He will soon be mine.

They leave the restaurant hand-in-hand and I wait a while before following them.  He’s taking her to her home, it’s Wednesday.  Tonight, I will make my move.  I know everything I need to know now and it’s finally time.  I never have understood how I know this.  It’s just a feeling I get. Down there in my lower abdomen.  A dull buzz that begins like an itch until it’s sending pulse waves throughout my body that stretch out into my arms and fingertips like electricity.  The thought of what will happen tonight and in the coming days, weeks, months, possibly years is enough to make me wet in my underwear, already.  

Earlier, as I watched the manufactured doe-eyed blonde discreetly remove one of her Jimmy Choo pumps (that he had gifted her) under the table and start rubbing her stockinged toes up and down his leg, a guy at the bar approached me and offered to buy me a drink.  He probably thought I was easy game, me being a single female sitting at the bar looking like a lonely, jilted lover.  If I focused hard enough, I could have read his thoughts, but his look disinterested me, immediately.  His clothes were creased, like he hadn’t changed them for days and his hair was greasy and unkempt. It’s distinctive and I know instantly when I smell if the male is the type I want. This was not a man of means and besides, he did not give off that signature scent I look for.  This man smelled of tobacco and grime.  I could even smell the dried urine on his boxers and I couldn’t but help turn up my nose at him in disgust.  He was not pleased and called me a “stuck up cunt” when I curtly declined his invitation and he shuffled off again, his ego bruised and rejected. If only he knew why my sense of smell is so acute. 

For my own amusement I considered breathing on him anyway and releasing just a little of my pheromone, just for the hell of it.  To watch what happens.  What always happens. But I don’t.  

As I get up to leave, I almost miss the fact that there is a long mirror behind the bar. Mirrors can be a problem and I always need to focus extra hard to make sure my reflection does not return my true form. I’ve had to learn this discipline over the ages and it’s not easy.  For a fleeting moment as I stand up, one of my pointed ears is visible in my reflection and I have to concentrate to make it disappear.  Luckily, the lights were low in the bar and nobody noticed the quick flash of a monster in the mirror giving way to the cover of a petite brunette with long raven shiny hair and bright red lipstick. 

Later, I watch – unbeknown to them, as he fucks her on the bed, hard and from behind, grabbing and pulling at her hair and slapping her rump with his palm so hard that it leaves her flesh red and bruised.  I’m not sure she likes it like that, but she goes with it anyway, until the slaps of their bodies crashing against each other intensify in frenzy and he cries out and ejaculates inside her, his body jerking in spasm from the orgasm.  She fakes hers. I can smell that she doesn’t cum too. They lie naked after, their bodies glistening in sweat and reeking so badly of seminal fluids that I can barely breathe. Then he dresses again and leaves.  She kisses him goodbye at the door and I watch as she returns to the bedroom and takes off her makeup in front of the mirror on the chest by her bed with cotton pads.  Part of me wants to descend now and let her see me in the mirror – just to see her face.  But I spare her that. The waves of energy humming and pulsating throughout my body are making it tough to focus on staying hidden now and it’s a relief when she finally turns out the light and returns to the bed.  

Staying hidden has exhausted me. Others of my kind can do it better than me and for much  longer.  They showed me how to master it, so that I can be right there in a room like a chameleon and nobody can see.  We call it blending. Only cats seem to sense us. I guess it’s the smell.  Although I have an affection for these creatures, I’ve had to kill one or two over the ages.      

I descend upon her when she’s sleeping.  It makes consummation easier.  How this works is not for you to know, but I promise you she will feel no pain.  I bear her no ill will but she has something I need.  When it’s done, she will be no more and only I will remain.  I will wear her clothes and expensive high heels, her perfume, even her face – like a mask.  And I will live in her house for as long as I want and live as her for a while. And nobody will know. Least of all him.  

She manages a scream before I slap one of my taloned hands over her mouth to stifle it and I do what I have to do.  But her scream echoes in my head and shifts me back through time, down through the ages to memories I can never forget. Memories from another life hundreds of years ago that haunt my ravaged soul and will for as long as I roam this earth.

To the men that came for me on black horses one hot summer, their beards and eyebrows thick, their eyes beady and cruel.  The men who took me from my village.

They said I conspired with the old woman that lived in the woods who damned the pigs in my village and cursed the well that made all those who drank from it grow sick and die. But I swear I didn’t.  I just helped her bless the well with the herbs she had made to drive out the devil. They snatched us both kicking and screaming and locked us in a dark cellar for many days with the rats and flies.  Men came and did terrible things to me, over and over again and nobody heard my screams.  And then a terrifying tall man with a long beard, narrow eyes and a hat blacker than the night itself came and told me in a soft voice that if I confessed my sins to him and before God, he could make it all stop. That there was salvation for those who repent.  But I must confess. 

And so, I confessed.  

The night before they burned us both, the old woman whispered to me in the cellar in a language I didn’t understand.  She placed her palm on my forehead and whispered for many hours.  I felt heat on my face that made me feel dizzy and sleepy, and gave me butterflies in my tummy that stretched down to in between my legs and made them quiver. The old woman then smiled and told me to hush and be calm.  That death was not the end and I would wake, once again and be truly free.  She told me I’d be a Queen of Hearts and one day I’d know what that meant . Then together, we held hands as we waited for the sun to come up and we watched it bleed under the gap of the cellar door.  

They burned the old woman first at the stake and made me watch along with the villagers who yelled insults and threw stones at us. One sharp stone hit me in the head and I felt blood trickle down into my eye.  I tried to block out the screams of the old woman as she was set ablaze, but I couldn’t.  Then, they burned me.  But, I felt no pain when the flames began to lick at my feet and move upwards on my body, only the same tingling from the night before when the old woman touched my forehead and whispered her words in a foreign tongue. 

When I awoke from a long darkness, I hung upside down, high-up in a dark cave that smelled of damp and dung.  I stayed in the cave for many nights, feeling out the changes in my body. My new body.  My memories were intact, but I was different. My senses were acute and alive in ways I just can’t explain. And when I left that cave I could fly. My wings unfolded majestically and naturally in the moonlight and to take flight was instinctive. Once, I saw my own reflection in a still pond in twilight and I realized what I now was.   

The years that followed ran into decades, then centuries.  And I never aged, grew old, nor died.  I watched wars, famine and plague, industrial revolutions and pain and suffering unfold around the globe, moving from place to place like a nomadic specter.  I watched horses and carts become automobiles and aeroplanes. I watched swords and bows become guns, automatic weapons and bombs.  And I lived many secret lives.  Through the ages, I encountered others, like me, who showed me how to take on human form, how to blend, and how to consume.  To use my abilities to make money, gain power, seduce men and satisfy my rampant carnal desires and blood lust that became just too powerful to resist.    

I’ve consumed countless women since I was reborn. I even fucked some of them before I consumed them.  I’ve fucked countless powerful men, too. I’ve fucked the leaders of men for my own amusement and even had my hand in some world events.  Whispering my poison in their ears and releasing my pheromone that they breathe in.  I make them crazy before they slowly give me everything, all the while hiding under the cover and mask of the female; their female whom I have consumed and replaced.

Tomorrow, he will collect me and take me to dinner.  I’ll ride in that fancy sports car and I’ll slip my hand inside his pants as he drives us to an expensive restaurant.  I’ll watch the soft flesh on my new fingers and painted red nails go to work.  He’ll notice small things as I adjust to my new body and perfect how she should be.  But, everything will be just fine.  He’ll be curious why I suddenly want to fuck five days every day in frenzy and why he’s so exhausted afterwards and drained.  Why he can’t stop thinking about me. He’ll remark how I seem different, but he won’t know why.  He’ll propose soon after and we’ll be married.  Then what is his, will become mine.  I’ll wear Luis Vuitton and Prada and I’ll fly first class.  I’ll do it all.    

I’ll stay a while-until the money runs dry and I grow bored of the sex and he begins to fall apart.  Then I will leave and look for another. I’ll make him crazy – just like I did the others and when he finally realizes something is wrong, it will be too late.  Nobody cares about the rants of a broke, crazy person anyway.

When he’s sleeping and comatose from the sex, I’ll slip out into the night for a while and revel in my true form.  I’ll extend my wings and find somewhere high, dark and damp to hang and I’ll return before he awakes to pleasure him in the morning and kiss him goodbye with puckered red lips as he leaves.  He’ll ask me if everything is ok and I’ll smile, pause and say I’m fine. 

Sometimes, I wake early in the mornings.  I’m still scared of the rising sun and watching it bleed through the blinds and under the gaps in doorways fills me with terror.  It reminds me of the screams and burning fires.  As time moves on I gain no deeper knowledge of myself and think only of my ever-increasing, rampant carnal desires for blood lust and material things.  

She whispered to me that one day I would be a Queen of Hearts.  I am indeed a Queen of Hearts.  But death and destruction is my Kingdom and shall be for however long I reign in this place under cover of these masks.  

 I am the Queen of Dead Hearts and the Queen of Hearts that seek to die.

End.

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