Your lips are like candy
And my addiction is real
Once I get a taste
I cant have enough
I will always come back for more
Looking into your deep eyes
Has the same effect alcohol has on anyone else
And I dont need the seven deadly sins
Because falling for you is the worst of them all
This was the day when I finally understood why people fear silence.
It’s early in the morning, a little too early if you ask me. The morning is cold, like the Devil has possessed the weather. Grandma had always said that Friday the thirteenth was when Satan is most powerful and seizes the day. I miss her on these days when the weather is so cruel, I miss her hot cocoa and marshmallows. I clumsily fill my mug with coffee, in my half-asleep state and walk lazily to the balcony which overlooks the serene beach.
To start off the day, I decide to take a stroll on the sands of the beach as I had done many years ago when I initially arrived here. I drowsily walk, feeling the soft, moist sand on my bare feet, so preoccupied in my thoughts that I barely pay any attention to the people whispering and pointing. I walk on, until I come to a clearing where the antique shop stands.
It is the kind of shop that seems to have popped right out of a fairy tale. Thick ivy drops over the sides of the building like tousled hair. The insides are furnished with paintings and tapestries. There are a series of cabinets and wardrobes. I eagerly look towards the wardrobes, half-expecting a child to tumble out, exclaiming that he/she just returned from Narnia. As I walk in, I’m ushered in by the owner.
Mr. Burnell is a short man, who is about the age of forty-two, with a deep tan which makes him look a lot younger. He has a receding hairline and thick, bushy eyebrows. Under his furrowed eyebrows lay deep brown eyes with long eyelashes. Today, he is wearing a deep purple pullover paired with his usual khaki pants. I look around the shop a bit and stop at a tiny box with many tiny crystals inside. They aren’t the typical crystals that are embedded in your jewellery, these are a lot bigger but not any bigger than a toddler’s thumb. Curious, I take one in my hand and hold it out toward the rising scarlet sun, I ask Mr. Burnell what they are. He gives me a thoughtful smile and beckons me forward.
As I get closer, he whispers in his slight Scottish accent, rolling his R’s, “Now, child, these ain’t no ordinary crystals here. These are recovered from the damaged chandeliers, and some of them are magical, they say.”
“Some are wishing crystals and grant you a wish.”
“Yep, kiddo, just one. Here, you may take one home, if you like.”
I hesitate, but I love anything that seems supernatural. My father is not too pleased with my love for the paranormal. He is constantly warning me to get rid of those insane thoughts of mine, but I had been convinced of the existence of mystical happenings and creatures ever since my encounter with a pixie-like creature I had had, many years ago. But, much later, I wondered if that was just a kid dressed up, a little too early for Halloween.
A voice in my head, some may call it intuition (I guess something like the Peter tingle) tells me to take the one I had first held. I nod to Mr. Burnell and reach for the chosen one, when he holds my hand and remarks, “Missy, you be careful with that. A’ight?” I give him a reassuring smile, thank him and tell him to have a lovely morning.
As I’m walking home, I begin to wonder if this might be a wishing one. The voice replies, “Yeah, maybe, depends on what you believe. What do you really believe?” Good question, I think. I’ve almost made it to the Grocery Store when I hear my name. I stop in my tracks and listen for it again, but it is silent once again, but this felt like the eerie silence that occurs before something unfortunate happens. I hurry towards the store and there it is again. Soft and raspy, “Keith Winston.” With a start, I realize that no one is actually calling my name. It’s all in my head, quite literally. Completely freaked out, I head home to tell Thelma. As soon as I turn around, I’m face to face with a tall woman. She looks about 30 years old, but the gray streaks in her hair say she is much older. She is wearing a black shirt and pencil skirt with black stilettos. Even her makeup is mostly black. I’ve never seen anyone like her. She reminds me of Angelina Jolie in ‘Maleficent 2’. She looks straight into my eyes, as though trying to look into my soul and snatch it right out. I try to move out of the way, but I’m paralyzed with fear and trepidation and my words come out as squawk.
She is extremely silent but her eyes are glinting and her lips are curled into the faintest little smirk, as though mocking my inability to comprehend the situation. Her silence is deafening. I suddenly remember my crystal and try to decide what exactly to wish for, to get me out of here. But there it is again, that voice. Except now, her lips are moving. “Why aren’t you worshiping me mortal?” she said. “Not interested, thanks.” I say casually in my head. “You dare defy me? The Goddess of Death herself?” she bellows glaring at me. I gasp audibly. There is no way she could have read my mind, but when she ‘speaks’ again, I sense Death calling me. I hear her voice in my head. I fear she will claim my life, but what she wants is so much worse.