There Are Chords in the Hearts of the Most Reckless

The chamber was grotesque. The curtains were a textured black on black brocade. A settee rested in the the north-eastern corner. The wood, charred black. The satin, black shadows. The flat black of decayed skin adorned the damaged and bruised walls. An ebony clock with hands of black slept in fits, nestled between two windows. The windows, the sickening color of congealed blood. The glass, almost melting as a fiery, vermillion light poured through the crimson panes and onto the room of gloom and death. And I entered in silence. My ears heard naught, but beneath my skin I could feel rushing and pounding. My fellow stared at my paling frame. Hands raised in front of dirty mouths that coughed out dark puddles to cover the sound of buzzing rumor. And I heard naught. Cradled between the guests were obsidian monuments to the bizarre. Sable statues of the madly disfigured. Abandoned limbs darkened with rot and mounted on plaques of onyx. Vessels of inky liquid allowed fingers and eyes to drown in their waters. I looked on in disgusted silence. The band played endlessly, but I heard naught. Fingers traipsed patterns on piano teeth. Bows ripped across the veiny string of violins. Gloved hands rested on wanton waists, guiding a feverish waltz. And naught but silence touched my ears. The blaring quiet was utter and absolute. And my mind ached from the lack of sound. My being begged to conjure even the echo of a hushed whisper. But I watched in a noiseless horror as the dancers frolicked into unblushing celebration. And though I heard naught, I saw all at once, the room at large turn to the west. And the waltz was ceased as they gazed on in foreboding trepidation. And nestled between the ruby flushed glass, in one of its insomnia-ridden waking moments, the pendulum in the shadow clock swung, rapid and surreal. And the room stood paralyzed. The faces surrounding me, dazed and overcome by sounds I heard naught. And all at once, from every pore in each body, blood leaked. Flaming pinpricks dropping crimson across the dance floor. And the skin paled. And the mouths poured blood. And the ears gushed violent red. And the eyes dropped crimson tears. And the room fell dark as I watched. And each waxen figure fell seizing. And in every black corner lay wan corpses, freckled in red. And my own skin dabbled the floor in tiny constellations flowing out my pestilential veins. And I heard naught. And I seized in hysteric fits. Writhing in pale terror. And the knell of the clock rang out across the scene. And I heard naught.