The Legend of Siren, by Aakanksha Chakraborty

The metallic tang of blood blended with a strange yet enticing scent of fresh oil paints, inflating the room. It was cold. Strangely and unreasonably so, it was midsummer; the world outside sweating into a dark night. The walls were strangely frosty. But what could they do? They had witnessed a lot. Witnessed sights so sacred and hymns so cursed, leading into an endless path of dread. Their quiet wails were gone unheard, the helplessness, the despair, feelings which often took a form; flesh and bones, blood and tears, sobs and screams mingled with a sense of dread. Humans; who were aware of the cruelty of their fate.

Gut wrenching wails echoed throughout the room against a backdrop of piano. A striking pair; pitiful but alluring. It was a woman, her face streaked with tears of sorrow, denial and dread etched onto every curve of her face. She was thrashing desperately, like a wounded animal. At the mercy of the "monster", even if the word was quite foreign to him. His face was etched, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, crystals of sweat stuck against the shivering cold. Bliss and passion was evident in his grace as his fingers, slender and pale like a skeleton's, danced skillfully on the piano keys. The woman's desperate words fell on deaf ears - “What have I ever done wrong to you?”- a desperate attempt at seizing control of the situation, but ironically unintelligible.

The music swiftly came to halt, tears sprang down the woman's cheek again, lips parted in what seemed like a silent scream or plead; it was hard to distinguish. The verdict was given long ago - when the intoxicating fumes of chloroform invaded her senses. Destroyed it from within like the rot it was, till she was nothing but a boneless prey. Back in that dark alleyway, they said in hushed whispers, resided a monster who fed on humane fears. 

The man blinked open his eyes. The blues of his iris glazed just like the ocean, moonlight spilling and reflecting a strange echo of beauty. The woman's throat contracted, tears momentarily stopping. The man looked angelic, serene almost. But the blues vanished into a never ending pit, the serenity hiding his absence of soul. His features were strangely humane, but was he? His eyes drifted onto the woman. The temperature deflated further, the glass window panes frosting. His fingers abruptly left the piano keys. The woman tried to shrink away. To shrink till nothing was left of her and she was diminished to a faint entity in the room; nothing but alive. His hand stopped mid air. Then deliberately dove closer to her and he placed it on her cheek, as if nursing a wounded animal who wouldn't come out of its burrow. 

His lips curled up in the slightest trace of a smile: a tender smile, a loving smile. The woman's face softened. Her tears had stopped, just the dusty traces of its  path traced her cheek. 

His words swiftly cut through the silence that had cocooned the room - "Dear, do not fear." He said.  The woman's gaze fixed on his, unblinking and constant. "For I do understand your fears, your tears, your need to get back home for your father awaits." The woman's eyes widened briefly before she shook her head, desperately. The kind that claws at the base of your stomach, churning painfully. The kind one feels on meeting a man who speaks their language after long, painful days of wandering broken in a land of foreigners. The man was finally speaking her language. Her eyes held the hope faintly similar to Orpheus’ when he thought he could bring back his beloved from the dead. From Hades’ very own empire. 

The man resumed, tugging a lone strand of  hair behind her ear - “I see you for the lone daughter you are. Ariadne's tears bleed through your scar. For your father has travelled to a land far away and your mother resides in a palace that doesn't have your name engraved.” She unconsciously leaned forward, heart thumping loud enough to tear through the suffocating cover of her ribs and skin for an escapade. She heard him like a small child anticipating the myths of the monster in the dark.

The man gently probed his fingers against her skin. Her skin, a tapestry of warmth and softness. His other hand snuck behind his cloak, "I see you for the lover clawing at your heart, the need to burn her and reside on her pedestal. Beside your beloved for whom you long and pray." Her eyes started glistening, her brows furrowed and her face etched in a disbelief that inched closer to devotion. From behind his cloak he had drawn a dagger; glinting like a Wolf's fang under the dim glow of the moon. "Don't you wish for it too, love? To destroy the lives of saints and sinners. For they have hurt your poor heart. To drain the lives of the woman whose scent lingered in your father's bed but never quite your mother's? Or the woman who links her arm with your beloved.” Whimpers left the woman's lips as tears spilled down her cheeks yet again, this time out of a strange devotion blooming in her chest for this monster of the dark, for the kind man who sat in front of her. His hand snaked towards her neck. Her senses overwhelmed by her own desires, narrated by this man, whose words dripped nectar of the gods wherever it went. Whom she had once mistaken to be a monster. He was the mirror that reflected her cracks as the rivers that ran through heaven. She was disillusioned and blinded by her very own self. How cruel. 

"Do you not wish for it too, my child? To let go of your mind and finally let your heart up front? For someone must." He pressed the dagger deeper against the silk of her skin, droplets of crimson escaped the valley of her neck. “But you're too weak.” His eyes lost the earlier warmth. The ocean drained into a pitless abyss. But she? Oh lord, she had found her God!

He drove the dagger deeper into her neck, a sickening squelch bounced off the walls and echoed throughout. Skin tearing and blood flowing freely as if it had been restrained for too long. The pain etched on her face was washed over by the devotion her gaze carried. He swiftly withdrew the dagger and suddenly he pierced the blade up to the hilt in her neck, blood flowing obscenely around the blade. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear "Rest, my child". Her frame went rigid, lips fell open in a silent scream swallowed by the void in him, crashing over the battleground, a tragedy no different from Patroclus' .

The man delicately touched the offering meant for him, dripping down his arm and staining his cloak with its hues. With trembling hands he smeared it over his face; eyes, nose, chin. Anywhere. Face contorted in pleasure. Breaths disguising itself into short gasps. A guttural whimper erupted from his throat as he reached his peak.

The offering had pleased him.

A perfect pair isn't it? An immortal being of myth , re-awakened in flesh and bones and a foolish human; driven by the depths of her soul to her despair?

About the author:

Aakanksha, draped in guilty pleasures, is usually awake at 4 a.m.-researching philosophers with zero relevance to her syllabus. She writes about people losing everything (except their fashion sense), and obsesses over every new chess move she learns. Her favorite genre is beautiful downfall, preferably with a glass of coke