Memoirs of a Gothic Soul - sample Chapter

Chapter 1

Here I sit in the seat that I have occupied at every council meeting for the past sixty years. I am growing tired of the monotony, yet I am anxious that the balance is shifting.
Infractions are plentiful in these days; the once trustworthy have become erratic, and bright-line rules are amendable. Sighing, I am weary from the fear and the dreams.
She is beautiful in my dreams. Her hair is dark like her mother’s will be, but her eyes are her very own. They are the prettiest blue and encased in an ebony fringe that make them appear almost polished, nearly perfect and striking. I love her; I want to be there for her momentous birth, but it will never be allowed. Our relationship will have to wait.
I sigh once again because I am deeply wounded by these dreams; these painful prophetic glances into the future promise little happiness. I am heartbroken. How can I ever save her from the trials, the sadness and the utter abandonment she will face? How can I sit and wait? I will have to fester with this future for another fifty years, praying that God will spare her this burden. I pray that He will forget the promise, a compromise made without much thought, I assume.
Now, as I wring my hands, I am startled to see him. I am not sure why it is to be expected. He is royalty and his place on council is a given. Still, I feel a wave of misery come over me, almost choking me, and I can feel the pressure as it wraps itself around my throat.
Why her? Why is this sweet baby in my dreams with the face full of beauty and wisdom promised to him? I turn my head to remove him from my sight.
He has had quite a blemished past. I turn to face him once more; his beauty makes me dizzy. He stands tall, arrogant and handsome in his cassock with his arms crossed as he listens to his father speak to the council chair.
To think the beautiful baby in my dreams is already betrothed to that man’s heart makes me nauseous. How this happened, I will never know. I sense trickery and dark magick, but I dare not question God. That would be treason.
Once more, I turn to face him. He now has his arm wrapped around the waist of Anton’s daughter. She is evil, manipulative and at least four centuries older. I never knew her mother’s identity; some say she was a Guardian, while others say she was a mortal with royal blood. I think it matters little.
Her father is nefarious, a man who loves sin above all things, and Sasha is the image of her father. They share similar flaws; they love the darkness and work towards making the world a more unbalanced place. I loathe them. They are the reason my baby will suffer.
“You are lost in another world, love. What has captured your attention? As always, I covet them,” he whispers softly behind me.
I turn to face my husband. “I am, as always, held captive to my nature,” I answer, unwilling to divulge my prophetic dreams to him. I love my husband but do not trust him. He is anything but faithful. Whose ear he whispers in the rapture of passion is always my concern. He is never one to be discerning.
“I must excuse myself; I am summoned by the chair,” he says.
“I will follow,” I reply, looking for an excuse to speak to the man who is glued to Sasha.
Hand in hand, my husband and I walk through the crowds of people. As I approach the chair and his son, I become nervous and angry. The mere sight of Sasha glued to this man disturbs me; she is evil personified, as she seems intent on corrupting him further.
Now, standing near him, I am even more confused. I am almost enchanted, though I wish to destroy him. He has an unusual energy about him; it seems to pulsate. I smile, and he looks into my eyes and reaches for my hand. At first, I do not wish to have him hold and kiss my hand; I do not want to see his sins or his future. The future he will share with my precious baby.
“Your Grace,” I say, slightly genuflecting as the custom dictates.
“It’s a pleasure, Lady Olga. My father speaks of both your greatness and beauty.” He smiles, kisses my Guardian ring and turns his gaze to his father.
“That is true, my son, I have said all those things! Lady Olga, as always, it is a pleasure to be in your company.” His father bows, takes my extended hand and also kisses my ring.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I say, bowing back. “Your son seems to be enjoying his new seat on the council.”
Jozef looks at me and smiles, though it is forced. I can feel his worry.
“Yes, I am very proud to have him serve. I believe he will do great things.”
But not with that wretched whore by his side, I think to myself.
“Yes, I see greatness in his future as well,” I say, feeling horrible.
Jozef looks at me intently, for he knows of my gifts.
“I will cherish that sentiment, Madame; I thank you.” He nods his head.
I stand statuesque for some time, listening to the politics of our world being debated. Despite my influential position on the council, I am not interested in the conversation; instead, I am lost in the future, the bleak desolate wasteland that will become common for my baby. She will never know peaceful times, not a moment without worry. She will be born with this burden. My heart cracks once again; I can almost hear wind gust through the fissures that are now so large.
As each day comes to a close and the moon rises in the inky sky, I cry. I cry for all her pain, all her suffering, all the weight that will be placed so unjustly upon her. I feel responsible and I worry that our bond will doom her future. How can I live knowing she will bear this burden? How can I keep my wisdom silent and allow her to suffer without intervening? The pain of this revelation overwhelms me; however, I know it is slight compared with what I will experience once she arrives.
When he holds my hand, I saw her grown up. It startles me at first, but there is no mistake, as I would know her eyes anywhere. She was beautiful, perfect, but not human in his vision. In my vision, she stands tall and pallid except for her flushed cheeks. I am overcome with sorrow, full of pity for this pretty and pathetic girl who stands hand in hand with this sinful man. I pray he will repent before she comes to us.
I decide to be imprudent since I may never have another chance to alter fate. If I continue to suffer silently, I will surely murder her myself.
I walk over to his side.
“May I have a word with you in private, Your Grace?”
He looks down upon me and gazes into my eyes before answering.
“What do you wish to speak about?”
He asks as if my request was frivolous, and his arrogance angers me.
“I wish to discuss your future,” I state boldly.
Sasha looks at me with unreserved contempt. Her attractiveness melts into hatred, as disgust is evident on her face.
“He has no interest in your craft, Madame. I believe your talents are false.”
“It will serve you well to think I am a charlatan, for your future is bleak,” I say to her, not breaking my stare.
Her lips curl and her evil is evident. “You and your kind are a disgrace to this council. I agree with my father; your presence is unnecessary.
I stare at her and I want to use magick. I want to smother her pride underneath my greatness, but I choose poise over overt displays of power. My struggle is truly great.
I turn my eyes to his beauty once again and try to soothe his anxiety through magick and charm.
“Please, Your Grace, we need to speak.”
I can feel his struggle. He is aware that I am sincere; he can feel my tension because he knows that I am always in communion with the future. His father has often sought after me for magick and counsel.
“Will you excuse me, darling?” he says to Sasha, and her face grows hard and twisted.
“You are a fool to entertain her lunacy,” she hisses as she storms off into the crowd.
“Well, Your Majesty, you must not disappoint me, for I am truly in trouble now!” He laughs, making light of the situation.
I wish I could share his carefree outlook.
“We must find a quiet place, Your Grace; what I have to say is quite secretive. It is not for the masses.” I look at him without expression.
He begins to smile, but soon it fades. Finally, he appears to understand my seriousness.
“Follow me,” he tells me as he walks toward the door.
For the past fifty years, we have held our yearly council meeting in his father’s castle. It is as opulent as it is large, and Jozef is always a gracious host. He offers rooms in his home for those who come from far away.
Only once a year does the entire government meet. Only if some crime were committed that required a full council for judgment do we meet more often. Usually, most infractions of our code of ethics are dealt with under the authority of the local government, which makes governing such a large world much more manageable.
After a lengthy walk through the candlelit castle, we finally make our way to a large room in the west end. It is spectacularly decorated with large tapestries, gilded framed oil paintings—which are mostly of mythological themes—and ornate Gothic furniture. I watch him as he goes over to a large hand-carved mahogany cabinet, opens the door and pulls out two tumblers.
“What may I offer you to drink?” he asks, pouring a generous amount of Glenlivet scotch into the glass.
“Vodka,” I answer.
He turns to me and smiles. “Just as I expected.”
He calls for one of the servants, who soon returns with a bottle of Polish rye vodka in a frost-covered bottle. He pours the frigid contents into the crystal glass.
He walks toward me where I sit with my crimson ball gown spread over the loveseat. He hands me the glass and sits down in one of the carved thrones. He finally relaxes, crosses his legs, and takes a long sip of his scotch and smiles.
“Well, what is so important that we have excused ourselves from the festivities?”
I take a healthy sip of the vodka. “I’m not sure how to begin. I suppose I will start by saying that you are in grave spiritual danger. You must separate yourself from Sasha; she will steal your soul, for she is poison. Surely you know this.”
He laughs. “You sound like my father.”
“You should listen to him. He is aged and wise, and a soul like Sasha’s is easy to read.”
“I believe I am old enough to make a sound decision, but thank you for your concern. Are we finished?” he asks me as he stands. “Not quite. I implore you to sit!” My voice becomes stern and dark. “I am not here to discuss things of irrelevance, Your Grace. I am here to bring you news of your future. And because your future includes one of my descendants, I have a vested interest in your soul. You will listen. You will heed my warning, for I bring you important news.”
He slowly sits and his expression becomes soft and interested. For the first time, he loses the brash demeanor he has previously displayed.
I relax. I take another glance at one of the large oil paintings—it is disturbing. I wish he had not chosen this room because its art infuriates me.
“Do you dream of a woman?” I ask bluntly.
He laughs wickedly. “I dream of many women.”
I look at him sternly. “Stop playing games with me. I know you dream of a particular woman,” I allege with fury.
He once again becomes serious. “Yes, if you must know, I have dreamt of a particular woman for many years.”
I look up at the paintings as I sip my drink. “That woman…is she the woman you dream of?” I ask, staring at her face.
He recoils at my words. “How could you know that?”
“I saw her with you today. You were holding hands in my vision.” I again look at her face in the beautiful portrait; I would know her eyes anywhere.
“You know her?” He asks as he jumps out of the chair.
“Yes, yes, I do.” I answer quietly.
“Where is she? Where can I find her?” He is frantic as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“You will have to wait, darling, she has not come to us yet.”
He stops and looks at the paintings and then at me. “Why are you tormenting me? Where is she? I need to see her!” he says as his voice rises with an accusatory tone.
It is at this moment I realize I am correct. She belongs to him, and there is nothing I can do. This certainty makes me ill, and I can actually feel the vomit burn my throat. I am never wrong, but there is always hope, the hope I may be reading the future incorrectly, that I am misguided.
He screams as he stands over me, “Where is she?”
He is obsessed with her, and again, another fracture in my heart forms.
“Why won’t you answer me, goddammit?”
I wince at his blasphemy. “She is not yet born!” I finally bellow in frustration.
He stares at me in shock. “What?”
“She is not on this earth yet. You will have to wait half a century to see her,” I quietly explain.
He looks at me in disbelief. I can feel his heart break; he misses her, though she does not yet exist. I truly want to soothe him, to make him feel better, but I know I cannot.
“A half century!” he whispers as he stands underneath one of the exquisite paintings.
She appears in at least seven of the paintings that hang in this room, and as I look from one to another, I feel my stomach turn. I now know this is something beyond my prophecy and understanding, and it is of a heavenly nature.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
He turns to me; his face is sad and tormented. “I love her, I really love her.”
“I know,” I answer, crying. I cannot help myself. He will be the only happiness in her life, and at this moment, I honestly hate him.
“I paint her all the time. She wakes me from sound sleep. I see her often; yet you tell me she does not exist?” The agony on his face is heartfelt.
I sit there feeling ill. How can I assuage the pain that chokes him? Seeing his anguish, I now start to love him—how can I not? He loves my little girl.
“She comes with sorrow,” I tell him as I try to hold back the flood of tears.
He turns to face me. “I don’t care; I’ll take her any way she comes.”
“She will need you; she will depend on you for strength, and it will not be easy.”
Again his blue eyes penetrate my soul. “I don’t care. I love her! I am willing to give my life for her!”
He is ravenous, but I am not surprised.
“You must reconcile with God and change your life; she will come to us in the state of grace, but I fear your lifestyle is not conducive.”
He turns to me; finally, his eyes are calm and remorseful.
“I love her, Lady Olga. I will do what you tell me.”
“You need to love her enough to change. You cannot continue on this path.” I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him, as I am overcome by his love for her.
“I feel as though I am missing something, as if I can never achieve happiness.” He pulls away and looks at me. “I will never hurt her, you know that?”
I look at him and smile. “Would you like to see her? Would you like to see the two of you together?” I ask.
He nods his head.
I place my hands upon his head and breathe deeply. I concentrate on transferring the image of them into his mind. I have to, for he must repent. I believe that if he sees the two of them together, it will appease him and allow him to see the happiness and fulfillment that awaits him.
After a few moments, he sighs, overcome, and quickly turns away out of embarrassment, for he is consumed by love.
“She is more beautiful than I have envisioned her,” he says.
“She is beautiful inside and out, yet she will be fractured when she comes to you; it is to be this way. I hope you have the strength to make her whole. She will need you.”
He turns to me. “I will do everything I can. I have to ask you if she will accept my gift. Please at least tell me this.” His eyes are anxious and pleading; I know the origin of his pain.
“Yes, without hesitation,” I answer.
Later, once I am comfortably at home, I go out into my herb garden and grab a hearty handful of lavender. I sit down and look up at the full moon. A red haze shrouds its normal pallid state, and I shudder. I know the trouble. I know the foreboding. It is all now coming to fruition. He will wait; he loves her already, though she is merely a spirit, a figment of his imagination.
I breathe deeply and blow onto the candles embedded in the earth around me, and they quickly pop with flame. I gaze into their center and close my eyes.
I see her. She is little and pretty as she runs through a field of clover, her hair long and wild.
Then, I see her years later. She is sad, her face red and swollen from hurt. My stomach drops, for she is indeed pathetic. If I could soothe her pain, if I could only wipe away her tears or cast a spell to protect her. But I am unable. My hands are tied; I am not allowed to alter fate. Instead, I will have to watch her suffer.
I crumble the lavender in my hand and whisper a spell of protection. Not for my baby, but for him. Now, he is my focus. I will follow him in spirit.
I look upon the crimson moon and sigh deeply and sadly. It has come; the earth will bleed, and people will cry in pain. But my baby will come to save them.

I was tired, drunk, and anxious. I looked at Patrick, blurred and smoky as the cool breeze wrestled my hair into knots. I inhaled deeply, hoping the crisp spring air would remove the dizziness the alcohol had induced. I then leaned back into the leather seat and stared out the dirty windshield as Young’s “Helpless” cried from the muffled car stereo.
“I can’t wait to graduate,” I said.
“Me, too. Hey, Dija, did you see Jess? She looked really bad tonight,” he remarked looking straight ahead, knuckles clenched tightly on the wheel.
I finally broke my stare and looked out the open window. Main Street seemed to just gently waltz by; Patrick drove deliberately slow to compensate for the pitcher of beer in his belly.
“Yeah, I unfortunately saw her. She’s forever broke and asking for cigarettes,” I sighed. “God, I’m going to be hungover tomorrow. I shouldn’t have drunk all that bourbon,” I murmured.
“You’ll be fine. Eat something and take a few Advil,” he replied.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, not believing that the concoction would thwart the pain surfacing in my head.
Patrick rounded the corner of my street and pulled in front of my house. I looked quickly at the clock on his dashboard, which read 2:17 a.m. “Ugh, I have a 9:20 exam tomorrow,” I whined.
“Hey, Dija?” I heard the pain in his voice, so I tried to face him.
“What?”
“Are you going to be all right?” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, I’ll take the damn Advil and drink a lot of water,” I said.
“That’s not what I mean.” He glared, his stare lasting with worry.
I sighed, for I knew I had been self-destructive these past few months. John and I had broken off our two-year relationship, and my family was shocked and disappointed.
“Despite everything, I feel pretty good. It was just a lot for everyone else to swallow,” I said, desperate to avoid the conversation.
He lit another cigarette and handed it to me. I took a deep drag, letting the menthol coat my lungs, and exhaled. He continued to stare.
I knew Patrick wondered how I was coping after running into John this evening. John never censored anything, so I was not surprised he embarrassed the hell out of me in front of my friends at the club.
“I’m fine; really I am—embarrassed, but fine. When he acts this way it just cements my belief that he will never change. Screw him! His days of bullying me are over.”
Patrick’s stare was still unbreakable. His Irish green eyes fixated on my fractured self-esteem.
“Hey, I never was a fan of John—that bastard had this coming. You couldn’t continue down that self-destructive path any longer; it would have killed you. You deserve someone who will love you unconditionally.”
My body stiffened. I was still embarrassed that John was able to intimidate me with physical and emotional abuse. For two years, I kept the issues silent until he became brave enough to be abusive in public.
“Bottom line, Dija, you’re better off. You need to work on yourself. You need to find whatever it is you’re looking for,” he finished.
I glanced out the windshield and saw the moon, full and pregnant, wispy clouds pirouetting near its underbelly.
“Shit, I won’t be sleeping tonight,” I complained.
Patrick leaned forward and glanced up to take notice of the full moon. “Oh you Slavs, always into your gypsy voodoo.”
“Shut up, you Irish drunk.” I tossed my cigarette out the open window and grabbed the door handle. “I got to go.” But, I then felt bad that he was so worried that I swung my arms back around his neck and kissed his prickly face, red from the sting of alcohol and nerves.
“Good luck fending off the hangover,” he yelled.
I didn’t turn back. I was too tired to move my body in another direction.