Long Lost Love

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A prequel to Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, the story explores the character of both the main protagonist in the Raven as well as the girl, Lenore.

Submitted: December 25, 2017

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Submitted: December 25, 2017



Tis upon a midnight dreary, and I ponder, weak and weary. I rotate the mirror between my fingers, shaking violently from my sleep deprivation, terrified to see the man on the other side. The events of the months and years wear down harder on me tonight than they usually do, and my memories play out in the fireplace, dancing tauntingly in the flames. With a great deal of courage, I raise the mirror up to my face, glimpsing a look at my decent, pale face, at my sunken eyes that have seen too many horrors too soon, of my hair, standing up every which way, of my half-shaven face, my hands too numb to use a razor. The nightmares of the daytime follow me around, the ghosts of past experiences, of past friends and foes, consuming my present in their past. 

Around me, the room is dark and still; my heart pulses, and I feel my chest cave in on itself. I hear her voice, soft and high, twisted with the cruel perfection of her face, blurring, leaving my side. My heart, thudding painfully in my chest, creating a dull clank-clanking sound, like chains. Trapped in my delusion. Trapped in my loneliness, after Virginia had left me, in a tunnel that had no light. Closing in. Closer. Closer.

  I scream, throwing the mirror on the floor. The glass shatters spontaneously on the carpet. As if destroying my reflection could destroy my thoughts into oblivion.

 I sigh, shaking my head at my foolishness. The mirror now lays hazardously on the floor, splintering the reflection of the ceiling into a million snapshots of reality. The flames waltz, ghostless, and the room stills to normality once again.

I write another passage, exhaling another shaky breath. Another article, another day of oblivious people buying newspapers, reading the latest of stupidity among these people with half-alive brains. 

  To them, I’m a madman.

  To me, I’m their god.

Outside, the wind rustles nervously, and I shift uncomfortably in the moth-eaten chair of my study. The insulation of my building is nonexistent, and I sit shivering in the dome shaped apartment, glaring out the long windows to the streets, the blinking lampposts covered with early December frost.

 A figure glides outside. My heart skips; I laugh breathlessly. A reaper!—a reaper has come to take me from the sorrows of Earth?Elation bubbles in me, and dread. What must Hell be like? What sins must I have performed to be taken by his own personal angels?

  Light cascades onto the figure from the lamppost. A woman, in a tight-fitting black jacket, hair loose, the monstrously beautiful curls flying like black streamers in the wind. Her beauty seemed out of place in the looming darkness. I stand from my place at my desk, hurrying to the plane of my window, staring at her. What cruel tricks must Tempest be playing on my senses to dress up his little demons in a beautiful lady’s face?

 Pursing her lips, she snuggles in deeper to her jacket, a look of mild thoughtfulness on her face. With a cautious sweep of the outside, she sits onto the cold winter floor, pulls a book from her jacket pocket, and begins to read.

  How fascinating. I peer wondrously at her through the window, gripping the dusty, violet curtains in each hand so hard I worried they would snap, although nothing seems to matter to me at the moment. My heart flutters, and I realize that, just as suddenly she had appeared, I had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

 How fitting, that I have fallen in love with the Devil's demons.

  My feet patter quickly to the door, my hands clumsily sliding on my gloves and overcoat, and I swing the door open with a broad sweep of my shaking hands. 

  The wind seems to weep as I approach the girl, as if the world wishes to warn me the troubles that I may face from talking to one of Tempest's lonely creatures. The light of the lamp bathes me in an odd sense of exposure, as the light would turn my pale complexion to something just as ghastly and as grim as a ghost, washed out in the lamplight. There only lay a few feet between her and me now, and I wonder subconsciously how I would approach a demon, whether I would speak to it—or her—or say nothing at all.

  Shyly, I shift in the cold, and whisper, “Hello

© Copyright 2019 halle schaffer. All rights reserved.

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