The Crossroad Turnaround

Cold As Death

Oh Jude, dear Jude. Do you know what is to come?

They call him Blues Man everywhere he goes, with each instrument that he holds made more beautiful and deadly than a poisoned rose. Some say it is an evil power he possesses, to captivate and entrance all the senses. Others, that it is only one who already harbors within themself a malleable malice that could bear witness to such beauty and think it anything but a gift from the divine. Either way, Blues Man enchants them all the same, recognizing the chant of his alias far more now than his own name, the grandiosity of his sway beginning to lose its weight.
But then, she appears.
Like a glowing, golden sun, warmer and brighter than our own, illuminating the dim room like a hearth in a home. And suddenly, there is meaning once again to his notes.
His gaze remains fixed as she steps forward onto the floor, a wry twinkle in her eye and sharp twist to her ruby lips. His hands have long since stopped needing his visions assistance, and together as if one, Blues Man and the beautiful woman dance through the sound waves like sunlight on the sea, eyes locked and never leaving.
She burns and burns and burns right through him, thawing the heart he hadn't known was frozen. Now it sings a melody that stings as it echoes, calling out for her name and desperately praying she will do the same.
Their wildfire heat carries all through the night. From one place to another, burning ever hotter and more bright. Breathe and sweat mixing, melting on bodies like wax from a feathered wing. An ember ignited by the desires of the flesh it might be, but when the flames finally die down to a gentle flicker, their hearts lay plainly before them, anything but empty. In the wake of the crazed frenzy that burning night made, comes a quiet calm, wrapped in the peaceful sound of gentle ocean waves, soothing and steady. Moonlight lays the dance floor this time and drapes them in silken ivory capes, reigning king and queen of the night as on the soft sand they sway.
But too soon the full moon wanes, silver light fades. With fear and fixation it is replaced, creeping into Blues Man's heart and whispering wicked things that torment relentlessly, nearly succeeding in tearing him apart. The sun rises again and with the pale moon's departure, so too does lovely Adrasteia leave, receding with the tides back to wherever she once had been.
Loyal Jude always waits, and his dear Adrasteia always returns, appearing on the horizon like a goddess being born from the surf. A radiant, glowing pearl far too divine to be stuck in this fucked up world. And every time she goes, poor Jude knows, his need to hold her close, to keep her as his own, will still only grow.
So too does something else. With the emptiness of the horizon capturing all of the Blues Man’s focus, he would soon regret what he then failed to notice: He is not the only one who watches his darling beauty; there is something else there, driven to greed, and writhing with envy.
Cloaked in darkness, yet still standing in plain sight, a corpse filled with worms and dirt, and a god in his own right. To fear him is to be alive, and to offend, to be counting down your time.
Well, with a power so potent and fueled by the passion for his muse whose radiance rivals the divine, poor Jude was always doomed to draw the wrong eye. And Death had grown tired of such a boisterous display of life.
To live as if he is no more of an inconvenience to them than the constant buzzing of a fly, who gave them the right? What gives them the audacity to be mortal, and not afraid to die?
Perhaps it was not a gift after all to shine so shamelessly bright, for the shadows had no choice but to gather, and darkness had been there since that very first night. It had always watched, and in time grown jealous of the admiration such effortless beauty invites. The villain now spying with black eyes, one such pretty little magpie.
The days came and went, but with this full moon, sweet Adrasteia did not come back again. Poor Jude was frantic, searching for the flames in his soul’s fire and coming up with nothing but a bed turned funeral pyre. Then came the news, and the Blues Man no longer had it in him to play the blues.
His heart had never been so cold, for he had lost a kind of warmth that cannot be bought with all the world’s gold. He had no more understanding of the meaning of light, but still his door grew darker on one following frigid night.
There, a presence so vile, so callous and cruel, with a mocking mouth and empty eyes, drowning you in their depthless pools. And standing behind, something fresh and familiar, and lacking any life.
Jude simply asked, not needing to think twice: “What's your price?”
A sound like rattling bones skittered across Jude’s own as the king of decay merely played with his prey. “Oh Jude, sweet Jude. Do you really think that is wise?”
But he could not care less about the consequences of this choice, for all he could think about was the loss of his love’s beautiful voice.
It was with his own that he cried out in pain: “What good does wisdom do when I can no longer hear her say my name? What do I have to fear, when I’ve got no point or purpose to the rest of my years? And what mistakes could she have possibly made, for this, to be how she must pay?”
Oh how does the face of one's darkest sin wear the most rotten grin, filling you with the feeling of deepest dread, mercilessly seeping in. One could hear coming from all across the land, a voice deep as the pits of hell, reprimand: “Your songbird flew far higher than her fragile wings could take. Did you think, that she would not someday be consumed by the waves?”
It didn't matter to Jude whatever might now come of his fate, for any amount of continuation would all be in vain. “Just take anything, you have already stolen what I cannot live without.”
Something shuddered and shaked, Jude unsure if it was him or the ground. “Perhaps that talent of yours would suffice? Surely there is more out there to be found.”
Jude nodded once, willing to give anything for her, without a shadow of a doubt.
No one asked for their advice, but there came an odd fragrance as the faint figure seemed to scream, “Don't do this!”, though they did not make a sound.
Instead, the dark presence before her asks gently, so sweet that it's sickly, “And this you would promise, swear to be as true as a priest is pious?”
The Blues Man seals his fate as he says, bargaining for no more and no less, “Give her back her soul, and you can have what you ask.”
It's been said before that a love that burns hot enough will last, but for even the most scorching of fires, to strike a fair deal with Death, is not so easy of a task.
Thus that he asks with the soft purr of a predator, a smile like that of a Hannya mask, “Oh Jude, poor Jude. Do you know what you have done?” His quick, easy wink, invoking a feeling of finality much like the fire of a gun.
A damp cold wraps around Jude, like a great snake squeezing so hard that he is certain his bones will break. It slithers from his outstretched hand to wrap around his neck, then down across his spine as the Blues Man feels something leave him, far more important than his breath. Then, the presence vanishes, taking with him his pungent darkness, but still leaving behind the scent of decay, coming from the figure whose golden hue has gone grey.
She stands before him, tangible and very real, but it was not just the Blues Man's talent that the trickster did steal.
Yes, sweet Adrasteia does once again breathe, but her flesh crumbles around her, cold, putrid, and rotting. And in those once wildfire eyes, there is no more heat. There is nothing but dust upon her breath when her crooked jaw moves, for the desperate carelessness of her lover cost her much more than she ever had to lose. And as for Jude, it is now only in his frozen heart that he will ever again hear the blues.
It remains true, for all their years too few: It does not matter if you are wicked, whether living or dead. For in the land of eternal sunshine, there is no rest. But under the moon's cool gaze lies the bitter truth – love, is not enough to save you. That thing burning like a bomb held precariously in your chest? Its flames destroy, and leave behind nothing but ash and echoes. A pain that only mortality knows. Absence and memories carried by those who eventually grow to rather forget. A catastrophic passion, a solo aching to be a duet. A once fervent heart, now cold as death.

And on and on it goes.

Cold As Death

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