Page 69 of Chasing Eternity
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In the heart of this hidden room, the air is heavy, charged with an energy that speaks of centuries-old secrets and a grief so profound, it seems to seep from the ceiling, the floor, the frescoed walls, and the very altar, we use to shield ourselves.
Huddled beside Braxton, barely daring to breathe, I hear the gruff rasp of a match. Within seconds, the room is illuminated with softly glowing light. Peering around the side of the rose quartz slab, I watch as Arthur busies himself lighting the rest of the candles.
With a solemnity that verges on ceremonial, he sets a single candle on the floor, followed by another, then another. Arranging them into a careful circle, he positions himself at the center.
When he turns his back toward us, the haunting melody ofMoonlight Sonatasuddenly blares through the chamber, catching me completely off guard.
It’s the same piece he played on repeat during our Van Gogh—themed dinner, a selection I naively assumed was chosen because it paired well with the food and the melancholic atmosphere ofStarry Night.
I should’ve known then that nothing Arthur does is ever by chance.
Slowly, Arthur begins to undress, and my immediate reaction is to look away, grant him privacy for this ritual that feels as sacred as time itself.
I bow my head, desperately trying to hide my face, but the movement causes the slick material of my jacket to emit a loud, crinkling noise. In my panic, my grip falters, and my umbrella slips from my grasp, crashing to the floor with a resounding crack that reverberates like a thunderclap, shaking me to my core.
Arthur freezes, his back still toward us, as he jerks his head in our direction.
The tension in the room thickens, my pulse quickening as seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity. His narrowed eyes scan the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across his face.
I hold my breath, heart pounding in my ears, as Braxton squeezes my hand, his grip tense.
Finally, after what feels like an infinite wait, Arthur resumes his ritual, seemingly dismissing the noise. For a man who prides himself on not missing a thing, this strikes me as alarmingly strange.
But maybe that’s just the power of his own bottomless grief. Like the leaning house sculpture outside, it can easily distort your reality.
Or maybe Arthur knows we’re here and wants us to see this.
Maybe our viewing this performance of grief only adds to the punishment he so obviously seeks.
With the gentle, rolling strains ofMoonlight Sonataplaying in the background, Arthur continues to disrobe until each piece of clothing has fallen to the floor. Then, lowering himself to his knees, he presses his forehead briefly to the ground, before laying his body flat against the chilled stone beneath him.
With his arms stretched out to his sides, he releases a single, soul-shaking wail that resonates deep in my bones. Seeing him in this act of prostration, I sense it’s less an homage to the divine, and more a profound gesture of penance for perceived wrongdoings.
When Arthur finally rises and turns toward us, Braxton and I watch in horror as the candlelight illuminates a sight so grotesque it defies belief, straining every nerve in my body to stifle a scream.
Beside me, Braxton lets out a small, involuntary gasp, and I shudder to think what must be going through his mind at the terrible sight before us.
There, emblazoned across the center of Arthur’s chest, is a swath of skin that is jarringly, shockingly alien.
It’s a piece of flesh that categorically should not exist in that space.
As we watch Arthur step forward, the light casts an even harsher truth, exposing a reality too grim to deny.
The tattoo once marking Braxton’s grandfather’s chest—a Flower of Life symbol that, according to him, Arthur had cruelly excised—now grotesquely adorns Arthur’s own skin.
The fusion of flesh and ink stands as a testament to something beyond obsession, as astonishing as it is macabre and revolting.
Arthur approaches the mural, commanding the space with a presence that’s both haunted and yearning. He stands before the image of the golden-haired woman, her beauty rendered with such vibrancy, she seems on the verge of breaking free from her painted confines. Speaking to her as though she can hear him, Arthur’s voice is a fervent whisper, a desperate plea.
“Soon, my love, we will be together,” he says. “As soon as Natasha brings me the Star, everything will align once more. Our world, our lives, the errors of my past—all will be rectified. And we shall begin anew—our perfect love reborn, our cherished family restored—as if we were granted a second dawn. And you, my love, deserve nothing less. This time, I promise you, I will not fail you.”
Then, with the same solemn reverence in which the ritual began, we watch as Arthur methodically dresses, extinguishes the candles, and puts them back in their place.
As the final flame dies, Beethoven’s opus comes to an end, and darkness envelops the room once again.
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