Йосиф Инсана - يوسف إنسان - ジョス・インサナ

Giuseppe Insana - 墨白

poweroff
Writing in English

Antoine

Antoine had been for too long buried, in his velvet coffin, dreaming of blood while Sunlight condemned him to rest, to escape, to death nearly. A thousand years that day had longed but eventually dusk was coming. The sun was setting, fast, and Night would soon be there.

[...]

He opened his eyes.
They shone red in the gloom of his coffin.
Sun had set.
He moved the lid, but so weak he was. And so thirsty... of life, of blood.
He finally got out and raised his head, fiery even after all the centuries of prisony, and saw the moon, his first love.

I went to help him, moved by his misery, so pale and lifeless he was.
So helpless. Qualities that do not fit to a true ancient vampire.
Hence I read him a poisoned book, the same book that had poisoned my soul many years ago.
His Teacher's words gave him back spirit and lymph.
"A form of reverie, a malady of dreaming".
His undead life demanded victims, he demanded life, on which to feast. A woman, many women: pulsing preys, juicy, easily attracted into his webtrap, into the idyll.

His Teacher's words dressed the change, epigram to his new glory.

"He was prisoned in thought.
Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away.
He healed the soul, by means of the senses".

He could finally smile. To her.

Antoine knows women. Antoine knows their spirit. He's an artist of seduction, an artist which carves female flesh, forging masterpieces.
And he knew her very well. He had seduced her many times but not enough as to be satisfied.
He desired her once more, desired her body and the beat of her blood. He desired to hear her sigh, to see her face twisted in the artistic blend of pain and pleasure - practically indistinguishable if really intense. He desired to command her, order her to undress, to wave her body in the dance of passion; for him... for him alone...

He wore a rose at his buttonhole and walked in the night, cleaving the darkness.
The sound of his boots and cane echoed across the alleys of the marble city.



Translated from the Italian: Antoine

The son of Death

Death, the silent reaper, once desired life, the life she never had, the life she would never have. She wished a son, but she couldn't be pregnant.
She had a long time to think, alone, while doing her job. She found the way. Her job suggested it.

A clear April night, on the road some cars.
She looked at them, she chose one. Was it a random choice or did she peek in and decide which? Anyway, the choice was done. A young man with crisp gold hair, light blue eyes.


* * *

    "He died that night.
Car accident, they said, just like any other. Lucky boy, he came out alive, they said. So lucky he survived... that, they said, pointing their hand at what had been his car. They'll tell you the story if you ask them.
    But I know the truth. Listen to me! He died that night.
It was the only possible way for Her to have a child. A young man died, a new son was born. And the proof is in what the son then did.
    How is it possible, you ask me?
I don't know. I wondered long myself. I thought about... exchange of souls? About... what do you call it? Metempsych... Damn, can't remember. Nevermind. She can. She is powerful, you know?
    What? Ah, the guy survived, yes. I told you already. Broke both legs though.
What did he do? Oh, I'll tell you another time, I'm tired now, I must sleep. No, really, I must sleep.
    Go and ask someone else. Everyone knows here. But they don't believe who he really is. They don't believe me when I say who's the Mother, and why She did that. They call me a crazy old man...
Yes, 'bye."


* * *

She nursed her son in pain and sorrow. He grew fast, knowing the suffering and the tears. It was all she knew, she couldn't have taught him differently.
Those are the only things she knows. Devoid of emotions, ignorant of what is love or what is hatred. She just does her job, she uses the scythe.
And she knows pain and suffering because she saw them oh so many times. She rarely saw happiness or love. Too rarely to be able to learn their meaning. If she can learn it at all.
Her son will tell her what is this thing called "life". Perhaps she gave him birth for this very reason. Now her son explores the world, learns and feels. Something she could never do.
But he will tell her everything one day. She already misses him, she misses him always, her son... and one day she won't be able to bear it anymore and will visit him and call him to her.
He will tell her and she will listen with attention, maybe even she will learn some of it. And maybe, maybe even she will feel.
Now she just waits, silent and alone. She waits because she knows that she won't have other children. This is her only opportunity so she must allow him to... to live. To learn and to feel.

 

I know she feels the absence, even if she doesn't know it. She misses her son but hasn't understood that nostalgia is a feeling. She doesn't realize she already feels.
But I will tell her, I will teach her. I miss her too, my mother.

(May 9th, 1997)

Index of selected writing

Deathson [May97]
Antoine [Jun98] (TR)

(TR) marks a translation: a story originally written in a different language.