Kill Or Be Killed.

By Kayal S

A congested amphitheatre, bursting at the seams, rose up from the regal terrain at my feet, cramped within velvet heels, geometric and unnatural to my naked iris, in comparison to my furnished and embellished physique, oriented and abated to fall under the pretentious matrix of the paradox that is our civilisation rationalised by competition. The baroque gown that hugged my skin, with its minute embroideries of flamboyant gold thread and fixtures of pearl and gem, attracted many eyes as it caressed the mahogany tiles with every stride of the waltz, the bold tonal value in the palette and the vibrancy of the hues oscillating throughout the arena. Often considered the quintessential royal colour, purple’s association with royalty dates back to ancient times. The dye was extremely rare and expensive to produce, making it a symbol of luxury and nobility, just as it is now in the cameras galore in the corners of La Grande Falls. Upon my throne at the head of the table, my strikingly midnight blue eyes gazed over the public, convocating in an unspoken manner with every gentlemen and lady who passed with admiration or rather envy undisguised and discernible in the folds that adorn their skin, spreading like wildfire with every touch and dabble.

Excusing myself from the lavish table, lucidly and fervently stacked with china tea sets, ceramic plates and truly silverware, I made my way across the polished floor, shimmering underneath the incandescence of the artificial lights…for a mere moment at the least…

The room was instantaneously plunged into a sea of darkness, no flicker, no warning…

The elimination of the internal radiance, encourages the outside’s tempest, the high glass and crystal structures beamed through refracting the serrated angular edges through their  transparent obstructions, a symphony orchestrated by timed claps of thunder and the illustration of nature’s neon fireworks in the night sky. The moon was entirely submerged in a cover of nimbostratus, a blur in the canvas of artistic morals.

But the outside’s pleasure and peace, is a staggering contrast to the inside’s panic, or maybe it was just my instinct of homeostasis triggering a typhoon in my chest cavity and circulating the blood in my veins and pumping my heart at a million miles per hour. It took me seconds to realise it went quiet… too quiet…

Looking around with bewilderment, I inferred in shock after a brief stage of denial that everyone around me was…was…nonexistent! Just a breath ago the crowd was a hustle and bustle of the populous of people entertaining and fueling the life of the party and an exhale after it’s the literary definition of “the quiet before the storm”?

Twirling and twisting, with no particular reason and evidence, my breath heavy and anxiety flooding my mind and taking overwhelming control of my motions. Little did I know, a guiding hand will show me my direction soon to come.

My orientation and posture, in renaissance to my position, was soon anchored, in a gory way… My next movement landed me in a pool of liquid shining and bright in the twilight dusk, a shade unbeknownst and puzzling, but with more assiduous and scrupulous observation and understanding, a scarlet divination entered consciousness sculpting evermore. With a gasp and a shudder I mustered the courage to step back, a shiver ran down my spine and escaped through my external limbs jolting me alert with a spark of electricity. Blood…

It flows, glides, trickles and drizzles a cascade of the embers of dawn, solid, daring and intrepid yet a symbol of fear and dread. It swam in a stream in a disposition correct to the northwest, coming to a hovering stop in front of a silhouette of a man…

“Sir” I whispered, not sure of my decision and destination but was convinced purely by his state and his weak but willing exposure of: help…

Without a  word said or needed I rushed  to his side, kneeling down in the glaze of candied apple, soaking into the fabric of my ensemble, yet he mattered more. A few strokes of a swift wrist and a sharp pin into the lock of the heavy shackles that lay upon him puncturing and bruising his ribs, he was free. 

I threaded my arm through his to help him stabilise, nevertheless, he would have been expected to have gratitude, however, all the mystery man did was turn opposing with an unreadable expression riddling his face enunciating his complexion and pronouncing his facial features as sharp a daggers, slowly morphing into a crooked smile, wicked but enchanting, the victim falling prey to his trance, a play on the psyche.

“It’s Kill or Be Killed” was echoed throughout, a resonance replicating no other.

We disappeared without a trace, vanished as if by magic or mythology, and the only evidence of the occurrence is a male body and wounds of dripping lavender.

By Kayal S