Day Eighty : Macabre (Incidentally one of my favourite words)

Macabre

Definition

1 : having death as a subject : comprising or including a personalized representation of death

2 : dwelling on the gruesome

3 : tending to produce horror in a beholder

We trace the origins of macabre to the name of the Book of Maccabees, which is included in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox canons of the Old Testament and in the Protestant Apocrypha. Sections of this biblical text address both the deaths of faithful people asked to renounce their religion and the manner in which the dead should be properly commemorated. In medieval France, representations of these passages were performed as what became known as the "dance of death" or "dance Maccabee," which was spelled in several different ways, including danse macabre. In English, macabre was originally used in reference to this "dance of death" and then gradually came to refer to anything grim or gruesome.

The catacombs were blissfully quiet. The chattering and feeble minded tourists, with their bright lights, noisy gossip and louder clothes had finally left for the day, along with the tired and light deprived tour guides (whose teeth must surely be ground to dust by now with the amount of teeth grinding smiles they had to bare during the day - or perhaps they all wore mouth guards to protect their pearly mouth gems, like the boisterous american footballers you often saw on television in the various sports bars in town, populated by angrily joyous men in cheap synthetic shirts, with a malnourished bored looking woman beside them, irritably fiddling with the complimentary bar nuts that were no doubt infested with various forms of bacteria.) 

Not that I went out in town much, really. It was a pain to drag myself so far and the summer heat sped up the decomposition of my flesh and sinew, leaving it so ropey and stretched it was as if cheap pink bubblegum was the only thing keeping my limbs somewhat together, So far, my body had not completely, permanently disassembled itself, but i did once make it an alley and a half before i realised my wrist had become caught on a railing and I'd left my hand trapped, the bubblegum ligament stretched almost to breaking.

I'd hurried back of course, but i'd had to wrap the pink muscle fiber around and around my wrist like some sort of ribbon for ages and ages before it relaxed enough to reset to its original length. 

I'd tried super glueing my various joints together as well, to try and strengthen them, but it either didn't set, or set too well and for a while I could only move like a fixed limb doll, awkwardly hopping about from leg to another, arms straight by my sides like some sort of rotten demented penguin. 

I didn't like it much. I mean, it was nice to not have to worry about leaving something important anywhere, but it made what was left of my now putrefied and liquidized internal organs slosh about inside me so much I felt incredibly nauseous. 

It was hard, being in the in-between stage. My friend, down the tunnel, said that as soon as the flesh finally, completely dissolved, it was much easier to be out and about. I could even join in the monthly dances. I couldn't as I was. I mean, I was invited but even I, as oblivious as I usually was, could tell that my appearance unsettled the other attendees. Despite most of them having gone through something similar in their own transmogrification. Perhaps that was even why they had trouble looking at me - too many bad memories.

Or it could be the smell. I admit, I was super grateful that I had lost some of my five senses. I mean, I couldn't imagine how much agony I would currently be in if I still had my sense of pain, so I definitely considered myself blessed that I could not feel my body decomposing about me. I was also almost as grateful that I had lost my sense of smell. Judging by the looks on peoples faces (that, to be fair to them, they did try hard to suppress when I was around them) and the involuntary gagging that most of them did, I never wanted to know how bad I currently smelt. Ever.

A little rain of dust sprinkled across my body, like powdered sugar on a chocolate cake. Mmmm, chocolate cake. I did miss that. Not that I could eat it anymore. Or smell it. Or taste it. But I still loved the idea of it. 

More dust floated down. They must be getting into the swing of it at the party in the graveyard above me. I'd heard they'd managed to get one of the vampire DJs to do the music for this evening. Having had hundreds of years to master their talent, their music was truly a sight to behold - or a sound to hear? They were so good I'd heard they'd had trouble keeping out of the limelight recently - apparently loads of human music producers and agents had been chasing them about town, trying to get them to sign a contract. Rumour has it that they were getting so exasperated by it, they were half tempted to just drain the lot of them dry. Of course, they wouldn't really do that (goes against many of the rules of our world) but it had meant that they would need to leave town. Tonight would be the last time they were playing. They probably wouldn't return here for another couple of centuries. 

I would have liked to have heard them one more time. 

More dirt trickled down, along with several cobwebs that had been shaken loose from the pounding the grass was being given from dancing above. The werewolves must have come along. They might not be too fond of the undead, but boy did they love a good party. One cobweb settled right across the hole over my ribcage, where the flesh had completely given up and concaved into my chest, eventually tearing away under it's on weight to lodge somewhere inside my chest where it was slowly, I suspected, rotting away into yet more goop. The hole proved to be quite useful however. Sometimes I practiced the yoga moves I remembered from my living life and by positioning my body, I managed to empty out some of the rotting fluid that was collecting inside me. I had agreed to do this outside, away from the catacombs, as the last time I had done it inside, the tourists had found it, freaked out or passed out from the smell and for a while the catacombs had been on lock down while a disease forensics team checked it out to make sure it was contagious or harmful. Then, once they had discovered it was human remains, had combed the catacombs as far as they could to find the rest of the dead body. Everyone had been stressed out for days hiding from them. 

I thought it was kind of the police to try and find the rest of me - even though I had clearly been dead for a long time going by the remains and they had no idea who i was or what had happened. I kept that to myself though.

Which led me onto the main reason people tended to be cautious or wary around me (as well as the smell and gruesome visuals). I had been murdered - which made me a revanant. Most revenants, I had been told, woke up...grouchy. And usually emotionally unbalanced from the traumatic event which led to their death. They also tended to be psychotically fixated on obtaining revenge on their murderer, with a special, strong emphasis on 'psychotic'. They didn't stop for anyone or anything until they had torn their murderer limb from limb, literally. They were definitely not party people.

So, of course, the second people saw me and realised I had been murdered (even with my rate of decomposition it was easy to see that someone had tried to hack me into pieces as well as cave my head in) they tended to back away - slowly. And politely of course, no one ever say anything mean or nasty to my face or tried to hurt me in any way, but they still backed away.

And that did kind of hurt.

Especially because i was not psychotic or unbalanced in any way, shape or form (except my physical form). In fact, had i not had these stupidly visible murder marks, people would just assume i was your average zombie and i could go to the parties.

In fact, I suspected the reason I wasn't psycho crazy, was because I'd already had my revenge. Apparently, revenants usually took three nights and days to rise after they have been murdered. I took less than an hour. 

I can only imagine it was because I'd finally just been accepted into one of the most prestigious dance schools in the world, after a lifetime of effort, and then some jackass with mummy issues and a machette puts paid to all of that in under five minutes. So yeah, I was pissed. I woke up just as he was shoving my dead body into one of the catacomb's corpse cavities. 

He's still alive. Not sure about sane though. I kinda left him to his own devices once I'd pushed him to the point of clawing out his own eyes as cried for his mummy to save him.

Heh. 

So yeah, I am totally sane and chill and a really nice person. Honest.

And all I need to do now is wait for my flesh to finish rotting off. As soon as it does, I'm applying to the catacombs dance school for skeletons. The one here is one of the best in the underworld you know. I reckon I only have a few more months spent down here in the dark to go. 

And then I'll be up and about with nothing to hold me back. 

Day Seventy Nine : Diligent - Never Mess With A Librarian

Diligent

Definition

: characterized by steady, earnest, and energetic effort : painstaking

You're more likely to be diligent about something if you love doing it. The etymology of diligent reflects the fact that affection can lead to energetic effort. The word, which entered English in the 14th century by way of Anglo-French, descends from the Latin verb diligere, meaning "to value or esteem highly" or "to love." The Latin diligere was formed by adding the di- prefix (from dis-, "apart") to the verb legere, an ancestor of the English legend, meaning "to gather, select" or "to read."

 I slotted 'Xenforia's Guide to Lunar Foliage' by Xenforia Zita into the last remaining slot on the shelf and sighed a sigh of bliss. At last, the celestial flora section was completely reorganised and alphabetized. I stood back and admired the neatly shelved rows of books, their beautifully coloured spines glowing against the polished wood of the shelves. The dappled light from the explosions outside sparkled through the reinforced stain glass windows and speckled multicoloured fairy lights across the books. It was a glorious sight to behold. 

A sight that would have come about much quicker had my assistant actually assisted me instead of cowering in terror underneath the bullet proof reception desk. 

I stared at his quaking arse in reproof - not that he could see me. However, something in  my silence must have given me away, as he turned his body around, not unlike a mouse when cornered in a small hole, and peered at me fitfully, his eyes darkened by his pupils which had dilated in terror. 

"I cannot believe you're still shelving books at a time like this." He half growled at me accusingly. 

"We're librarians." I said, unperturbed. "Whilst on the job, looking after and protecting the books is what we do."

"THE COUNTRY IS AT WAR!" He shrieked at me, his shrill tones echoing off the elegant frescoes on the marbled ceiling."

I shrugged. "We're still on the job. A little scuffle doesn't change that."

"There are soldiers outside with guns and bombs and tanks! We could be blown to bits at any moment. Men could come in here and shoot us! Grenades could smash through the window at any moment and then we'd be nothing but blood smear and body parts. Speaking of body parts, at any given moment you can look at the window and see legs and arms and heads flying about like confetti." He took in a deep, rattling breath, no doubt in order to continue his tiresome tirade. 

I interrupted him. "But they can't penetrate the library's defenses with bombs, grenades or bullets. The building is reinforced several times over with bullet and bomb proof materials. Heck, even if they drop a bomb right on top of the building, I doubt it'd even make much of a dent." I stroked the nearest wall admiringly. IT was smooth and cool beneath my fingertips and entirely unbothered by the aggravating activity outside. "They knew how to build to protect the things they cherished back in the day."

"Yeah, back in the day." He hissed at me. "Like, way back when did they even have bombs."

I scowled at him. "You saw the schematics back when you were first inducted into the library. You know as well as I that this building is probably the safest building in the city."

"All to protect a bunch of books." He scoffed. 

My fists clenched. "If that's how you feel." I said, as sweet as arsenic, "and these books are not worth the protection afforded to them - then you are more than welcome to leave. The door is right there." I said, pointing, my smile so wide that my teeth were displayed in all their bared glory. 

His face blanched the colour of day old sports socks. "No, no, no, no,no!" He chanted in panic. "I mean, of course books are important - all that knowledge must be protected after all." He gripped the leg of the reception desk, hugging it so tight to his body i could see the indentations it was making in his skin, as if I would march over there right this second and bodily remove him from the sanctuary of the library grounds.

I can't say I wasn't tempted. How on earth had this lily-livered philistine managed to pass the librarianship exam. I mean, i know applications had been a bit slim on the ground lately, but surely there had to have been someone at least slightly better than this bottom of the barrel scraping of a person. 

I mentally shrugged. Never mind. I had better things to do than babysit this idiot. I turned at looked at the library thoughtfully. Since the war had broken out, the theology and religious section, along with the philosophy section, had been ransacked and could probably do with a tidy up. Personally, if I was the sort that was bothered by the outbreak of war, I'd be more likely to go for the agricultural (grow your own food), engineering (maintain power supply and telecommunications), DIY (maintain your home and defenses) and medical (no explanation necessary) sections. But no, apparently people were less concerned with surviving the war and more concerned about what happened after they died in said war. Rather skewed priorities if you asked me, but a library stood for dispensing whatever knowledge a visitor required. 

Yes, I think starting with sorting the religious section would be the way to go. People had a tendency to strew the books everywhere until they found a religion that matched with what they wanted to happen. Satanism, I noticed, was gaining ground these days. I guess people felt more reassured with a secure give and take bargain rather than wishing and hoping for the best - with no guarantee at all that what you pray for will come to pass. 

I started to head towards the religious section. 

"Wait, wait!" My assistant hissed at me. "Where are you going?"

I turned to him in exasperation. "To do my job - the one I am paid for and the one you should also be doing. I'm going to go sort out the religious section."

"So you're just leaving me here?" He asked incredulously. 

"You could come with me and actually, I don't know, do the job you were hired for?" I suggested, rather sarcastically I must admit - also without much hope.

"And leave the desk!" He shrieked, predictably. Somehow he managed to cling to the desk leg even tighter. I was quite surprised he hadn't yet managed to meld his flesh into it, I'm sure, had he been able to bury himself in it, he would have. 

I rolled my eyes and left him to it. 

The religious section was quite deep within the library. As I walked through the rows and rows of books - the shelving units reaching high up above me, almost but not quite blocking out the dusky light, until it almost made it seem as if I was walking through some gentle forest made of words. There was that special kind of silence, the kind of warm and gentle silence that you only achieved when the people in the building had left their still breathing bodies behind, but their minds had thrown off the shackles of their mundane meat suit and instead been totally absorbed into the realms revealed by whatever they were reading. In my own, personal, opinion it was one of the most beautiful non-sounds in the universe. 

I sighed happily. Kings and Queens, Tyrants and Presidents, Governments and Anarchists all came and went as they pleased, I stroked the spine of the nearest book, but words, words were forever.

The sacred silence of the library was smashed by the sound of someone noisily crashing through the open front doors. This was clearly not an injured person seeking aid, there was no heavy and desperate breathing that indicated pain - nor any scent of a distressing amount of blood - in which case such a noisy transgression would be forgiven. No, the footsteps marching up to the front desk were timed to an arrogant swagger, the rhythm indicating that the walker thought he was the lord of all he surveyed. More telling, the walker brought with him the smell of gun smoke and other's grief, woven in and about him and tainting the very air of the library I valued so highly. Such a person would not enter a library on a quest for knowledge, as they so clearly thought they had all the answers. Such a person would not cherish books filled with knowledge they did not know themselves - such a person would consider them worthless. 

Such a person would burn my books. 

I saw red.

I dashed to the front of the library. Already I could see my assistant being dragged from his position of safety, the muzzle of a gun pressed against his head, a smirk of the face of the solider holding it. 

the solider had used the book of the month currently on display to stub out his cigarette.

I saw red, red, red. 

In one smooth motion I pulled my vaporiser gun from its holster. Aiming as I ran, the solider barely had time to meet my eyes before I pulled the trigger and his head exploded. Luckily I had already issued a subvocalised command to the reception desk, so the blood and tissue splashed harmlessly against the force field surrounding it - a force field my assistant should have activated the second the soldier appeared before the door. 

I sighed as I holstered my gun and went to help up my whimpering assistant. I'd have to put in yet another request to HR for more training for him. 

Day Seventy Eight: Parvenu

Parvenu

Definition

: one that has recently or suddenly risen to an unaccustomed position of wealth or power and has not yet gained the prestige, dignity, or manner associated with it

French has been generous in providing us with terms for obscure folks who suddenly strike it rich. In addition to parvenu, French has loaned us nouveau riche, arriviste, and roturier, all of which can describe a rich person of plebeian origins, especially one who is a bit snobby. Those colorful and slightly disparaging terms for the newly moneyed clearly show their French heritage, but it may be harder to see the French background of a term Massachusetts locals once used for coastal merchants made rich through the fishing trade: codfish aristocracy. Codfish comes from Middle English (beyond that its origin is a mystery), but aristocracy passed into English via Middle French (it is ultimately from Greek aristos, meaning "best").

I stared at the minuscule serving of what appeared to be a small, snowball sized and shaped amount of mashed potato and several tiny sausages that were more suited to being served on sticks and passed round at an eighties theme party. I glanced up in case a pineapple studded with cheese cubes was about to make its way over to my table as well. Nope, sadly not. Apparently this doll sized mockery of a main dish was to be my dinner. 

"Um, excuse me." I said uncertainly. The super fancily dressed waiters at the super fancy restaurant had been looking down on me from the moment I stepped through the doors. I half suspected they wanted to run their white gloved fingertips across my shoulders and sniff snootily when they discovered dirt, exactly as they had suspected. I knew my clothes were clean, as the butler I had hired would not let me leave the house without being completely immaculate. It was bad enough his new master had only acquired his position through wealth and not lineage, he would not allow anyone to question is abilities as a top notch butler by allowing them to comment on my state of dress. 

"Yes?" The waiter drawled. If he look any further down his nose he'd make himself cross-eyed. The thought cheered me up a bit. Maybe if it got so bad, he'd walk into one the candle candelabras dotted about the place and set himself on fire. The nasty aftershave he'd apparently bathed in would certainly serve as an excellent accelerant.  

I shuffled my hands in my abundant petticoats. Apparently, my butler had seen fit to dress my lower half up like a cloud today. At least it was comfortable to sit on. 

"It's just that, well, I ordered bangers and mash."

"Which is what we have served to you my Lady." He sneered. "Despite it not being on the menu."

I looked down at the insulting small portion. This dinner was costing me enough for a weeks' worth of groceries back in my old life.

I missed my old life very, very much. Yes, a lot of the time I spent it starving, cold, covered in blood and trying not to die, but at least I didn't have stuck up serving boys constantly implying I didn't belong here, despite the fact that they didn't either and I could buy them, body and soul, from what constituted my pocket money. 

"Is it not to your liking?" He sneered again.

I'd had enough. I stood upright, slamming the back of my chair, with no small sense of satisfaction, into the the snooty waiter's legs. 

I slapped a wad of bills down on the table and said coldly. "Sorry, but i think I'll try somewhere that doesn't makes their customers pay for the privilege of starving them."

Leaving the waiter trying to hobble after me, I swept out of the restaurant. 

I marched all the way back home (if you could call the ridiculously impersonal, recently purchase (outright) town house home) and started to tear off the many, many, many, layers of fripperies and lace I had been forcibly confined in.

"Walter!" I bellowed. 

"My lady." He appeared, ghost like, behind me (dear god my employer would have killed (literally) to get a man with talent like Walter's on his team). "Do you require assistance?"

I grabbed one of the display knives off the wall (at least nobility has some decent decoration ideas, although I'd never let my precious babies get blunt like they did) and started slicing off my layers, ignoring how Walter winced at the waste. Heck, normally I would be wincing at my rough mishandling of an outfit that, if pawned, could have got me a week's stay at a semi decent hotel with meals and baths included.

But today had just been too much. 

Finally, I was down to my sensible close knit underwear - warm, dark coloured, water resistant and easy to move in. Old habits did, indeed, die hard. Especially if they had saved your life on more than one occasion. 

"I want some beans on toast Walter."

"My lady, I don't think we have any of those in..."

"Walter. I want. Some beans. On toast. Maybe with a fried egg and grated cheese on top. If we don't have any in the pantry, I'm sure I have enough money that someone can go out and buy some."

"But, my lady..."

"Walter. I have had a very bad day. Don't push me on this."

Walter, to his credit, simply bowed and walked off. I could certainly appreciate a man who knew when he was beaten. 

I sighed and made my way up the stairs. I had been working my entire life, from the age I was large enough to carry a knife and knew enough to not grab the pointy end. My entire life goal had been to earn enough money to both buy my freedom and then not have to worry about money, food or shelter for the rest of my life. I had taken some truly hideous jobs to attain this - jobs that no one else would touch with a ten foot barge pole, simply because to do so meant certain death. But I had done the. I had earned my rewards and my freedom. 

I had been free and wealthy beyond most people's wildest dreams for about six months now - and I'd hated very second of it. 

Well, maybe not everything. I loved waking up in my warm comfy bed. I loved my well stocked pantry - a pantry that could be restocked at any given moment simply by uttering a request. My luxurious bathroom. My closet filled with clothes that hadn't been chosen for how well they hid blood. My Fort Knox of a home to which I had added yet more security features - a few of them I had even created myself for extra nastiness. I loved being warm, well fed and safe. 

What I hated was everything else. Had I known what utter shits the upper class were, I'd have arranged it so I was a recluse out in the country. But I loved the theater, the museums, the ballet, the orchestra and the abundance of book shops. I'd wanted to be in town so I could at last indulge in all my hobbies that I'd put off for so long. At last, I could watch a play in the comfort of my own seat, rather than sneaking up to the rafters of the building and trying to catch a glimpse of the actors.

But the bloody aristocrats were ruining it all. They sneered at my unknown name, whispered behind my backs, even jostled me, me - and I just stood there and took it. They basically made it impossible for me to be comfortable anywhere they were. I'd avoid them but they seemed to see the Arts as some sort of social requirement and keep turning up. They didn't even watch the play in front of them, instead seemingly obsessed with catching a mate, catching up on the latest gossip and sneering at that 'funny little creature' (me). As evidenced in the restaurant, even the waiters were sneering at me. 

It didn't help that no one knew who I was, where I came from and, most importantly, where my money came from. All they knew was that I had earned it, not inherited it which, to them, was all they needed to condemn me as an outsider and make my new life a misery.

I wonder, had they known I was once the most feared assassin on several continents, would they be so quick to condemn me - or would they rather start begging for their lives? A small smile crossed my face at the thought. 

Would it be really bad to commence a personal death vendetta against a waiter? Really?

A knock on the door announced my beans on toast. 

"Thank you Walter." I said, slightly guiltily as I saw he carried my shredded dress over his arm. "I'm sorry for my rude behavior earlier."

Completely out of his normal stoic character, he chuckled. "My lady, truly you are an odd one."

A hurt expression crossed my face before I could smother it.

"In a good way my lady," he added, "most would not even consider that they had done anything that required an apology, let alone to a mere butler like myself."

"There is nothing mere about you." I said hotly, annoyed that a mere waiter could think well enough of himself to snub me and yet my own butler didn't. I started to worry that my own nose dive of self confidence was catching. 

"My lady." He hesitated. "I know that the, ah, upper crust has not been as welcoming to you as you would have liked."

I let out an unladylike snort. Walter winced but ploughed bravely on."However, it is in part due to the fact that they are bored and there is no other diversion to be had. Should another diversion be offered to them, I'm sure they would jump at the chance."

"Such as?" A murder spree? Oh God, please say a murder spree. 

"A ghost?"

"A ghost?" I repeated blankly. 

"Quite. Many aristocrats rack up quite a few, ah, indiscretions in their lifetime. I am sure most of them will have a skeleton or two in the closet. Drag that skeleton out of the closet and dangle it in front of them and, well, I am sure they will not be able to think of anything else. Aristocrats are very superstitious my lady - they would be more than willing to believe in the existence of a vengeful ghost that haunts them, rather than say, believe for a moment that the cunning machinations of a living opponent could ever get the better of them."

"A ghost." I said again, mulling it over.

"A ghost." Walter said firmly. "Present one to them, present several to them and they will talk of nothing else. Scare them badly enough and they might not even wish to attend badly lit places, such as the theater and opera, for example."

"A ghost....Where would I get a ghost?" I mused out loud, already seeing the answer in my mind's eye. 

"I am sure you have more than adequate skills from your previous line of work to accomplish this my lady."

I blinked. I had never told Walter my previous occupation - for obvious reasons. Apparently butlers really did know everything. 

I grinned at him. "Well then Walter, let the games begin."