Final Blindness
by Damien Hunt

*** I. ***

The street was empty of movement. It was a small street, crowded with refuse, and boxed in by a maze of towering buildings, all overdue to be condemned. The sun shone brightly from the clear blue sky and yet there was no warmth in the air. Slowly the concrete sidewalk sapped my body heat, numbing my ass as I sat staring at the open lot across from me. A shifting mass of rotting rags caught my attention as he, or she, attempted to seek refuge from the chill winds collecting in the open lot. Slowly he, she, it, whatever, crawled into a ruin of stonework that marked the place where, somehow I knew, a grand entrance had once stood. A knot of tension squeezed my insides, causing me to gasp for air as I climbed to my feet and stumbled across the pavement. My eyes blurred as the empty lot was replaced with a vision of the magnificent church that had once stood there. The entrance had been marvelous, crafted of marble, guarded by rooftop gargoyles, and blessed with stained glass windows picturing Jesus Christ, our savior, in all his glory, welcoming all to the Lord's house. The memories, as if sensing a crack in the damn, burst forth from a deep recess that I had not known I'd had. Pain crackled down my skull as lightning fast images flashed past my eyes. Stunned, I watched as my grand church, the seat of all my faith and the only thing that had ever meant anything to me, burned to the ground, consumed by the unholy fires of its betrayer. Every sensation, emotion, and anguish of that night spread over my prone body as I experienced it as if for the first time. Rising from the dirt, my face tear streaked and my body aching, I faced the ruin that had been my love, my life, and my purpose. The wind pressed against my face, blowing away my tears as the last of them spilled from my eyes. I felt a coolness then, not the wind, but a colder impression. A calm rage spread within me, replacing the sorrow. My faith had been stolen from me and now, years later, I would have purpose again. Revenge was within my grasp.

"Hay miss, would ya care ta spare me a dollar?" came a dry, raspy voice, startling me from my reverie. Standing in front of me was the bundle of rags, a dirty brittle hand extending out from the protective folds in search of a little charity. Looking at the pitiful creature I found myself wondering what good the church might have done him if it had remained standing.

"Sure thing man, no prob.," I replied quickly, passing him a twenty. Then turning on his startled replies and thanks I quickly departed the area, knowing that this was no longer my calling. My new found purpose gave me the strength to leave behind the tragedy of my lost convictions and instead of dwelling on it, I focused on my forthcoming retribution. Walking to where I had parked, I felt down into the core of my repressed memories and found the voice that had lead me to the empty lot.

"Tonight in the city, within a gathering place under the dark rose I will find my prize!" I promised myself with such conviction that for a moment I had to pause. The power that my own voice held as it answered my unspoken question could be glimpsed, but not fully grasped, and I had to wonder, was it truly my own?

*** II. ***

Impatient eyes searched the darkness, locking onto the set of red neon digits blinking the time.

Slowly, too slowly, they advanced forward as Jack waited for the right time to leave. The night beckoned, fuck the clock! So he would be early, no big deal. Slowly he rose out of bed, careful not to make any noise and disturb his parents in the next room sleeping. He found his stashed cloths, and hurriedly put them on. His favorite hiker boots, his old, rune-marked, blue jeans, and his tight fitting green shirt, so dark it was almost black, with a large, white, NIN logo painted on the back. The window held his gaze, and in one swift move he was perched on the open ledge, breathing the sweet summer scents flowing on the invisible eddies of the dark sea of night. Jack hesitated for a moment, meditating in the cool breeze, searching for the spark that was his power, his confidence, what he called his grimness. He felt it then, deep down waiting for his call. It responded eagerly and Jack drank deeply of its warmth, as images gushed past his inner eye.

Tonight Grim awoke from a deep slumber with a hunger for vengeance. Primitive rage and anger sent pins and needles through his body, the numbness of an awakening. He surrendered to it fully, soaking up the glory that was his alter ego. With a smile, Grim soared to the ground and into the dark paths of the city, wrapping himself in a cold welcoming shroud of shadows, and leaving in his wake a bewildered mother screaming from Jack's window.

As he moved through the darkened alleys, Jack's thoughts surfaced, drifting back to the life he had just left. His mother's distress worried him. He would have to deal with her and his dad's angry outbursts later. Something that Grim didn't have to worry or care about. They would probably ground him, or worse, making it even harder to comply with Grim's rigid schedule, of which he would rant about ceaselessly. The nights spent empowered as Grim were quickly becoming bothersome as he began to understand the consequences, with both his parents and his conscience. Again his mind wandered, and he found himself replaying the actions that Grim had taken since emerging from his repressed psyche. He had done it all with the complete conviction that he was in the right, and that he had done nothing wrong. It was only after, when he had to become plain-old Jack again, that the memories, still fresh in his mind, washed over him like so much decrepit water. They stained his eyes that had seen, and his hands that had done, willingly and with much rapture. He felt his resolve slipping away in those moments, and even, with an increasing rarity, during the moments as Grim. He found himself disgusted with himself more and more . . .

"NO DOUBTS," he roared out into the night, "Never doubt, NEVER!"

As Grim's powerful voice and presence faded, plain old Jack, stunned into silence and stillness, found himself just around the corner from the entrance to his favorite club. Just above him, reflected in the thick swirling clouds, the club's lights beamed a deep crimson red. The club's name was ‘La Rose Noir', and its stock and trade were in catering to the wish's of Goths, Punks, Blood Dolls, and the rest of the lost children wandering the streets at night. It was a dark, gothic, velvety, Marilyn Manson blasting, club of every sensual delight spawned from the night's imagination. It had a well-deserved reputation of being very unoriginal, yet it was extremely impressive. It drew quite a crowd.

Feeling within himself the tugging urgency to seek the night's quarry, he found it nudging him toward the large gothic doors. Quickly complying, he shuffled toward the two large doormen perched below the club's trademark, a glowing stained-glass picture window. It depicted a large morbid angel, falling from the decimated heavens, wings shred and bloody, with scarlet tears streaking down her unearthly beautiful face, as one gnarled, shattered hand desperately grasped a single black rose. The image always sent shivers of delight throughout his body, igniting his apatite for the macabre. As he reveled in his own personal darkness, Grim's persona surged forth, eagerly welcomed.

Tonight was like any other, Goths overrunning the place, a plain of contrasting white and black makeup swirling with every occult symbol known, and a few made up ones. Every poser on the dance floor was trying to outdo the other's portrayal of lethargic angst, without seeming to be trying. It was all an act, and the true Goths watched the show with amusement from the dim balcony above, obscured by the heavy pulsing lights. The club's dance floor was set up into two levels. A ‘U' shaped ground level, and a lower maush-pit level within the ‘U'. On the three sides of the upper dance floor were the regular tables and a long gargoyle encrusted marble, or at least fake marble, bar. The band stage, or DJ booth, was set directly above the maush-pit, safely out of reach, occupying the fourth wall of the room at the top of the ‘U'. Two stair cases, cleverly hidden from sight, led to the second level of the club where the true spirits of the night awaited.

Quickly, Grim crossed over the floor, blending into the dancers until he reached the closest stair case. Only stopping momentarily to nod greetings to those who recognized him and to the stair's guardian. He rushed up to join what could be called his only friends. They were all there, clustered around the railing watching the posers below, talking about this one or that one, and just passing the time. They all took notice of his presence and as was traditional with their group he went around and embraced each one in a quick hug. It was the group's most important ritual, a simple, yet personal, hug. It bound them together and made each member feel welcome. An important and rare sensation in the world these days, one which each member treasured more than they would admit. After a few words of greeting with each of his comrades, Grim took his usual spot in the corner. Silently, he sipped on a Pepsi as he watched everyone without seeming to. Nine Inch Nails came on and Grim let his eyes close while the music swept through him, the notes playing on his insides. He felt truly at home.

"Grim, check this out," rasped out one of his friends, "She is perfection." His name was Morbin Chayd and he was one of the most judgmental Goths Grim knew. If he found a poser that impressed him, then that so called poser would soon join their ranks.

With peaked interest he made his way over to the railing where a number of the group were intently watching the subject of Chayd's fascination. He hadn't really taken notice of the particular song playing, but he noted now that it was A Warm Place, a relatively slow song for the club. Down below, the floor had pretty much been vacated, but for one lone figure.

"What ya think my friend, is she exquisite or should I just die right now?" Chayd asked seriously. She was more than exquisite. She was heavenly. Never had Grim seen a more angelic image than the one dancing alone below. "Yep! Just what I said when I first saw her." he commented to himself as he turned back to watch.

The figure moved with the song, slowly and gracefully. By herself in the spotlight, she didn't seem to care. She took no notice of anyone else. She just danced, by herself and for herself. She didn't try to act or look like a Goth. Her hair was an uncommon fiery red, and long instead of the short black cuts that were the style. Although she did wear black, it wasn't a Goth-like ensemble of black and white lace with silver jewelry. She wore a simple, black dress, hugging her flawless body down to her waist, then flowing out around her legs in waves of darkness that kissed her pale ankles as she danced. Grim found himself captivated as he watched. As she turned to look up at them, he knew beforehand that her eyes would be the deepest green. She was a vision of beauty, burning brightly in a world of gloom.

"Well I don't need to ask to get a unanimous agreement that she belongs with us," Chayd announced as he rose to his feet to ascend to the dance floor. Halting suddenly he found himself restrained by Grim's lone hand upon his arm. Astonished he looked questioningly at Grim, only to find that he was still entranced by the dancer below.

"No," said Grim simply, "She's mine." Chayd found himself sitting back down, almost as if he had been a boy, scolded by his mother, massaging his arm.

*** III. ***

The club was crowded, but neat, although the picture window out front was more disturbing than I would like to have admitted. The music crashed into me as I entered, but I didn't mind. Almost immediately the song changed to one of my favorites, a slow one that had sent most of the dancers to their seats. Since my awakening, I have found myself warming up, or cooling down if the image was to be technically correct, to the dark "Goth" scene. In the few short weeks since my first dream I had confiscated all of my brother's tapes to dub so that I could play them over and over in my car. As the music ran the corse of my body, I felt compelled to dance and, as is the case with almost every urge I've had lately, I surrendered myself to it completely. The near deserted dance floor allowed me the comfort of moving anyway I wanted, and as I swayed and whirled to the slow rhythms I found a kind of temporary peace in the simple motions. No inhibition or shyness overcame me as I drew the crowd's eyes. In fact since my "change" I'd felt more free than ever. A strange confidence had surfaced in me lately that, as if it wasn't already strange enough, carried an echo of a name attached to it that felt as familiar as my own. Almost as though it could feel my thoughts center on it, the word reverberated through my mind. I mouthed it silently, Sef'N, a name that I have almost come to accept over my own.

At that moment I felt a presence, and looking up, I was suddenly besieged by violent tremors of terror and rage. Above, on a balcony above the dance floor, a figure stood looking back at me with an intensity matching my own. The lights above the balcony shone into my eyes, obscuring his features into a large shadow, yet I could see his eyes as they blazed brightly in the dark shadow that was his face. They were a deep shade of green, mirroring my own. It was him...

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