Ode to Ligeia (Poe in the theme of Green)
Title: Ode to Ligeia (Poe in the theme of Green)
Note: This is for terana
Rating: M for Mature
Norman Osborn sits on the edge of his bed, contemplating the world in his hands. With these hands, he can give. He can take away. He can strangle, and hurt, and kill. Pain pierces his brain, a thundercrack before the rumbling headache.
The girl laying beside him in the bed moans. He hears Emily's voice echoing across the years, her easy smile. "Come lay with me," she says, taking his hands, luring him away from his work. "Stay with me tonight."
He lingers over her dark hair, the curves of her body, tastes her kisses. Dry like dust, dust to dust, moldering in the grave. Her belly swelling with life, the promise of her death. "Emily," says Norman, and he feels the weight of her wedding band on his left hand, ghost weight nigh on nineteen years old.
The girl moans again. He glances over at her, making out the sheen of blonde hair in the darkness. "Emily," he says, and leans down to kiss her. "I've been gone so long. My work -- it's very important, you see. Forgive me, love."
His lips touch hers, and she shivers, and writhes in the sheets. Vertigo disturbs her slumber. Norman brushes his hand against her forehead, then her cheek, then gently cups her neck. His fingers tense until he can feel her pulse. Her eyes flutter open, then close again. His grip loosens.
Emily thrashes in her final feverish days, he remembers, straining with the last of her strength against her inescapable fate. "Norman," she whispers, her eyes sunken, her skin's pallor green and yellow. "Please don't let me die." Her fingers swelled in her pregnancy so that she had to have her wedding ring cut off. By the end of her illness, she'd shrunken to a pale remnant of her former self, her fingers little more than skin over bone, so that he could slip her ring on and off easily. He laid Emily in her grave -- but she did not leave -- she did not die!
"Emily," he says, his voice low and serious. "There's something I'm forgetting -- someone I'm forgetting. You must help me remember." Her eyes open again, dark and unseeing. In her pupils Norman glimpses his face, reflected double, twisted and laughing, no mirth, no mercy. Death and green. He shakes himself, unsettled.
"Mmmmm," she mumbles, her eyes flicking back and forth. He slides his hand under her shirt, to touch her soft belly, imagining the first sparks of life already enkindled there. Death blooming in her belly. He kills what he touches, everything he loves.
Foolish girl! You're already dead! I've already killed you! "Go back to sleep, love," Norman tells her.
Her eyes slide shut, and she rolls over, his fingers tracing along the soft curve of her hip. Gwen sighs, and sleeps, and dreams. Hot green death already pulses within her.
***
Notes: When I received the prompt for this story, I had just read Edgar Allan Poe's Ligeia. The theme seemed appropriate for Norman Osborn, a man haunted by so many dead women. To achieve Poe's moody atmosphere, I tried emphasizing the "L" sound, as Poe does in his poems such as Lenore and Annabel Lee. The reader may decide for himself whether I suceeded.
Note: This is for terana
Rating: M for Mature
Norman Osborn sits on the edge of his bed, contemplating the world in his hands. With these hands, he can give. He can take away. He can strangle, and hurt, and kill. Pain pierces his brain, a thundercrack before the rumbling headache.
The girl laying beside him in the bed moans. He hears Emily's voice echoing across the years, her easy smile. "Come lay with me," she says, taking his hands, luring him away from his work. "Stay with me tonight."
He lingers over her dark hair, the curves of her body, tastes her kisses. Dry like dust, dust to dust, moldering in the grave. Her belly swelling with life, the promise of her death. "Emily," says Norman, and he feels the weight of her wedding band on his left hand, ghost weight nigh on nineteen years old.
The girl moans again. He glances over at her, making out the sheen of blonde hair in the darkness. "Emily," he says, and leans down to kiss her. "I've been gone so long. My work -- it's very important, you see. Forgive me, love."
His lips touch hers, and she shivers, and writhes in the sheets. Vertigo disturbs her slumber. Norman brushes his hand against her forehead, then her cheek, then gently cups her neck. His fingers tense until he can feel her pulse. Her eyes flutter open, then close again. His grip loosens.
Emily thrashes in her final feverish days, he remembers, straining with the last of her strength against her inescapable fate. "Norman," she whispers, her eyes sunken, her skin's pallor green and yellow. "Please don't let me die." Her fingers swelled in her pregnancy so that she had to have her wedding ring cut off. By the end of her illness, she'd shrunken to a pale remnant of her former self, her fingers little more than skin over bone, so that he could slip her ring on and off easily. He laid Emily in her grave -- but she did not leave -- she did not die!
"Emily," he says, his voice low and serious. "There's something I'm forgetting -- someone I'm forgetting. You must help me remember." Her eyes open again, dark and unseeing. In her pupils Norman glimpses his face, reflected double, twisted and laughing, no mirth, no mercy. Death and green. He shakes himself, unsettled.
"Mmmmm," she mumbles, her eyes flicking back and forth. He slides his hand under her shirt, to touch her soft belly, imagining the first sparks of life already enkindled there. Death blooming in her belly. He kills what he touches, everything he loves.
Foolish girl! You're already dead! I've already killed you! "Go back to sleep, love," Norman tells her.
Her eyes slide shut, and she rolls over, his fingers tracing along the soft curve of her hip. Gwen sighs, and sleeps, and dreams. Hot green death already pulses within her.
***
Notes: When I received the prompt for this story, I had just read Edgar Allan Poe's Ligeia. The theme seemed appropriate for Norman Osborn, a man haunted by so many dead women. To achieve Poe's moody atmosphere, I tried emphasizing the "L" sound, as Poe does in his poems such as Lenore and Annabel Lee. The reader may decide for himself whether I suceeded.