Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder

"Tell me what you see," hissed the yellow voice.  "Tell me," it sang in notes so throaty and savage that Nayan the warrior thrust out his heaving chest and screamed with a ferocity all his own.  Ah, he knew.  The yellow worm, craven and yet wired with glee, flew backwards against the wall.  Nayan felt him cower against the soiled concrete, felt each wave of stinking fear, and could picture the mad little grin on his lips, the small yellow eyes drowning in skin of unnatural pallor with pupils the size of the sinister, bloodsucking flea.  Nayan laughed, sending a tremor through his body that shook the cast-iron fetters about his wrists and ankles, causing them to clang in a hair-raising melody fit only for the desolate plateaus of Hell.  "Tell me," came the voice again, from afar, all done up in the semblance of dotage this time.  But now Nayan felt nothing but the vehement and torrid pain that rushed all through his face and down his neck; all the voice did was tickle each nerve ending like a white hot flame.1

Then came the needle, that cool prick into his neck that Nayan coveted with all of his soul.  And the pain, once like fire, became nothing but a lambent ache that would play with his consciousness: taunting, teasing, licking.  Nayan groaned in pleasure, he felt light.2

"No pain," he kept whispering, "no pain."3

"Yes," answered the voice.  Then silken nothings poured from its mouth like a golden scotch from a crystal decanter, soothing and caressing Nayan's pounding heart through his caramel skin.  "No pain.  Now tell me, tell me.  Tell me what you see . . ."  There was a cold hand on his neck, all bones and flaccid, dying skin.  It goaded Nayan to speak, to abandon himself in the darkness.4

"I see my Nohealani, my maiden.  She is so alive, is she not?  The contagion death does no touch her, she is alive.  And there are children all around her with daisies in their red hair."  Nayan smiled.  "Such innocence, the white against the red, like a sunset against the ominous cloud.  But, no, no, they all fall to their knees in idolatry, oh, they offer themselves to her!  Dear God, they all lie down in a moldering sepulcher, one be one, waiting for her to take them, Nohealani!  My love, do not!  Do not, do not, do not."  Nayan began to murmur, to choke.  "Take these from me, please," he pleaded.5

"GO deeper, my monster, this is not all I crave."  Nayan was sobbing, but he no loner felt.  All he could do was envision each trail of warm wet gliding down his face, watching in his mind like one watches the rain slither across a car window.  His fce was glass.  "Abandon your imaginings.  Do you see et?  There is more in the abstruse darkness of the mind, there must be.  There must be, tell,"6

"A scholar, in a throne of red velvet; and he is gorgeous, like a cherub."7

"Yes, yes, and what does he hold?  A book?  What is the title?"8

"Nothing.  No knowledge, no truth, nothing.  He merely strokes a magnificent chimera and drinks its slivery flame like wine.  But now the snake, the snake winds itself about his neck, tighter, tighter, and tighter.  Oh, he has been condemned to the gallows of legend and myth and nothingness.  He knows the void now.  He wonders if I know it, if I can feel it stroking my mind."9

"Closer, you are close; do you realize what you see?  Do you realize the meaning of all the beautiful and awful images you scrutinize so carefully for me, your maker?  There is something else, I know now."10

"Yes, I see it.  So lovely, the orange orchid with all its scandal and delicious architecture.  Petals, thick and waxen, surround the center where only the love of a single creature can penetrate because of its design, its complexities."  Nayan sighted, the exquisite flower was surrounding his mutated sight and it was the most beautiful and most perfect phantasm any human had ever beheld.  "Wait, no.  There's something wrong.  I am not supposed to see this, I am not; oh, oh, I CAN'T see this, you've damned me, you devil!  It's being devoured, I can feel it, I can see it!"11

"Who?  Who has come?  For the love of God, tell me!" screamed the yellow worm, shaking Nayan, pleading with Nayan with futile rage.  But it was too late; the life in the already gaunt face had finally expired.  And there, amongst the livid skin of Nayan's sockets were the veined whites of his eyes.  For while he’d slept the worm's old and shaking hands had turned Nayan’s eyes inward, so that the dilated pupils were facing the inside of his own head.  Nayan was seeing into himself and perceiving his soul, tasting the forbidden fruit of Genesis.12