Mirror – mirror upon my wall,
Oh hellish doorway, tell me whom the most tortured soul of all…is,
Tokyo Old Quarter
I am Nehelenia Kyriako; I am an enigma even to myself. It was any wonder the doctor who aided my pixie-faced mother to give birth hadn’t slap my face instead of my ass.
We never bonded, mother and I, for whatever reason. I was the runt of the litter, estranged and on my own for the most part. I was a solemn little girl with large brown eyes and long black hair that fell to the backs of my knees with a cute little face and gentle smile, but I soon became a troubled child and quite withdrawn. After my release into the world through boarding school, Asia’s finest, I was like a butterfly arising from a stone chrysalis: free at last, outspoken and wild.
After my parents died, I had inherited the estate. I still visit it from time to time, but prefer it here in my private world of mirrors. I hadn’t always liked mirrors though, that was until I learned to control them and make them do my bidding instead of the other way round, but that is another story.
My home is enchanting, wolfish, imposing, its facade intimidating, decorative and sexy. I just love it. It was definitely me. I bought this place for a song, but it is relative I guess.
With its rough black granite facade and interior, it served as my private sanctuary. Its ornate features, sword-speared fencing, the Gothic windows, and the architectural marvel of this estate held a charm all its own that seeped into my soul.
I felt a strong bond with the Gothic sub-culture, from The Sisters of Mercy and other Goth bands to Camilla the vampire, I would throw the occasional party, usually on equinoxes and solstices, and of course, Halloween. This house made me feel like Elizabeth Bathory . She, the misunderstood and victim of a political and religious propaganda campaign orchestrated by a king owing her a small fortune and a band of religious zealots soon found herself placed under house arrest. Those conspiring against her having infiltrated the castle murdered their young female victims in her name, tagging her to the charges riding upon the coattails of the ambitious Hapsburg expansionist movement. I was sad she died alone, but they never committed her to trial only placing the co-conspirators and murderesses on trial to lessen the risk they might talk.
Like her, as a girl still living on the estate under the dark wing of my parents, I was a solitaire, but by choice. There I'd be; spending most of my free time reading, listening to music or playing my cello. I also liked to write, and in my room or the garden, I would do plenty of that.
Thank the kamis for the balcony and my private entrance to my bedroom. I spent a lot of time in the garden, exploring the many private retreats separated by gorgeous and fragrant partitions smothered in colorful flowers.
Looking at the diorama of figurines where the Gothic ensemble of dark characters looked back at me brought a smile to my lips. Elizabeth in her low cut black dress holding a blood stained silver dagger, her lips rosy red, Rob Roy and Bluebeard, bowing, a glint of lust and terror in their eyes; even these were depicted as cowering in her presence. I liked that. People always freaked out when they saw her, but Carmella, my other female ante-heroine, hair of gold to her hips, and a vampire was positively evil in her bloodstained white dress; her sharp teeth in the attitude of sinking into a young maiden’s throat shocked people whenever they laid eyes on her. Yeah, macabre, strange and dark; all the things I treasured these days, and Why was I so jaded? Another story, but for now, in-between the movements of slender fingers inside my moisten depths keeping pace with my racing heartbeat, I found all these thoughts serving as an Aphrodisiac as I pleasured myself over the images of my lover and his young fiancé having sex. I am sick I know, but don’t I deserve some compensation for my loss, ne?
I had strange heroes and heroines. Yes, and of all people, the legendary Blood Queen, my heroine, dearest Elizabeth Bathory, a bloody legacy in the dark lands of Transylvania was like a Goddess to me, corrupted by history and the paradox of her innocence. She, a dark Aphrodite, wild, sexy, chilling and deadly: I loved the contradiction. I could relate to that.
As I peered into the bleakness outside where the storm raged, in silence, as the windows were double-glazed and coated with a bulletproof protective sealant; I smirked. The skies filled with storm clouds, and the rain I found comforting, snug and secure.
The flowers in the garden swayed with my oscillations on the sofa as I cried out as I climaxed, my head dropping to my chest as I moaned. I was pathetic. As I drew up my knees, reaching for a glass of gin and tonic, pulling it to my lips, letting the draught burn its way down to the pit of my stomach, I smiled. I then felt the liquid fire descend further to my nether regions cradling the elusion of making love to that fucking bastard. Whom was I kidding? I closed my eyes and leaned my head back into the soft leather now supporting my head, my hair flowing over the edge and my cat, Asheville attacking the tips of my dark tresses. Still pissed off, I yanked up my panties, and made myself half-decent as my long skirt once more covered my bare legs and I allowed the afterglow of self-stimulation to relax me, as was the alcohol. I had tuned out the voices of the snarky whores behind the mirrors, they weren’t getting any either. I told them as much and laughed, this shut them up for a time. I began to giggle.
Licking my fingers I sipped my gin once more, still chuckling at the thought as my cat curled up on my lap. I like a fool, reached for the remote once again and began to watch the footage of hot sex between the man I loved and a little tart half his age fucking each other.
I wanted him to suffer and suffer he would. I couldn't believe that Hino Sobereigunu would cast me aside like that.
"How dare he! What does he see in that blonde headed bimbo anyway? For that little Danish bitch, he would walk the aisle. I've always tolerated his one-night stands, but this, please… love. Bullshit." I was seething, though I had to admit, that I too was not averse to a little frivolity when the occasion demanded it.
Whenever I am feeling hot and steamy, any port in a storm will do, so long as the lover in question meets some basic criteria. First, they had to be at least a little attractive, clever, witty and good in bed. As naïve as I was, there existed an understanding between us that transcended the casual sex that would sharpen the blade of our deeper passions and timeless bond whenever we came together.
He had crossed that line.
“In love my ass!"
I no longer cared about the consequences. I would make him pay. That little bastard, Jadeite will carry out the assassination, but not before slaying his bitch daughter. That glorified whore, Estella. Oh, I loved the irony of it all, her lover having to kill his girlfriend's father then take her life, poetic justice.
Oh yes, so sweet the taste, I like the plan, a daring and clever plan. No man jilted me for a Danish floozy. Therefore, what if she were a champion swimmer, so what if she loved him and she wasn't a whore or connected in any way with the Shachihoko. Bad luck for that silly twit.
My cat jumped onto the floor and settled in front of the fire. Uncrossing my legs, I got up and moved towards the bar to pour myself another drink.
He is mine. He lives because of me. He thinks himself a hotshot, a potential master of the Kyoto chapter. He is nothing; a redeemed borderline alcoholic is all.
I am to inherit a place of power within the inner sanctum of the movement and nothing will stop me getting what I want. I chanced it, and arranged to meet with the master of the secret sect within the Shachihoko and offer my services.
I had heard the stories of monsters, ghosts and other such youma conjured up to fight these turf wars. Nobody believed this, but I believed it given my experience with the occult. Most supposed these bloody battles to involve skilled warriors like the Ninjitsu and their counterparts getting a tad carried away in a campaign designed to intimidate and scare off the atrophied arm of the law.
The police and the military taskforce set up to deal with them, inept actors in a deadly game where the rules they played by no longer applied had failed to stop the fighting, as expected. Crime it seemed did pay for some.
the Yakuza, happy with the fruits of its mediocre agenda, the Shachihoko on the other hand had bigger fish to fry and would do a deal, with whomsoever it could to achieve its goals.
In my case, I applied these same rules to myself. I wanted in. I want power. If Sobereigunu is to stupid to see the advantages of sitting by my side, as the most powerful representatives of the Japanese Ruling Council of the Shachihoko, then I will spit him out, blow him away for all the useless dust he is to me.
The sight of that bronzed, blonde-haired dimwit, a nineteen year-old marrying a man old enough to be her father, or perhaps her grandfather, a mere girl gyrating on his lap made my blood boil. For a time I’d managed to enjoy it, and I wanted to desecrate their intimacy by working myself into an orgasm, but now in the wake of that folly I am now feeling ice-cold and disgusting. Why can’t I just turn the damned thing off and go take a shower?
He looked in his thirties, but that wasn't the point. The bastard was mine, and he betrayed me to marry that…child.
I screamed as I watched his hands peeling open her tanned thighs after groping her breasts, a cascade of platinum blonde set against the dainty ribcage pooling in her lap. At least the bitch had a good body and the siren tattoos on each breast a nice touch; the girl's only redemptive feature.
The love talk was the worst part of this self-punishment. That insipid gush sickened me to the stomach, or groin, well, now it did anyway. The girl endowed with the body of a mermaid: her abs, the gentle contrast of bone structure and symmetry as she arched her back so child-like, made me want to puke. He was lost to me. The girl’s arms then stretched over her head like a cat, accentuating her naked beauty to perfection.
Three hours and they hadn't stopped their fucking. I was livid, now watching without a thought for myself, only the satisfaction of working up my sense of outrage, and thirst for revenge and revenge I would have.
I put myself through this deliberately. I wanted to punish not only him, but also myself. My justice would be swift and decisive, for my indignation and the betrayal; but how should I deal with this little ‘fishlet?' Perhaps I ought to play with the little fish-girl a while, have a little fun with her and drop her into one of the brothels owned by the Shachihoko and let the Danish media know their much loved London Olympic swimming champion was now a whore. But who'd believe that. No, it was a fucking stupid idea, frivolous female jealousy and revenge. No, I wasn't the perpetrator, he was. I shall test the waters and confront her, frighten her maybe, even shock her, but not kill or harm her. The thought made me salivate. How would she react to the news that her ‘dear fiancé' was dead and an underworld douche bag, and what a beautiful moment that would be to watch her expression pale and crumble in the face of that bleak truth. He'd be dead and I would be avenged and my would-be rival, the little thief, the girl an emotional wreck. I'd spit on her, walk out, and leave her to her pointless lamentations.
I sighed, finally turning off the LCD screen that took up half the wall and went to the math room, stripped off and showered, made myself a hot chocolate and sat in my studio looking at a sketch I’d done earlier that day and my thoughts went back to my disjointed childhood.
I kept certain things back from the Shachihoko; one of these was my relationship with mirrors. Yes, an ambivalent relationship it was too, and these days, I held all this in reserve as I was entering uncharted waters with the movement and needed this ace up my sleeve.
I was such a sweet child, but I was also a tragic little girl.
I was only a kid for crying out loud. I’d feel the beating of their wings, or the ice-cold touch of dark slugs with fathomless depths within their worm-like bodies that slid over my face and hands as I shrieked in fear as I threw up all over myself as they vanished into nothingness.
According to my parents, it was all in my head, a nightmare or dream trauma as Dr. Yume Sihiro would say. I was told repeatedly these monsters weren’t there, I knew otherwise.
As a woman, I also suffered their presence, particularly whilst having sex; my lovers would never hear them but I did… The mirrors would chant their ceaseless refrain, “Don't dream that you're all grown up. Big dreams are meant just for kids."
I was only two years old when I first began to receive these unwanted Visitations by the most horrific of creatures and experienced all kinds of spectral phenomena. Whenever I dared look, I would notice these to be black, shiny, gelatinous blobs. I’d watch, covering my mouth with my tiny hands as these began detaching themselves from the mirror, any mirror I was exposed to, especially at night and they’d harass me.
Rarely did I encounter anything during daylight hours. But when I had, it was rather pleasant, if not a little eccentric. Amongst these more friendly examples were pretty wraiths asking help to send them towards a realm of light, naked girls with bird or butterfly wings asking for instructions to find their way home, or asking after some boy’s name or for food, which I dutifully gave them. I figured that if I did this and so long as they didn’t threaten me, the sun-dwellers of the mirror world, as I came to call these, would never mean me any harm. Sadly, this could not be said of my nocturnal callers.
I remembered one night in particular waking from a disturbing dream. I will never forget it. I turned over in my bed and my eyes met the most terrifying apparition a little girl could possibly ever encounter. I had woken to the faces of glowing clowns, protruding from the wall, and these were laughing at me, the hideous B-grade movie style circus music pounding my tiny ears. I hate circuses and still do to this very day.
I cried alone. I screamed. No one came, and nobody cared.
Amongst my tormentors were plant-like things that would send sentient vines into my room. I’d hear them slithering on the polished wooden floor rustling under my bed and yanking open my wardrobe as if searching for something, and why these were doing this I did not know; not then, anyway.
My kitten hissed at them. She was never harmed, instead, they would back away from her, with her fur standing on end, and throwing out a paw, growling at my unwanted guests; I loved her for that and why cats are amongst my favorite animals.
I would cry out in fright as the plant creatures reared up and looked down upon me, often with an article of clothing, sheet or pillowcase hanging off a thorn or bulbous flower bud. Sometimes these plant creatures were pretty, all pink and white and fragrant and would just hover there above me as I gasped and said a tremulous, “Hello” before these slid away and I would pull the bedclothes up over my head. But on other occasions, they were smothered in stinging insects that thankfully never bit or stung me, but scared the crap out of me. Most of the time the vines were festooned with long scimitar-like thorns, in sharp contrast, if you’ll pardon the pun; these were accompanied by an abundance of flowers, big red and violet flowers with huge blinking eyes. I hid under my blankets praying to Amaterasu, that seemed to help, and soon I would fall asleep.
Then there were the arachnids the size of a large dog clambering over the windowsill and dropping to the floor in a series of soft thuds, their footfalls beating a rhythmic tattoo as they moved toward the end of my bed, they never jumped on it thank the kamis, my kitty would ignore these octopods and vice-versa. They would line up there and prod my feet the way my kitten Louisa did. Drawing up my knees under my chin, I would shout at them to go away and leave me alone, oddly enough, they obeyed my command.
Curling myself into a ball, and jamming my eyes shut, I cried as they left me be and spun their cobwebs that crisscrossed my ceiling and covered my windows making my room seem like a prison cell.
The next day I climbed out of bed to get my kitten down as she had scaled the black ugly lattice, the spiders long gone. She was so cute I giggled as I reached for her and carried her and myself to safety.
Like hard rubber, unlike anything anyone had ever seen before, the webs were the thickness of my little arms. But not even that would sway my family on the matter of my haunting, for want of a better term. They simply paid a pest controller to fumigate the house, clean up the cobwebs and paid off the curator, whom was charged with cutting the thick webs down and disposing of them, to keep it quiet; this I learnt years later. They were getting scared at that point, but hadn’t let on and no doubt resented and feared me thinking me cursed or something worse if truth-be-known.
In time, at around the age of nine years, I draped my dress mirror as it began to get dark and any others I could find, my parents thought me nuts, but it worked.
I had endured a procession of countless self-appointed experts that tried to get inside my befuddled little brain without much success; it never occurred to them that what I was telling them was real. Oh no, that simply would not do now would it. I was the crazy child of the family, marched off to a host of child psychologists, even placed into a study by a team of post-modern anthropology students based at Tokyo University. I was a real case in many ways.
Yeah, apparently, I wasn’t alone in my misery, as many children had suffered similar phenomena as I had. I still wonder to this day how those kids have faired since. I sighed at the memory.
As the years rolled by, I told them less and less until I bullshitted my way out of my parent’s obsession with therapeutic solutions for their unhinged daughter. If I were indeed a little unhinged, it was mostly to do with their lack of support. The stigma I lived with as a result made me guarded, withdrawn and far more mature for my age than was the norm. The supernatural never came into the equation. As far as anyone was concerned, I was the wayward one, at school the witch-child, the weirdo.
Upon puberty, the occult activity shifted considerably in nature and intensity, especially during my moon cycles. Did I honestly think they were done with me? Far from it - poltergeists and a host of entities used the mirrors to great effect and not only my mirrors either, doing this at the worst possible of times. The chanting of course continued with variants on a theme, that annoying reference to childish dreams and desires, what a fucking boring load of crap it was, and to think it terrified me as a little girl.
During my days at college, I let myself get swept up into the dark world of the movement. I fucked the wrong boy, his father a powerful local figure in the Shachihoko. Keeping it in the family, I soon found myself in bed with both of them, oh lucky me, but the price paid was my soul.
Then stranger things began to happen around me and without any connection to the mirrors. Objects would move around, I could physically lash out with my mind if somebody pissed me off enough. I wasn’t proud of it but I did place a few in the campus infirmary. Lights, yeah freak’n lights began to flash in my aura if I daydreamed, dozed off in the library, very disconcerting as people started seeing things around me, gruesome things: youma and other waking nightmares.
The funniest thing was the advances that came my way, I was a passion magnet and not all comers were my own age. I hated that, and used my powers to ward off unwanted advances. The Shachihoko came into my life and fucked me up even more than I was before. I was avoided at school, made fun of, then later at college and university, tagged a ‘spooky chick.’ I would lose myself in the Goth scene, and was considered a hot fuck, so what, sex and booze kept the darkness away and eventually I succumbed and learned to embrace it, even love it, never the things beyond the mirror, Oh no, never them.
