Chernobyl

The placid lake, so tranquil and solemn, hides a horror that seeps through cracks. Beyond the still waters and the blades of grass lies a box: a concrete sarcophagus, supposed to subdue her. No one can subdue her. Once a queen, now a fiend, she lurks in the shadows, in the unseen. Her cloak is intangibility itself. Her crown long tarnished, lies broken, beyond the placid lagoon. Like an invisible fog, she seeps through the cracks of her sepulcher, taking with her the horrors that lie inside. She then solidifies into the monster she has become. She passes through the pale malachite grass, and even stoops down too look at the wormwood a while. As a queen, she promised to bring wealth to her children. With her iron wings, she would bring winds of promise. But iron corrupts under heat and rain. Such a sadistic entity she is now. Her power expanded without boundaries. Her bitter spittle leaked into the waters. Her putrid breath tainted the air. Her corrupted hands planted evil in the earth. Her scared subjects, the ones who raised her to her throne, condemned her to a concrete box. They must have forgotten that evil was once in a box, but that did not stop it from spreading. From then on, she vowed revenge on the descendents of her subjects. Her curse, as bright as the full moon, shines down upon the land. Her evil spirit radiates from the broken tomb. Like infernal warmth, it reaches all around. She plants her cursed seed in the berries and in the grass, most horribly…in the womb. “I could not save you. Then, I shall destroy you.”

So this night she seeps out through the cracks. She drags her serpentine body on the grass. Her toxic scales destroy the green. Her trail is that of withered grass and flowers. She follows the lights; she is sure that life resides there. She looks behind at her broken fortress, under darkness of the sky, and wonders of the fortune she promised. Through the tall grass she creeps, and behind the trees she hides. This humble structure she finds. Tiny and old, with a gentle light quivering inside, this appeals to her wrath. “Here lie my victims.” She drags herself with her own hands, clawing the earth and the grass. Her fingernails broken are stuffed with the earth she corrupted. She is safe in the shadows, observing through a dirty window. She grabs the rim of the window and peers into the lit room. A woman, with hair as bright as noon, lies on a bed. A little mound protrudes from her belly. She rubs it with such love and care. A man walks in, with warm milk and bread slathered with jam. Such delicious jam it is. Dark violet and luscious, like obsidian and amethyst combined, shines the jam made of blackberries. But corrupted the berries were, licked by her who spies outside the window. With warm spirits the lady takes her milk, bread, and jam. From this, her child will be nurtured while he forms inside. An old lady comes, and kisses her good night, rubs her belly, and turns off the light. The man with her lays, and embraced they succumb to the night. The moonlight enters the room, guiding the lamia queen inside. She sheds her scales and into vapor transforms. Through the cracks of the window she enters. Gently hovering on the bed, she makes her choice. She plunges into the woman through her nostrils, through her mouth, through her pores. In the woman’s throat she defecates, but lower is where her objective lies. She makes her way down to the womb, through the lanes of blood and the chambers of cells. She finds her prize, sucking his thumb. He is not safe in mommy’s sack. If it were only made out of lead, but it is made of thin flesh instead. She enters and embraces the babe. She caresses his head and forming toes. She kisses and adores him. She smothers him with kisses. She gives him a black kernel, puts it in his tiny hands, and tells him, “Keep this in your hand, and do not let go. I promise this will to God bring you closer, provided your parents take you to wash your primordial sin away. Pain and suffering is the map that takes you to God and Salvation. A hasty Salvation I give to you. I promise.” And so she leaves her present, in his tiny little hand, and her promise, echoing in his tiny ears, and exits, back to her broken palace of broken promises. Though she has ruptured her promises before, this time, she has kept it. As sure as the dawn is sublime and the moon pure melancholy, her promise has sadly come true.