Oh, it is.
"Priscilla," a Gothic, Poe-Inspired Short Story.
She was mine. She was mine and we both knew it. Priscilla. Just the sound of her name, nay, the mere mention thereof was and is enough to send my heart aflutter in unyielding love and desire. Priscilla, that pristine goddess of my very soul, with her raven's-wing black hair cascading down upon her ever-worthy shoulders. Priscilla, with those two glistening orbs upon her divine face, which of whom were the of the deepest and most beautiful azure. Which of whome will penetrate one's very soul; which of whom will awaken one's mind and body, allowing them to embrace their heavenly grace bestowed pon the most brief of glances. Those eyes. Her eyes, which, like those of the basilisk, will petrify me, freeze me, drive me to the very brink of insanity. They were an addiction, a thriving desire which both tainted and blessed my heart. Oh yes, I wanted her. Needed her. And on the evening of our year of 1885, I was betrothed to the most gorgeous woman in all of Britain. Priscilla. Oh, my Priscilla, of the soul-thieving eyes.
I curse myself for not remembering the date. With the power of God and all of His Divine Might, I cannot, for the life of me, remember the time of the most horrific time in my life. But I do remember the occurences of aforementioned date. I damn myself for forgetting the date, even though I wish upon my early grave that the date replace itself in the vault of my memory wit hthe events that occured. Alas, this wish is for nought.
I was gazing happily at the portrait Priscilla and I had taken to mark our tenth year of matrimonial glee. Her, so beautiful it was evil, in her best black gown and her hair falling like a sinful waterfall down the sides of her head, landing gently upon the base of hr tender neck. Then, one would spot myself, if it ever be physically possible to tear one's eyes away from her. Me, with my unworthy hand, grotesque by comparison, laid upon her left shoulder. My hawk-like nose, nested above a very thin and hairless lip, was pointed at the artist. Oh, how I wish it were pointed at her, taking with it my muddy eyes, so that they might gaze upon her in rapture.
I was hypnotized by that portrait, transfixed, unable to wrench my eyes away, dreaming that this portrait would be the last thing I ever see. The only reason I choose not for Priscilla to be my last vision in person beingthe fact that her eyes would be sorrowful, mourning over me, and I simply cannot bring myself to look into such a radiant face, tainted and poisoned by sorrow. I was thinking just this thought when I heard my one true love call from the floor above me, calling me to join her for another dream-saturated night of sleep. Obeying her request, I reluctantly placed the portrait back onto its place on the mantle and hurriedly rushed upstairs to join my Priscilla.
I bursted into the bedroom, needing to see my wife, because, as I mentioned before, I was addicted to her presence. I caught her just in time to spy her slipping into her evening gown, a soft and flowing black gown that was gifted to her by one of her seamstress friends as a wedding present. I could feel myself salivating, though I tried to keep this unknown to her. She went to our canopy bed, and laid down rather sensually. Now, I find everything that she does to be sensual, but this rather fond gesture just seemed to tittilate my senses even further than they have previously been pushed. I could feel my brain sizzling, and the room was spinning around me. Her beauty. Her beauty was inhuman, surely no Earth bound creature could radiate in such a manner that was this angelic. I clutched my forehead, the room spinning around me. I could feel myself falling, not meaning to, but I seemed to be taken over by a Demon of my own design, taking over my body, attacking my brain and using it as a puppet. I was becoming insane, and I knew it, and I feared that She also knew.
Then, suddenly, I could feel a horrible cackling escape my lips. Not the sound of a man who went to be entertained at the theatre by a comedic troupe, but the cackling of a madman. Of a madman about to strike. In the midst of this laughter, I was able to let out a horrible yell, trying to warn her to escape from this place, to escape from me. I tried standing up, failed, then tried again. This time I was successful in righting myself to my feet, where I then stumbled for the door, but I could feel myself being pulled back into the bedroom, my wife letting out a scream, then another and another. Oh, the agony, the complete and utter misery I was feeling. The pain induced from knowing that I was causing my beloved to be in such fear and fright. I could feel myself walking, nay, stumbling toward the vanity mirror which had been also a gift from one of her friends. I tried to pull myself away, to maybe leap out of the second-story window, hopefully killing myself and protecting my betrothed. But nay, I still fumbled toward the mirror, and, upon reaching it, I balled my hand up into a fist involuntariy and I smashed the glass. This action caused a great ear-splitting shatter, and I could see that my fist was bleeding and cut in many places. I bent down, again, involuntarily and picked up a glass shard. I realized what my subconscious mind was trying to do, and it caused me to burst out into tears. I tried to scream, I tried to warn her, to tell her to run, but the only sound that came out was that despicable cackling. The laughing that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Alas, she was on the bed, trying to back away into a backstabbing wall, a wall that prevented her from living. She was screaming still as I advanced upon her, with the broken glass fragment in my bloody hand, now completely scarlet. The cackling wouldn't stop, and it simply got louder when my body, now not controlled at all by me, reached her quivering frame with the gglass shard held over my head. My hand, my betraying hand controlled by my betraying mind, brought the glass fragment down upon her frame. It struck her stomach, causing her to scream louder in both physical and emotional anguish. Blood poured out of the fresh wound. She clutched at it, screaming and sobbing as the Demon brought down its hand again and sliced just above her breasts. She fell off of the bed, gasping and sobbing onto our bedroom's floor. The Demon went around the bed, still laughing maniacally. It stood above her, eyes soaking wet and wide with insane pleasure. It brought down the glass piece one more time down upon her throat, and the screaming stopped, taking with it the cackling. My wife, my betrothed, my Priscilla, was dead. And I had caused it. I then began to weep. I wept and wept and wept, knowing that I could never stop. I had not been strong enough to fend off the Demon brought on by my wife's beauty. I broke down, curled up into a ball, and wept some more. I knew that I couldn't live with myself. This damned memory would haunt me forevermore. Knewing what I had to do, I picked up the glass piece which did slay my wife's life, and forced it to take my own. I raised the glass piece above my head, and looked down at my love's bleeding corpse. "My love, my wife, my betrothed, my life," I said in between choking sobs. "I shall join you in the great beyond. To Death do us part, so that we may be eternally joined in Heaven." And I brought the wicked glassy blade down upon my own throat where it shall stay. Forevermore.
