Belladonna | A Short Story

I understand there are many grammatical/spelling errors, I would change quite a large percentage of what I had written and the structure is very disjointed but I thought I’d upload this exactly how I had written it at 14.


Here I was again. In the same position I had been for most of my life. The city lights were bright against my eyes, but I found no happiness in them, no warmth, only darkness. My dress billowed out beneath me as I looked down on the town I had once thought of as a ‘home’. This was no home to me; I had no sense of belonging. Just fear, deceit and vexation. For 15 years of my life I had lived in the same place, with the same people and for four years now, the same undeniable desire to take up the blade and slice all my troubles away. Then why hadn’t I finished it? The answer is simplicity in its darkest form. Love. Love? Is there a meaning to that word? The word is flung around and used in such a way that the meaning now is empty. As I thought of the past year, a tear dripped down my face and fell to the sidewalks below. Nevertheless it was in vain. Tears would not bring back the endless months in my life I had had a sense of belonging, that maybe, just maybe, there was some purpose of my being. I began to reminisce, back to the very first day my life changed.

My eyes wandered down the foreboding passageway, the candles emitting a faint, eerie glow upon the stone walls. I pulled my shroud closer against my shoulders, and carried on towards the big wooden door at the far side of the passageway. The door was always taunting me like this, a big wooden frame against the minuteness of me. Nevertheless I went forward and pushed it open, leading me into my home; the place I spent most my time; among people like me. At first glance it appeared as a normal marketplace, but if you dared to look closer you could tell this was not a place you would find on your everyday high street. Shrunken heads hung from the ceiling, stone crosses were scattered along the walls, skeleton heads crowded tables. Then the main centrepiece of the room, a pale woman, black and red corset clinging to her fragile frame, black skirt billowing out beneath her, red lips paired with dark eyes; a black tiara placed upon her ebony hair. To the untrained eye she could just been sleeping, but to people who knew, people who had been here; they knew better. I diverted my gaze and walked towards the stall flowing with materials, touching each material lovingly, as if they were old friends.

“The usual please”

The lady behind the counter looked at me, those piercing violet eyes watching at me in a way which made me feel like I actually had a place in this coven. She handed over the purple and black material, which I gratefully accepted, and then I turned my back and started walking towards the stone chairs on the opposite side of the room. This was the bit that made me fall back into my usual state of self loathing. Sitting by myself, watching the groups walk past me, all belonging together, whilst me? No, I was just a lone wolf, a solitary being placed in the middle of a group, yet not quite in it. As I had been moping about in self pity, I had not noticed the figure place themselves beside me. It was not until they produced a faint cough that I made a slight jump and turned to look them in the eye.

“My name is Rune. I would find great pleasure in you affirming your name.” I was struck. Never before had I been in a situation where anybody had ever felt the urge to speak to me, especially someone with as good a looks as the male sitting a few inches away from me. His brown eyes held a sense of knowing, of kindness yet at the same time looked haunted, as if there were secrets to his past in which he felt no desire to uproot. His black hair stuck up at strange angles, resulting in an untidy look, yet it suited his pale face. A black cloak draped onto the floor, nearly covering his black jeans and top, yet still giving a bit away.

“Belladonna” I sheepishly replied, my voice emitting an odd squeak which only added to my embarrassment. A slight smile spread across his face before pronouncing “That you are.”

I could feel the paleness of my face leaving, a faint rose colour creeping into my cheeks.

“Correct me if I am wrong, but does Belladonna not mean ‘beautiful woman’ in Italian?”

Smart, good-looking, cultured; I pinched myself under the table to ensure I was not dreaming. “Why yes it does, but that does not necessarily mean that that is true.”

Under the table I felt a hand entwine with mine, and again the voice came “Well in this case, the name is the exact description of the owner.”

How well I remember that day, the day that Mephistopheles took my hand and led me towards my judgement. Oh how I thought that was the day where my life would take a turn for the better. He had seemed so real, so genuine. He had been my soul mate yet he’d taken my soul and my heart, leaving me with nothing but the body I possess. Ha! He did not even give me the dignity of self preservation of my whole body. I gave everything to him; if my death had resulted in his happiness, that I would have surrendered. The complexity of my feelings is beyond mine and his comprehension, the strength of the bond we had, the bind he had on my heart. I no longer have his heart but I will always love him, he will always be a part of me. Till death do us part.

My mother died when I was 6, and my father took his own life shortly after. They had been in love; the desolation he had felt without the strength of my mother behind him was too much to bare.

September 28 1987

Here Lies Abraxas Acala

May He Rest In Peace

Devastation overruled my mind, I was sent to an orphanage. Socialisation was impossible for me. I never again let anyone get too close in the hope that I would never feel the way I felt after losing the two people in my life I loved with all my heart. Never again being able to feel their arms wrap around me, shielding me from the cruelness of the world. Never again hear their voice whisper in my ear, telling me everything will be alright, never again able to see their faces smiling down on me.  I hid away from the world. At playtime I sat as close to the gate I could get, facing the way of the cemetery just so I could be close to them. When I was not doing this I was up in the highest tree, looking at the sky, watching my parents facing smiling down at me. The other children were scared of me. The teachers thought I was possessed by the devil. In class I would speak to my friends; the ones no one else could see, the ones that listened; that understood my parents could still speak to me.

August 15 1990

I was moved to a home for the mentally disturbed.

Psychiatrists would come and see me every week. I refused to talk. I was forced into 3 years of silence. At one point the people at the home summoned a priest, hoping he could rid me of the devil. They performed an exorcism. Their efforts were in vain. ‘The power of Christ compelled me’ yet there was nothing for his power to compel. I didn’t have the devil or any evil spirits in me, it was just my mind. Apparently I started to get better. There was one carer ‘Holly’ who believed in me. She listened, she understood. She brought back all the things I had been missing from my parents, and I thought maybe, just maybe there was room in my heart for her. She was a mother to me; I would listen to nobody else but her. Wrapped in her arms, I felt safe, like a little child again.

July 28 1993

Holly died.

She had been savaged by a dog. Her pretty face had been mangled beyond recognition, the shock of the attack causing her die of a heart seizure. She had been walking to the shop, to get me some medicine because I was ill and it had just jumped out at her and attacked her. Everything I touched turned into death. I had now lost 3 of the people in my life I had loved with all my heart by the age of 12; it was too much to bear. I wasn’t even allowed to the funeral as it would be ‘too much for me to handle’ and ‘I wasn’t a close friend or relative.’ My life was falling apart yet again.

August 10 1993

I ran away.

No longer could I bear being classed as a ‘freak’ or a ‘Satan worshipper’. I was me, someone who had lost their life at a very early stage and had been unable to trust, or love for a very long time. Losing Holly had just made the certainty I would never lead a normal life, never be able to love, that much closer to certainty. For the next 3 years I lived life as a vagabond. Scrounging off people I thought looked likely enough to have a bit of spare cash on them. I slept on doorsteps, or if I was lucky, would find an empty house to sleep in, until a big band of squatters would take over. My worldly possession were; a blanket, a dress of my mother’s which I wore everyday and a necklace, inside which bore the photographs of my father, mother and Holly. The 3 people in my life I loved, but would never see again until death. Death, the way I could see my parents again. My wrists bled the blood of a broken child. The blood was black. No more love was left in these veins. I could never love again. Or so I thought.

December 25 1995

I discovered ‘The Coven’. I was ambling along the streets, freezing half to death, trying to find even the tiniest scrap of food. Passing windows, I looked in: every window bore the same scene. Family’s sitting around tables, eating massive piles of Christmas food; laughing, joking, and children playing with their new toys. My old friend’s jealousy and grief played with my mind. It was torture; God was dancing in front of my face, showing me that I had nothing. I didn’t even have a roof over my head. These families had everything. Tears trickled down my snow covered face, as I reminisced on the few good memories I had retained. That’s when I saw it. A stairway led down towards a tunnel. I looked around, as if I shouldn’t be doing this: going down there, but some unknown force willed me to follow the faint light invading the cold street. So I went down. It was a long tunnel, made of grey stone with candles on each wall, emitting an eerie glow. At the end of the tunnel was a large door, a big wooden frame against the minuteness of me. I pushed it open. This was the closest I had felt to home in 8 long years. There were people like me, people with a past, people who didn’t worship Satan, but had something going on in their minds. I had entered the Gothic world. Yet, even though I was among these people, I still felt all alone. Yet now, I could be happy. I had somewhere that I fitted in with, even if I didn’t socialise with everyone.

January 10 1996

I met Rune.

He ruined my life. After all the years of shielding myself from love, he came along. And I let him in. I told him everything. He knew things about me I never would have dreamed of telling anyone. I learnt to love again. How does he repay me? He chains me to the wall, beats me and lets me watch as he cheats on me, right in front of my eyes. He then stabbed me and left me to die. My life has crashed. I’m not falling anymore. I’ve fallen. I gave a year of my life to him, gave him everything. There’s nothing in this world for me anymore. I let people in, and then they tear me down. Here I am, standing on this skyscraper, thinking of how my heart has been ripped apart too many times. Here I was again. In the same position I had been for most of my life. Way up above the world, yet unable to stay this way for long. I will always be falling. I am falling. I have fallen.


April 10 1997

Rest In Peace Belladonna Acala

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