Within a White Darkness

In an instant, the cool dark that surrounded your bed was pulled away, the cover pulled back in a blinding rectangle of light. You cringed, rolled on your side, pressing your face into the pillow you laid your head upon. How long had you even been sleeping here? Your mind is a fog, formless and free of landmarks, much like the space you lay in before the light flooded in.

“Oh, darling…”

The voice above you cooed, sending a cold sensation up your spine. The bright light began to clear itself, fading back into shadows and candlelight, into a bone-white face staring down upon you, wide, red eyes like spotlights bearing down on you. Thin, spindle-like fingers, clad with hard, polished chitin in the place of skin, clung to the tops of the walls surrounding you, while another pair of hands lifted back the tattered, pearl-colored veil that hung over her face. 

“My dearest darling! Did you sleep well?” She leaned closer; her face takes up nearly the entire view above. “Are you well rested?”

You open your mouth to speak, only to find yourself unable. Your voice feels rusty, just like your mind. You can’t even remember how to speak, much less muddle together words. All you can manage is a pitiful squeak, dry and hoarse, your throat aching from the effort. Your hand goes to your throat, trembling; something twists hard in your gut and realize the depth of how wrong this feels.

“Oh, you poor darling, you’re in shock!” The white, needle-like fingers descend, sliding under you, their surface hard and cool and slick against your bare skin. You’re naked, you realize; how long have you been this way? Hands cradle you, palms curve gently under you, the pads of them softer than the fingers at least but so stark in their color, so utterly devoid of pigmentation.

You gather enough strength to lift yourself up onto your elbows, broadening your view. Her face, soft and round, framed by hair cropped at chin length and bangs that end just above her brow – hair as snow white as her skin. Against the brightness, her eyes stand out starkly – a cold, white expanse with ruby red irises encircling the inner void of her pupils. The pale pink of her lips curls into a smile, too wide and too thin and eerily happy, bordering on ecstatic as she gazes at your naked form. The wedding veil flutters atop her head, brushing against the silk moth joined to the back of her head, encircled by great, paper-like wings whose roots disappear under her hair.

Her fingers – pointed, sharp, threatening to slice into your skin – caress your cheek. Her hands are anything but human. Fingers wrapped in exoskeletal plating, palms soft, but covered in fine, white hair. Her arms, far too slim to feel natural, stretching back towards her, towards the strange juncture of her shoulders and the other set of arms that meet this pair, one stacked atop the other. Her other set of hands cover her mouth daintily as she giggles towards you, her eyes unflinching, unmoving in their expanse and their fixation upon you.

Her other hands descend and you follow them, watching them unlace the front of her corset; heavy breasts shifting, sliding to either side of her chest as the support holding them together loosens. A slender hand slips into the garment, lifting one breast up and out of it as her other pair of hands carry you towards it. “Yes, I’ll give you something to revive you,” she says, still touching you, fingers playing over your skin – she cannot help, it seems, but constantly touch you. “A little treat, something to strengthen you. Perfect!”

You’re brought to the nipple, a powder-pink nub of skin against her pale breast, just beside your face. “Go on,” she says, nudging you towards it. The air smells warm, sweet, thickly so. A bead of liquid rests against the tip of the nub, trembling under the subtle vibration of the body underneath. “Drink.”

You refuse. You can’t vocalize it, can’t even think up the idea of expressing your refusal, but you simply resist moving. The smile on the moth girl’s face falters for a moment. “You should drink,” she says, voice a little more unsteady than it had been. “You’re hungry. Drink from me.”

Still, you refuse. She gives the barest flash of teeth, scowling at you. Something sharp presses against the back of your head and you gasp until your mouth is pressed to her nipple, her milk trickling into your mouth and down your throat. Your throat clenches, spasms; you cough and droplets of the fluid sputter from your mouth. “Don’t reject me,” she says, hissing through pointed teeth. Her wings flutter against her hair. “You need this. You need me. Drink!”

Reluctantly, you accept, unable to put up much fight. The finger at your skull could easily kill you with enough pressure, piercing right through your tiny body. Drops of milk run down your throat, filling your stomach, giving a slight swell to your abdomen as it sloshes around inside of you. “That’s good,” the moth girl coos, pressing another digit against your belly. “Look how full you’re getting. That’s much better. You needed that! See how hungry you were?”

The needle-like digit presses against your stomach, threatening to puncture your flesh as it strokes over your skin. “You need someplace to rest, my darling, until your strength comes back.” The concern comes back to her voice, hushed and pointed and deeply insistent. “Let me be your bed, your shelter.”

You shake your head. You refuse. No. No, this is not right. You can think the words but you cannot find the strength to say them. But you tense, nonetheless. Your brow drops, a crescent with points turned upward, your frown expressing refusal better than your mute voice can hope to convey.

“Why?” Her voice turns sharp, no longer playful and overlaid with the sound of her giggling. No; it was now cold, and biting, and yet at the same time filled with a nervousness betrayed by her eyes. “Why… why would you reject me? Reject the gift of my body as your bed?”

No, you repeat with a shake of your head. Not now. Maybe not ever. All of it, conveyed by tense muscles and the twist of your torso away from her.

“Very well. Another time, then.” With a hiss, she lays you back into your box – still gentle, still cradling with you with alien hands not designed to touch or caress. “Another time. Maybe tomorrow? Yes, maybe then.”

Her fingers slip away, leaving you on top the relative warmth of your bed. One set of her hands holds the lid to your room, or whatever this space was, while the other set wiped at her eyes with their wrists. “Tomorrow then. We’ll try once more tomorrow.”

Your room fell once more into darkness, and time and space lost all meaning once again.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *