Page 2 of Souls We Rip

I turned my head around to see my faithful servant staring at the girls.

“Does the sight please your weary eyes?” I asked, one of my hooves tapping on the floor. The sound of my voice filled the room, making the boy wince.

“No, sir,” he whimpered.

“Hmm, too bad you cannot reach them, since you’re dead and all…,” I let my words linger. If I was not mistaken, I could see yearning reaching his young face.

I walked towards the bed, leaving my robe on the floor for the boy to clean.

“Wake me up when the time comes, boy,” I said, turning away from him and closing my eyes.

I heard him mumbling about goats leaving me in silence and darkness.

Just as I liked it.

There was a time when emperors ruled the world, where swords were drowned in blood, and love was a scarce memory.

From the blood and memories, he was born.

A legend.

A myth.

An impossibility.

In a world where God was the only one who redeemed souls, a tale of him was a superstition, a story to frighten naughty children.

It had two forms. One of a goat, one of a man.

He was a man with white eyes like a cherub’s wings, dark hair like night and grey skin like dead bodies. But dead, he was not. As he could feel, touch and think. He was made to look but not join. The darkest feeling would fill his heart. Jealousy, retching and crushing crept into his chest.

The only night he wanted to get out was the night between 20th and 21st July. That was when, for years, The Girls’ Fair was taking place on the hill of Găina. Hundreds of young boys and girls would gather to find each other’s soulmate, or, as it is in most cases, a partner for life. Also, to eat, dance and drink in honour of the new pairs.

Because love was difficult to have, to feel, to be fated to.

After all, he was just a man.

And there he was, watching the humans dancing hora, cheering and laughing, whistling and singing for the new couples. Wine was pouring left to right, women losing their inhibitions, men indulging in the views.

But just as he took a step towards the food stalls, a small voice pierced the quiet from behind him.

“Hello.”

He turned around, his dark eyebrows touching his hairline. His head tilted once to the left side and once to the right side.

There was a small boy, his bright eyes roaming over the lean body, covered by a dark cloak.

“Who are you? Why are you not at the celebration?” the boy asked, his tone curious.

“I am not allowed,” he whispered, thoughts of food relinquished.

“Why is that?” the boy insisted.

“I did something bad to my family.”

The boy frowned. “You look like someone who gets in trouble a lot.”

That caught the man by surprise; his laughter was raspy.