The Perversion Of Heaven: El Latido, #1

THE

PERVERSION

OF

HEAVEN

––––––––

GHESIA MORETT

.

Work registered on intellectual property. Copyrights Reserved and Protected.

DEDICATED TO THE THREE PILLARS THAT SUPPORTS MY UNIVERSE, AND THE SPARKLING STARS THAT ALWAYS HAVE SUPPORTED ME, ENJOYNG THE LETTERS OF MY HEAVEN.

Immensely thanks to all of them

––––––––

Special thanks to my dear and talented designer Mar Laguna Checa, who without any doubt in her head and in her heart, she has allowed me to use as a base the magic of her painting on the cover, since as soon as I saw it, I knew that It was exactly what I wanted to define my book at a glance. Thank you very much for not putting any impediment to this dream.

––––––––

M.R.C. 

Ghesia Morett

PROLOGUE

For you, who are you going to start this story, I want you to know that I would love for you to make it as yours as it is mine. That´s why I wrote it. Because of this, my muses, who sometimes get lost in a complex and wonderful universe, have been transmitted themselves in a very special way, wanting that the less important details will being set through your powerful imagination, and knowing that the beauty is relative to each of us, I have left to your free will that pleasure, giving only small touches of attention.

In this story the essence is what is sought, not the matter. Maybe, it may seem overwhelming at first, but the characters are the ones who will carry and tell that essence to you, from their point of view and their senses, telling each one of them what at that moment brings them or leads them, in their particular and original form.

Do not look here for properly chapters and all things which you are accustomed. This story is too unique for that. It has been established in phases, according to the crucial moment the characters go through. Within those phases you will find their names in the heading and you will know who is speaking to you, like me, when I wrote it.

Having these points clarified, so you don´t get lost in a structural limbo, I let you enjoy it and taste it to your liking, sitting in your favorite corner, where I hope it will take you on a path sometimes passionate, cruel and ruthless, and wonderful in others, in that mixture of the greatness and darkness of things that we all intuit inside, but that are so difficult to take out. 

A tender greeting 

Ghesia Morett

NARRATOR CHARACTERS

BARONTE: Demon, perverter of souls

ADABEL: Angel of love, mercy and empathy

NAMI: Human, Asian woman who crosses in their destinies.

DASSIEL: Angel of love, comprehension and mercifulness

DANIEL: Son of Maya and Albert Smith.

Secondary, not narrators:

Yucki: Chinese old woman, grandmother of Nami.

Simon: Little son of Maya and Albert Smith.

INDEX

FIRST PHASE

THE FALL....................................7 

––––––––

SECOND PHASE

THE PACT....................................69

––––––––

THIRD PHASE

THE POWER TOWERS..................176

FIRST PHASE

THE FALL

BARONTE

––––––––

How strange it is for me, to choose from the pettiness of the world the most damaged and clean soul. I don´t know from where to choose the smells and flavors of restless and anxious spirits, to plunge them into the confusion of the most exquisite perdition, and to savor them as a delight of perversion, condemning them to the hell of the feelings of evil and guilt, twisting them to simmer in the filthiness of time, which for them is urgency and for me, only infinite space.

We, the demons, are like that. Vagabonds hungry for evil, recreating us in man, among their painful and putrid shadows, filling us with their sins, avenging us from our abandonment in beings of clean innocence or full ignorance, promising them different and insatiable flavors of life, to gather their souls in our baskets of duties.

The egoism of our deep suffering is only expiated in the twisted wickedness which we manage to drag those material and gross beings, born and conceived by the flesh. All of them are original sins, expelled to the earthly world with the forgiveness of life, which leaves them clean wrapped in shit diapers, between the screams and the suffering of a mother, who throws them out of their perfect world by taking them out from between their legs.

Abhorrent creatures, always struggling with their own animal instincts. Breed of mixtures, contradicting each other with the fervor of unconnected truths. Precipitated in desires and dreams, stumbling over stones, realities of materials impossible to move in the earth that they tread with such firmness.

Your Graceful Majesty, it was a good thing to give you a conscience soul, to distinguish good from evil, but now that only serves as a reference. They recreate in beauty, and who doesn´t? Deluded hope to be stars in the sky of the night, when they are only pieces of earth. Attached to each other in terroirs that falls apart at the slightest temptation, becoming dust and barren ashes.

If they knew about this condemnation, they would search with despair for salvation and the payment of their sorrows in that world of forced passage, collecting goodness and tearing up their veins to distribute them among their peers, giving themselves to the light of love, without confusing it with lustful and obscene sensations. 

Stupid mortals. Fools. It´s so easy to trap their desires and turn them into sebum and dark evil... so docile their behavior when you attend to their hidden and perverse needs, that sometimes I prefer to face the most lucid souls, despite receiving the blindness of their light. Searching for the weakest point between cracks of sorrows, to make them fall into the most desperate confusion, leading them to madness, covering their perfect struggle with justified evil. Residues of bewilderment and bitterness, which satisfy me in the deepest with their denials of beliefs and pure existences.

They do not see our war, they hardly perceive the struggle, they couldn´t understand it. And his Gracious Majesty, whom we cannot name with our tongues, is getting tired of holding his reins, watching us lose battles while we hide the victory of our race, expelled from the flashes of his Grace.

We are halos of black smoke, whispers of displeasure, infinite faults between hatreds and fears; desires of glitters so golden as coins for them, between grudges and envies, always yearning for the impossible, the next. Easy to make them believe by many means, superb and unique. Prophets of a million of true gods in their consciences, submissive to find by means of easy sacrifice the gratitude of heaven.

We are like Ladino terrorists who throw perverse ideas in their predisposed minds to the charm of the divine, twisting them between silk threads and then converting them into chains. Tying them to the sin of the impure, showing it as a gift of freedom full of dirty sighs, leaving them convinced and happy to release their unleashed weapons of righteous hatred. Meanwhile, we are waiting for them like foxes, to throw ourselves on them when they cross the threshold of our door, and to satisfy ourselves, hungry for their lost soul by tearing them away with expert claws, satisfying us with their pain and infinite confusion, sharing their few belongings and beautiful memories or beautiful experiences, leaving them impregnated in thousands of flames of pain. Nothing remains of them, except their light layers of sadness.

Are the delights of evil less exquisite by being dead flowers?

I once entered a body, wishing to wrap myself up like them in the senses of its throbbing flesh, but the torment of the contradiction is too big. Even for us, it is very difficult to resist in that matter. His feelings similar to knives, mingling with rains and burning fires hitting against walls of skin. It is when we are easier to distinguish and weaker. More than one of my peers were banished to nothingness with their weapons of prayers and chants, destroying them with a spirit of light drained from a blind and persistent faith, opening the darkness that conserve us.

But enough of covering me in thoughts, he is there, I see him. Alone, among all those around him, in the middle of the backyard, with his backpack on his back. Little boy scant in convictions, betrayed by thousands of promises that were never fulfilled. His loving parents confused him with their blind love, making him believe with movies and tales that he was the hero of the story, until a few made him see the reality of the cruel world, the petty reason of his true existence. Now is a loose, fearful soul, with sores of frustration and impotence festering perverse ideas in his mind. More and more deranged. It just needs a touch of attention, one last push ... And it will be mine.

I approach sinuously among the others, disconnecting from their voices and insipid and selfish thoughts, each one of their small and foolish visions of life. Few souls were so clean like this, and I am already savoring his perfidy, agglomerating his spirit during all this time, which was resisting me until a few days ago when he suffered the misery of the human error, falling into the sin of pride by believing himself better than all of them. Now his hand is my hand. And I feed on his hatred and his anger, so justified by the hits and laughter of a few idiots, as frustrated as he is in this life. I taste every breath of suffering that exhales his lips, as he enters the enormous prison of the souls where the fierce disappointments live; his school.

He goes to his classroom of apprehension, to his desk of incomprehension, sitting quietly in his chair of torments. He has it very assumed. His desperation has already touched bottom and in his mind only governs the suggested thought. The release of their pain in all of them is the justice of their sin. Now he will be the only teacher.

We wait patiently for them to enter and close the door, with the despotic and apathetic teacher. Bored of enduring so many stupidities of teenagers that no longer do any grace, releasing the consecrated good morning, without any desire to start, until you see them well seated and obedient.

His hands tremble, I notice in all his being, nervous and overbearing, fumbling in his backpack for the big kitchen knife he picked up this morning from his house. He almost has it, and I whisper a firm sigh to secure his cravings.

‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬Baronte, a celestial light threw me out of the walls, getting me out to the backyard and burning me by saying my name; making me hide in the darkness of a corner hidden from the sun of that light.

I have seen you, don´t hide you insidious demon.

That blinding light approaches and my darkness huddles in the cracks of the wall, hiding myself so as not to disappear into nothingness.

Don´t ever get near to him again, I hear him say, clinging between the wall to his material of cement and brick, between dust and spider webs, writhing in the pain of hearing his heavenly and pious voice. He is just a fawn that needs to learn. The gift of love is useless if it is not won with the heart. Let him be and find another more lost soul to fall back on, or I swear you that you will see me get you out of hell and I will make you disappear. 

I resigned myself in the deep of my dark being, knowing that Adabel is very capable of doing it, and I curse my desperate impulse to pick up the crumbs of that soul that, after so much effort, are snatching from my hands, when I almost had his taste of gall between my teeth, already nailed.

For a moment, only a moment, I dare to look out a bit to check for him, packed between the cement, hoping it's gone. He is on the other side of the backyard, coming back inside to calm his protégé. The farthest light allows me to distinguish him.

The suffering in me at being able to perceive something of such profound beauty is immense. Wrapping everything around him in scents of sandalwood and jasmine, roses and gardenias, of a thousand fresh flowers fresh from Eden; with shining brightness of purity that I can´t stand and that goes through my demon skin making me fall into it.

I have seen him, he has remained etched in my red eyes, tearing the veil of hatred that covered them. I have seen his light wings defined by the radiant light of his essence woven with kindness. I twist in my contempt among this wall, trying to recover my anguished evil. But, nevertheless, I remain imprisoned in him, huddled in my darkness, unable to believe all that I feel inside, with a surprise so great, that I am barely able to understand it. 

A heartbeat, just a heartbeat, and I have felt him burn inside of me like a radiant blow of light that makes me die and gives me life, all in the same moment.

I have to escape now that I can. I always managed to sneak out in time, I was never that close, and now I regret it. I should have let him get rid of me a long time ago. Now I´m torn and I´ll have to return to the hell of my disgust.

Knowing what he is, is a livelihood and a success, but seeing him in that mirror ... is devastating. Accept it, an impossible, after being so close to the perfection. Now I see my despicable being writhing in laments of horror, to feel upon me with so full consciousness, the immense loneliness of hell.

I could be like him, I could be this splendid, and I let myself fall into the darkness of jealousy and the eternal bitterness of envy, basking in the rotten remains of humanity; in the slimy lust of eternal power and in the rashes of pleasure from the harm of others.

Yes, I am a demon, but that angel, from whom so many times I have reneged and escaped, has left me blind.

––––––––

I should never have looked; it is the first law in the hell of darkness. If He finds out, He will correct me in long tortures of extreme cruelty. Now I must hide even from those who are mine or they will know it. Immediately they will realize, they will see that my eyes stopped being cold and dirty. My coat of darkness has no longer the same color, nor do I drag the evil with the same force, and my only wish is to see him again, I need him inside.

Adabel, my worst enemy, the being from whom I have fled so much and from whom I have laughed in my cunning or dirty escapades, now has me consumed in his profiles of light and charms of tinkling candor. It is like having come out of the eternal cold and bring my frozen hands close to the heat of a repairing fire. Just looking at him gives comfort to the soul, forgiveness of sins, and sweetens the pain of wounds with its calmness.

What's happening to me? I saw a wrong heart, lost ... and I let it escape. Why?

I didn´t like it, that's all. I was not satisfied by picking up his little pieces of bleeding and repulsive vis, oozing from his breath the pain and hatred towards a deceptive love that sent him into oblivion. He was already a rude and lost soul someone else can take care of him I thought with reluctance, slicing awkwardly at my own bewilderment.

I have to plot something to attract him, to be able to talk to that angel who has condemned me to purgatory. I have to ask him ... I need to know ... I need to understand ... or I'll just be ashes stirred by the wind; tiny pigments that will remain stuck on the ground so that the mortals trample them with their feet, as if they were sand from a desert.

Not that. I don´t want to be up to them, it is too much punishment and ... however, I would dress with their skins only to be able to touch him, protected by his flesh full of senses.

He has perverted me with his heaven, and now I feel like a beggar.

Definitely, I'm lost.

The dirty and wet streets that I walk with my human feet are now revealed to me with different eyes, the ones in which I´m involved. Every time I seat more to their palpable senses, noticing every fiber, every molecule that contains me inside this being. The touch, the sense of smell, the vision of the world... it is so different to feel the elements through the skin, that I am overwhelmed in all those senses mixing with feelings of the spirit. At first I writhed in pain, now I'm assimilating and controlling.

He found me and condemned me to this, to living badly with the half dead, to suffer his pain, to desperately seek the encounter with the angel and make him fall. He, the one who doesn´t want us to pronounce his name, envious that our mouth can´t pronounce the name of the Other.

He dragged me with only one order to his cave of sins licked in eternal fires, crushing me to his depraved feet, despising my change, furious with my grief and the mistake made; Seeing how the heartbeat burned my lips to tell the truth of my story.

How can you deceive the demon King, if it is not with the virtue of the liar?

And then, I spit my plan on him, between truths and unmerciful lies.

I would look for him, I would convince him and I would make him fall, giving him his wings, only to Him.

He would pervert his heaven, as that being had perverted my hell, and we would get rid of our essences by becoming flesh, dying in his putrid dependence on counted time. I would love him to the remains of human existence that he could gave me or possess, that is only time in pods for us, making him suffer this wound in his whole being, as I suffered. What else could I do, if not sacrifice myself for ... Him?

My lying truth satisfied him, since he had nothing to lose, and the power of new wings, breathing air into his greed, filled him again. He let me escape unharmed, condemning me to dwell in bodies until I fulfilled my promise, giving him the gift I had offered him.

Stupid of me, now I find myself in these, full of such material and urgent needs that I barely live. Time is my most deadly enemy, and the only thing I think about is how to make Adabel see me among so many humans, so unbearable and lost, like this one I've become.

––––––––

I walk and I walk, I have traveled half the world and I am already tired, hurt, stripped of hope, getting wet with the rain that falls slowly and plaintively. Looking at the gray clouds in the sky, searching with my eyes for a sign, a slight movement, something that gives me encouragement and cheer me up to find a clue ... and continue to follow.

I feel the cold that wet my clothes and gets me to the bones, while I see humans take refuge in their quarters of life that they call homes. I savor the rain, I lick my tongue through my wet lips and scream to the wind and silence, dragged by the frustrating need of my soul to feel him close, even if only that.

Here I am Adabel, come to me, you coward. I shout in our language, furious and desperate. If you are capable, have mercy on this being that you condemned to this piece of meat. I beg with all my discouragement.

But only the noise of the rain answers me, making me feel in deep abandonment.

Lost, I am lost and my eyes let out despair, noticing that my body fails me and my knees bend folded to the feeling, while I cover my face with my hands to try to take refuge inside and contain that pain. But everything is insufficient for me, while I cry like a tormented and wounded child.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and that consolation, mixed with curiosity and astonishment, leads me to look at the creature that dared to approach me.

Young man, what's wrong? Do you need a shelter?

The mercy of the old woman who asks me leaves me speechless. I had never felt anything like this, nothing and nobody did something similar for me.

She covers me with her umbrella and takes my hands helping me to get up, without being able to understand her attitude, letting me being assault by her compassion to subsist with one more breath. I embrace her wrinkled and warm hands, supporting and lifting my body until I see her under my eyes, above her decrepit bone structure, while she keeps smiling with kindness giving me the courage to resist.

I never expected that, in the streets of Beijin, where depravity roars in every corner, I will find a lost gem of compassion. ‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

You look sick, she says with worried eyes, come with me and don´t stay here young man, or soon you'll be among the dead.

She guides me with more determined steps than mine to an old door of half rotten wood. We went through a small backyard and climbed some stairs to a small two-room apartment. Meanwhile, I follow in silence, confused and lost in the middle of senses and feelings. It is clean and tidy, although there is hardly any furniture with just the necessary for an austere existence. This still confuses me more.

I look at the old woman, as if in a hurry, she gets to take out towels from a small closet and she releases them in my hands after cleaning my face with them. She seems to think that I must be a sick creature, or I´m lack of something in my head, because her tenderness resembles that one that is offered to a boy lost in the storm.

A boy in a raincoat rushes in, calling the old woman, asking if she found his lost dog. Surprised by my presence, he stays at the door, looking at me with horror as the old woman approaches. He fled scared without saying anything, not a cry came from his lips broken by terror.

He has seen me; in his clean look my essence has been reflected. That dark being, made of ashes burned by the fires of hatred that burn immensely in hell, where they always feed eternally. He has seen my blood red eyes dig into his. He has seen my wings of perversion swirl in my torso, trapped in this deceptive container.

A thousand feelings are intermingling in myself again, between the disgust of myself, and the resentment of being despised by such a small creature. Anger seizes me, while the old woman looks surprised and worried about the reaction of naivety that escaped a moment ago from there.

In another time, I would wait for the loneliness of his bedroom sheltering in the darkness. Reciting him nightmares of horrible games of death while he sleeps, searching the small grievances among his innocent soul, the sweetest and most suggestive desires, turning the burning sins in his mind, to make him suffer in his own contempt and listen to his cries of terror in the middle of the night, gloating over my own misery, feeding myself on his misfortune.

The old woman looks at me, still not understanding, shaking her head without knowing what to look for, a little confused. She closes the door and then go back to me.

I'll make hot soup. She says after a moment touching my already dry hands. You're cold, you'll be fine, creature. She says worried and complacent.

I look at her as she does her work, lighting the small cookers, laborious in the tiny kitchen while she recommends me to sit at the table, under which there is a gas stove covered with a kind of large and heavy tablecloth that retains the heat. My human body is consoled to notice it, and more animated, I accommodate myself to the waiting discovering the movements of my guts in need of something more than nonsense thoughts. My stomach is corrected, wailing cravings as I begin to smell the vapors of food.

The old woman glances at me from time to time, smiling at my urgent need for food, impatiently enduring the hunger that rushes at me. But this one that I feel is different, it's easy to satiate, leaving time for everything else. It is not always defiant, insufferable and continuous, that squeezes the soul leaving it always in its grasp, melting it into evil, only that calms it for a moment. I congratulate myself on realizing that this constant beast disappeared from my being, and I smile at the old woman, noticing that strange grimace on the face for the first time.

Once the two are sitting at the table, and already with the body a little hotter, feeling the comfort of the heat, the old woman puts the bowl in front of me, throwing me eager to quell the urgent need of this body.

The old woman, annoyed, hits me gently on the hand with some long sticks, pointing out to me those that are in my hands. I cannot believe my clumsiness when trying to use them. But she, patient, comes over and helps me know how to catch them and eat with them. It is a suffering, if I didn´t see her nod with patience much more satisfied by my effort, I would throw them out the window, or I would stare them in her eyes furious. But this body flatly refuses such a savage beast, controls my spirit and consoles itself in its happy eyes and in its pleased smile, when I finally manage to take a good pile of noodles to my mouth.

You don´t know how to speak, boy? Or you can´t? She asks me curiously and returning to her compassion. It's a shame in a so handsome young man.

Only then, I realize in the shape of my new wrapper. I'm not used to look in a mirror. I don´t know yet how I am on the outside, so accustomed to not see me, except in the terrified eyes of men in the last of their existence. Calmed a little the need of the stomach, a pressing curiosity makes me get up and look in the small mirror that she has next to the entrance, in front of the door. There I see the face that hides me. The one of a young and beautiful man, but emaciated, confused and neglected. A bit famished, but with more color in the cheeks thanks to the heat and the food recently ingested. I open my lips and see that the string of sharp yellow teeth has disappeared.

I smile satisfied. That way I can show myself before him. Adabel will no longer see my dark body, it will be hidden behind this flesh, with correct and soft, perfect, charming forms. Masculine, but far from the ugliness that hide.

Until that moment, apart from knowing me as a male of his species, nothing else was certain in my mind. I already had a hard time getting to move inside the container, as if to worry about something more superficial.

The only thing that can betray me are the eyes, which remained in that green color, strange and effulgent, half indicating that I come from the old and ladino snake that proposed the first sin to man.

Safer and more agreeable, I sit down again with my new friend, determined to extract from her wisdom the concerns of the human soul, the chords of the body to balance them with the mind and spirit. My task is very difficult and it requires all my effort if I want to get to call, not only his attention, but to make it fall in the beat of the heart. To apprehend him in this earthly and imperfect world to do it only ours, of the two, condemned to each other in the delicate martyrdom of love.

How strange it is to be able to even catch that word in my mind, when times before I regurgitated it, impossible to accept it in my evil essence.

I want him to feel what I do. I want him to suffer these bitter anxieties and to give himself to me, as desirous and kneeling as I submit myself to them. So