The galleria, p.1
The Galleria, page 1
Contents
Warning
Author’s Note
-1980-
The Window
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER XXX
The Galleria
ALEXANDER MICHAEL
The Galleria
Copyright © 2023 Alexander Michael Tetis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be lent, hired out, circulated, or reproduced in any way whatsoever, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the author’s prior written consent.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Aardwolf Designs
Thank you to Andrew Cull, for his support, and his eye for formatting
Warning
- Sexually explicit content
- Unlikeable characters
Author’s Note
The Galleria is part 3 in ‘Vignettes’, a short series of prequels. Everything Is Summer was part 1, and Home being part 2.
These three novellas can be read in any order, but if you read as intended, you will see the role of a character named the Storyteller growing each time. All three of these novellas will meet again, in a very large novel, release date set for late 2024, titled A Book Unbound, where everything will be revealed. These three novellas are standalone and can be read that way, yet there will be glimpses – a scene, a mention of a character, even a line of text or dialogue – that is a promise of the larger world to come.
If you choose to read these three prologues in any order, enjoy the solo adventure. They work by themselves despite those aforementioned moments.
If you read in the order of #1, #2, #3, these hints or glimpses grow in size with each book, the second and third novellas even having callbacks to characters in the first, Everything Is Summer.
Whichever path you decide to take, I hope you enjoy these three beginnings. Thank you for being here.
Reality is a kaleidoscope. Taste the dark. Be transformed.
-1980-
The Window
You are different to the others. You are beautiful. You are chosen.”
The girl was escorted into the cathedral dimness. Light cut the shadows like a fine blade. When all that came before had been of the darkness, this spacious lobby of opulent candlelight gave the impression that answers were near at hand.
Word of this place of excess had reached her ears, but what now was this near-empty lobby? Palms stood pristinely in large pots here and there atop black and white tiles. Chessboard meets Wonderland. An indoor garden bestowed oxygen from a bed nearby. A trickling globular fountain at its head made whispers as the candle flames and their shadows wed to only divorce.
She had heard tell of the sombre and the sensual, all occurring here within the tower below its sky-high secret; sombre for the damnable loss of identity all humanity craves, sensual for the motions of flesh on flesh.
This was a playground, a place of ritual sacrifice for the brutal goddess, Desire.
Call it what it is, she thinks.
I want to be fucked.
There were several people in the lobby, their positions scattered. One man, his eyes glazed, his bald pate glowing, stared at her as she passed by. A man and woman were sitting by the fountain and talking in excited whispers. Another woman came over to join them. Further in the dimness, over by the staircase that rose like a hierophant to glory, two forms were seeking to become one. The shadows far from the candlelight damned the girl’s eyes with confusion.
“Come this way,” the man with the gentle voice said. No tide or gale could rouse his voice to anger.
His hand was extended. She took it. Chains jingled at her wrists and ankles. The sound permeated through the lobby, interrupting the dwellers. They now stopped their whispers and motions and watched, smiling, waving, as the girl in the black leather, the spiked boots, the wild array of onyx hair in imitation of a dead Christmas tree made her way up the staircase. She looked back at them as she ascended.
The staircase muffled her tread, the carpet a thick and soft crimson. It wound up and up, passing entryways to halls that stretched ahead into tasteful gloom. They did not once enter these halls. Their goal was above. This girl, Phoenix, once named Abigail by a single mother now in mourning, eyed the man on occasion as they continued to rise, her sweaty hand in his dry, dry palm. His name was Mr Sparrow. What he exactly saw in her, Phoenix was not quite sure. She had golden hair once, and cheeks of rose. Her blue eyes married with the lightness of her features and gave the impression of sweetness. In all truth, her insides were rotten. As the years passed, Phoenix began to despise the reflection in the mirror. It brought people to her. She resented this. Who needed attention? All it brought was obligation down the line. Besides, all of whom tried to woo her had been men. She had no interest in what dangled at their groins.
On the eve of her nineteenth birthday – in fact, exactly one year before this very night in this dark wonder in an outer suburb of the city – she had said goodbye to the blonde curls, the rosy cheeks. Into her eyes went contacts that bestowed blackness. Into her soul came happiness for the first time in years. Goodbye, Abigail. Welcome to Earth, Phoenix.
She spent the last year avoiding regard. This self-imposed exile from identity and life itself was what she wanted. In her mind, if she made herself ‘ugly’, no one would bother her again.
But then he came, this Mr Sparrow, out of the shadows one night last week to tell her the words that, for some reason, coming from his mouth did not repulse her:
“You are different to the others. You are beautiful. You are chosen.”
She had taken the card he offered her with shaking fingers, she was alarmed to see. Phoenix retreated to her den of solitude to muse on this odd turn. Only when she consorted with her Ouija board – and a last-minute ditch effort with Cassandra, The Talking 8 Ball – did she decide to gift Mr Sparrow her appearance at this den in South Brisbane.
Now here they were, the man and his prize, ascending to some secret at the top of the tower. Phoenix had heard word of this place in the past, this building and of those who dwelt within. It was a meeting place for those not belonging to society. It was a place to shun the rules and to indulge in darkness and the loss of identity.
The very first tale she had heard consisted of a number close to fifty men and women, all draped in sweat as they draped others in whatever fluids were called for. The person she heard this account from said it was near impossible to walk from one side of the room to the other without stepping on a wet limb.
So where was all that activity? The lobby was virtually empty. When they arrived, Mr Sparrow had disappeared into a room over on the right, closing the door behind him. There had been no sign of what lay beyond.
“What was in that room? Why couldn’t I see?” she asked.
She sensed his smile. “Does it disturb you that you were not allowed to see?”
“It does.”
“There are too many out there who have been robbed by society.”
“Including me.”
He stopped climbing the stairs. “I promise you, no more. No more will you be lied to. I will show you the truth. But first I need to know I can trust you.”
“You can!”
“Words are not enough. Come, we have a ways to go yet.”
Their pace increased, and they returned to the ascension. He spoke again as they walked. He was a whisper. “While you cannot see yet, I can say that the room on the ground floor is a library, of sorts. It is a place that holds answers. We call it the Archive.”
Phoenix swallowed. Her belly shook. Excitement barrelled through her.
They passed another entry into a hall, doors standing closed on right and left.
The cowed figure in the darkness at the far end of the hall opened a door. Before departing from her sight, the figure turned its head to peer back at Phoenix. There was knowledge there. Strangely, there was malevolence.
The figure either entered a room or merged with the wall.
“Who was that?” she asked, as they passed the hall by.
Mr Sparrow, it seemed, did not even need telling. “Don’t worry about her, child. She comes and goes.”
“But who is she?”
“You saw her in the lobby. Now hush. We’re there.”
If I saw her in the lobby, then how did she…
The staircase ended at the tenth floor. Phoenix was greeted with merely another hall, seeming to mirror all that came before, right down to the maddening hexagonal design on the carpet.
Mr Sparrow pointed. “There she is.”
There was a silhouette standing by the window in the distance.
Phoenix grasped Mr Sparrow’s arm. “How did she get up here?”
The acquiror of fine specimens laughed. It was as fluting as his conversational tone. “No, not her. She’s gone now. But I would like to introduce you to someone. Come with me.”
Phoenix trailed behind Mr Sparrow. The form by the window at the hallway’s end was now clearly female. The woman stood looking out at the world, her back to the two approaching. One hand rested on her right hip. The other hung loose. Phoenix noted the gloriously long nails. Were they painted black or red? It could only be one or the other in this plac e.
Mr Sparrow cleared his throat. The woman – girl – turned from the sight of a nocturnal earth and faced them. Phoenix immediately felt the power this girl had over all those who would share her presence. Where excess was Phoenix’s game, this natural beauty looked out at the world with confidence. She was adorned with the darkness, her hair itself was even blacker than Phoenix’s, but it seemed to be her natural visage. She had not sought the night, surely; it came for her, supping from her will like an adherent to a lost goddess.
Her eyes were the brightest crystal blues. Her lips were black. No piercing marred her porcelain features. Her eyebrows were sharp and fierce, seemingly perpetually arched at the corners. This watcher’s hair might have been black, but her hair itself was not a show of extremism as Phoenix’s was. It was shoulder-length, her fringe parted in the centre. It was tasteful, and young Phoenix had not yet mastered that subtlety.
“I’ve been waiting,” this girl said, her arms now crossed.
She wore fishnet stockings and a dress that shimmered like silk, and Phoenix found her eyes riotously darting to the tiny nubs that could be seen at her breasts. She wore no bra, this powerful creature.
“I had things to do,” Mr Sparrow said, and there might have been a slight trace of a tremor in that once-perfect voice. Suddenly his dark suit and pristine attire were not as impressive. They seemed like a joke. “I would like to introduce you to somebody.”
The full force of the young woman’s gaze found Phoenix and she almost fled. “Who is this?” the beauty asked.
“Tell her your name.”
It took five seconds to realise the man was talking to her. “Oh!” she swallowed. She stood up taller. “I’m Phoenix.”
“A beautiful name,” the girl with the stern face said. “Welcome.”
The next thing she knew, Phoenix’s hand was kissed. She swooned.
Mr Sparrow touched the dark beauty on the shoulder. “You’re brave to be welcoming her. And here I thought you were a new recruit as well.”
The stranger took her eyes from Phoenix and planted them squarely on Sparrow. “Am I not one of your number?”
“Not yet.”
There was something about this girl… Phoenix could see she got under Mr Sparrow’s skin. It was there between the words, blaring forth from their eyes. There was hate here; there was hidden desire. “Shall we begin, then?”
Mr Sparrow turned to Phoenix. He pointed at the girl by the window. “This is Shaara. She’s also new, but she has experienced some of what we do here. The pleasures. The dalliance.”
“And I can already see the areas that need to be worked on,” she said with a smile that could gut a pig. “They call this the macabre. They call this obscene. I could show them a thing or two.”
Mr Sparrow sighed. “She likes to think, Shaara does, that she’s the next Messiah. Her pussy may be, but she never shuts up. My master sees something in her, and who am I to judge?”
“Your master?” Phoenix asked.
“You will meet the Procurer one day.”
“I thought you were the procurer.”
“I procure people. He procures what lingers in the Archive, waiting to be read. Now! Shall we?”
Two doors, both closed. The door to Phoenix’s left hid a room that was clearly the scene of great activity. There were shadows moving under the door; muffled cries of animal delight; the sound of footsteps slipping from one surely illicit delight to the next.
“Can we go in?” she asked.
Mr Sparrow grinned. “I admire your appetite. Soon. There is something you both need to see.” He stood before the other door. “It is our secret, here. Our miracle. If you can handle this and swear secrecy, you are one of us to join in with whatever games you seek. But come inside first.”
He led the way into a surprisingly bare room. They filtered into the small space that held only a floor lamp, a black leather couch, and a drawn curtain on the far side of the room. The curtain was scarlet, its vibrance visible even in this dim space. This curtain covered the entire far wall.
“Sit,” Mr Sparrow said.
The two women obeyed his instruction. Shaara slumped forward, her hand on her knee. Phoenix reclined like a sunning cat. Mr Sparrow looked at them both. “I need to know that I can trust you.”
“You can,” the newer recruit said once more.
“Yes. You say that, but how can I be sure? How do I know you won’t leave here and tell the world all that you’ve seen?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Exactly.”
Shaara laughed, and Phoenix might have seen a glimpse of insanity. “Oh, lighten up, Sparrow. I for one thinks she’s got the goods.”
“She is not who I’m worried about.”
The smile slipped from Shaara’s face.
The lamp clicked on and off three times, rapidly, startling Sparrow and Phoenix like a punch in the face.
He tried to hold onto his composure. Phoenix’s skin was crawling. Only Shaara appeared completely unperturbed. There seemed to be knowledge in Sparrow’s eyes, and Phoenix did not like what she saw there. She turned her head to gaze upon Shaara. The odd young woman was still simply leaning forward, staring intently at Mr Sparrow.
Had she turned the lamp on and off? No. Impossible.
He swallowed. “Back to the matter at hand. What are you afraid of?”
“Is this therapy?” Shaara asked.
“Before I show you what’s beyond the curtain, and before you see into the Archive down below,” he then turned to Phoenix. “Before you indulge in pleasure, I need to know what terrifies you.”
She and Shaara both sat in silence, contemplating, wondering who would go first. Shaara leant back into the couch. She closed her eyes.
Mr Sparrow smiled. “Shaara has the right idea.”
The curtain rippled as if a breeze lightly caressed it.
“Society,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Being trapped in a box with no way out. Being kept apart from answers to mysteries. Living and aging and dying all without tasting the truth of things.”
“And what is the truth of things?” he asked, standing with his hands behind his back like a drill sergeant.
“The truth is…” she began. “That there is always more to learn. There is always something underneath the lie. There is wonder. There is horror. There is magic, and I want it all.”
“Very good. But I need you to get deeper now. I need you to tell me something terrifying. I need you to tell me a personal fear – something that did indeed happen.”
“Why?”
“Call it a leap of faith,” he said. “Phoenix, you will go next.”
Shaara waited several seconds before unleashing her story in a torrent. “I was six years old when my parents died. A plane crash, I believe. That’s what my aunt told me, anyway. For all I know they might have just abandoned me. I remember my aunt took me shopping one day, not long after I went to live with her. At that time I still wasn’t really too certain what had happened to my folks. Does a six-year-old really understand death? In the elevator…”
Phoenix listened to the way this woman spoke, the cadence, the rhythm that gave the impression of poetry.
“Something happened. My aunt exited the elevator when the doors opened. Before I even had a chance to leave, they slammed shut. I could hear my aunt screaming for me. I could hear her tapping away at the buttons that would open the door. They weren’t working. The lights in the elevator went out. I was screaming by this point, all alone. I was in the dark, the only sliver of light a quarter of an inch thick, pushing its way through the doors.
“That’s when I saw something over to my left, huddled in the corner of the elevator. I never did properly see what it was, but it was quivering, and the way it moved and the sounds it made, I could tell it was dripping wet. I could just see…white hair…robes of a deep blue… It didn’t reach out to me. It didn’t try to speak. It just sat and watched. If only I had seen its eyes, I might have known its intentions. The lights in the elevator still off, the door still closed, there was a metallic whirring and the whole thing started to move. Down, it took me, down to some deeper level. There, in the blackness, my whole everything descending…descending…I wondered if this was where my parents were.”
