Bella Muerte

The story of a tourist and exotic Spanish local. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

Nick Samson trudged up the loose clay steps to the Church of St. Ignatius. His Spanish guidebook had told him it was a ‘short, picturesque 20 minute stroll’. It had lied. It led him along rundown backstreets with cracks in the graffitied wall cladding. He had to cross busy roads of dangerously indifferent Spanish drivers. After an hour’s trek, Nick arrived at the steps.

 

A black cat ran ahead of him, leaping the large steps one by one. Its tail whipped upwards like a question mark. Turning and flaring its eyes at Nick, it scurried to the summit and disappeared from view. Nick climbed slower. His plastic sunglasses bobbed on his sunburnt nose as he made the ascent. It took a heaving effort as he grudgingly planted his foot down and pushed up on each individual stair.

 

The church was a white square at the hillpeak. The walls were slightly worn and crumbling, as if the church were a giant ice cube slowly melting, its waters trickling down the hill. From the wall, a single wooden carving of Christ on the cross stared down at Nick. Hollow eyes. On the left hand wall there was an entrance door, but there was a sign pointing to the right that said ‘Church entrance THIS way’ in English. Spanish. German. French, and several other languages Nick did not recognise. One of them looked like it could be Latin.

 

Ignoring the sign, Nick walked to the left. He passed by a black marble wall, engraved in gold with names and dates. Commemorating death. Nick assumed they were villagers or parishioners, until he noticed the unusual mix of names; an international fruit salad. Jan Muller. T.J. Fisher. Mattheui Revellierre. Dirk Van Der Vijk. Esteban Gonzalez. Amit Al-Hulaseen. The names were an idle distraction, and his mind and vision were soon occupied by the black haired woman standing in front of him, gazing down into the city. Nick forgot about the wall of names.

 

The woman was wearing a simple black dress, resting her elbows on a low wall that formed a boarder around the top of the hill. Her long dark hair sashayed in loose curls down her back. She was barefoot, her soles dirty. Nick stood as near to her as his fear of beautiful women allowed. He knew she was beautiful without even seeing her face.

She turned to him. Her lips were a plump red, her eyes fiery scarlet.

“Is a gorgeous view, si?”

“Yeah. It’s nice,” Nick mumbled.

She extended her hand out to him. It was coated in a rich olive tan.

“Bella Muerte.”

He took her hand lightly in his sweaty palm.

“Nick Samson.”

Bella moved away from the wall. There were bowed imprints in the wall where her elbows had been, as if she had burned through it.

 

“You are English, Mr. Samson?”

“Yeah.”

“Here alone?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you regularly visit church to pray forgiveness for your sins?”

Nick was not sure if he was loading Bella’s speech with undue sexiness because of her beauty, if it was merely the exotic nature of her accent, or if she was being flirtatious, but there was something sensual in the liquid way in which ‘sin’ dripped off her tongue.

 

Her smoky eyes had a vague squint which gave nothing away.

“No. I never go to church, really.” Nick said.

“No. Horrid temples of deceit.”

“I guess so.”

“Do you know which type of people go to church?”

“Good people?” Nick asked, unsure.

“Good people? Ha! Churches are attended by hypocrites and preach piety while they touch children and sip wine from their golden chalices. An eternity of torture and damnation is all they shall receive for their actions in this world. Every single one of them!” Bella shouted.

Nick was stunned by Bella’s outburst.

He muttered something about only coming up here for the view.

“And do you like the view, senor?”

 

Bella turned to face him, and Nick saw her curves for the first time as she slipped out of her dress. She cast tall dark shadows down the hillside. It felt soft and thick and dense. It was a black, endless vortex that Nick’s hand could disappear into. As his hand sank into her, she drew him in and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and wet. Nick felt his body moving closer to Bella, closer still, until he was no longer in possession of a physical form. Bella’s kiss was vampiric, inhaling his soul. His sunglasses dropped to the ground. ‘Nick Samson’ appeared in gold on the black marble wall.

 

Bella’s eyes flared red. A black cat scurried down the steps and sat in wait.