A Most Violent Passion

He was somewhat of a pleasure to look at; tall, with a rather commanding figure. The broad shoulders and rippling muscles often attributed to male characters of stature, belonged to him also. His dark hair was short - as was the socially agreeable appearance of the times - and neatly combed away from his face. He answered to the name of Vyncent Sharp, and was at the moment indisposed with a dog-eared book and furrowed brow.

The year was 1920. It was summertime, and the wild grasses hugged the shoreline. Transparent waters tasted the edge of a small cove, overgrown with vines and moss. One could sit beneath these green tapestries and view thousands of stalks of coral, their slender bodies woven with blues, and purples, and oranges.

Sharp rubbed his forehead, and in a jaded act of caution, strode towards the single window of the lighthouse. Smog caressed the lean, gaunt aperture rising above the weather-beaten landscape.

“Tonight you will come to me, Dearest.” He spoke as if the words were rehearsed, and his cavernous voice seemed to linger in every dark recess. “We shall dance once more on the sea.” His eyes melted, like pools of black ink, into both rage and melancholy.

Twilight came and the ocean grew tumultuous. It wailed like the mournful dead, salivating foam. It howled like the depths of Hades, beating the raw grains of sand into submission in the zealous rage of its wake. The troubled watchman slipped into past recollections of pleasant summer nights - nights spent cradling his lover in his arms. Without warning, the wanderings of his mind became tormented, and he slashed, savage and unrestrained, from temple to jaw.

“Forget this madness, Vyncent!” Her countenance was darkened by the grime that clung to the tears on her cheeks.

“My vengeance concerns you not!” Sharp once more turned to claim the last thread of life from his victim, but Viola stepped between him and her husband with determination.

“You must listen to me, Vyncent! For God’s sake, listen! You behave like a madman!”

Wrath enshrouded the adulterous watchman and he shook with vehemence before thrusting his lover to the ground. “You wish to preserve the life of this wretch?”

“I wish to secure both his life and yours! Forget not that he is my husband and you shall surely hang for murder!”

A violent passion overtook Vyncent’s being - one that seemed to dictate his very footsteps. He moved to slay the man so loathsome in his sight. Through torn and bloodied lips, the husband rebuked Sharp with uncharacteristic strength. “Scoundrel! Harm not one hair on her head!”

“Quiet!” Vyncent shrieked, and fell upon him, hands tightening about his victim’s neck. Violent gasps told Sharp that his antagonist’s breath would soon leave him. Trembling with wrath and free from all reason, the dark-haired watchman became ignorant of sight and sound. He grasped the blade that had fallen, and drug the weapon through his victim’s skull till his forehead was riven with deep trenches. Blood dropped from the man’s lashes onto blanched pupils. Vyncent stumbled upwards, but Viola was drawn to her knees. She spoke with tenderness to the corpse, then laid its head on her lap and veiled it with the folds of her garment.

“Dead.” She whispered.

“Yes,” said Vyncent. “Now come, Dearest - leave the body for rats to feed.”

Her figure stiffened. “You shall not have the satisfaction, Vyncent! You will hang! No, no! Do not look at me like that, for you know you shall! I will tell them of this madness and you shall hang!”

In a blind rage, the lighthouse watchman caught her neck between his fingers and snapped the bone. Yes, the object of his devotion and the One whom he held most dear! She fell dead before him, limp, and with the blackened imprint of his fingers on her fine skin.

Vyncent shrieked and wept and wailed with violence, till all was numb and foam sprang to his lips. Perspiration became blood and the crimson droplets fell heavy from his brow. Hands writhed, fingers clawed, and nails severed flesh from bone, as he woke from these hallucinations like a madman wakes from a nightmare. Sharp gnashed his teeth and tore at his hair till the dark fibers coiled round his knuckles and fluid streamed from his scalp. Poor, miserable worm! Such forceful lamentation plagued him that he could scarce draw breath, and he cursed in a frightful manner. Wretch! He begged the Almighty that she might still have life, but alas! The words uttered were in vain. Viola was lost to him, and no amount of imploring could restore her! Providence was deaf to his pleas and he swore vengeance upon He who claimed to be the Giver of Life!

The smell of blood, the foul air, the cruelties of slaughter...the deed had been done and done well. All reason left the broken man, and he drug himself from the lighthouse chamber into the clutches of the darkened world. He ran, stumbling and crawling in no particular direction, beleaguered with tremblings and convulsions - cursing and biting his wrists like a dog to a carcass.

The sea shone brilliantly in the moonlight. Closer. The ocean was agitated. Closer. Down the grassy slope. Still closer. Vyncent’s bare feet touched the waters. Cold. Consuming. Desperate. His hands clawed violently at anything...everything.

“Dance with me, Dearest. Dance with me upon the waves.”