Paget
I was finally allowed into the inner sanctum of Absolution, the office of Paget Melanthios, now maybe I could get this interview for my article.  This would be my first time meeting the reclusive Ms. Melanthios.  From the dance floor below, I’ve caught glimpses of her when she would come out to her vantage point, where she would look over the club for a few moments and then disappear. The crowds in the club would worship her, like a queen or a goddess, from afar.  All I could see from afar was a tall dark hooded figure with the shape of dark wings spread out for all to see and worship.  I had no idea what Ms. Melanthios even looked like.  But the refrain from that song the DJ played every time she came out to observe rang in my ears as I walked into the office.
She offers me sleep.
Under her black.
Whoa Oh, under her black wings.
The gothic style that filled the club ended at the door to the office.  I’d say, I was rather disappointed.  The sanctum was just white gypsum board painted walls, and the desk looked like a cheap Ikea brand desk, a Hemnes, I believe. There were two battered and ripped, maybe even second hand, sofas, that didn’t match.  A few cheap, probably Ikea, bookshelves were against one wall, and they were littered with vinyl records, books, and piles of paper.  The only remote thing that was gothic in this room was the round stained glass window, which with the darkness of the night outside, I couldn’t make out what was depicted on it.
The door closed, loudly, behind me.  This drew my gaze from the desk back towards the door.  I was a bit nervous, maybe it was because I was getting this interview, or this place just creeped me out.  I turned to look back at the desk, and there she was.  I could swear she wasn’t standing there before.  This was my first good up-close look at Ms. Melanthios.
The cape, hood, and wings were gone. Â
Those eyes.  It’s her eyes, that’s what got me.  Her eyes were outlined in black, and they were cold.  But I felt they could burn a hole into my soul.  They were pale gray, almost colorless, and so cold it wanted to make me shiver.  They had a predatory quality to them.  I knew if I wasn’t careful, I would be her next victim.
What she wore seemed to fit the club. Â She wore a black brocade corseted short dress, with a brocaded high collar, and sweetheart neckline, around her neck and under the high collar she wore a black Victorian style choker necklace, from which hung a rose made from some red jewel stone. Â Her sleeves were a black sheer lace, her legs were either covered by her thigh-high high-heeled boots, or black fishnets, where the suspenders were visible because the dress was so short. Â She was tall for a woman, and the high-heeled boots made her taller. Â The only splash of color was red that ran along the bust line of her corset.
Her skin, un-stereotypically was tanned, was it her natural skin tone, earned from hours under the sun, or from a tanning bed, from this distance I couldn’t tell.  Her arms were marked in intricate dark scrollwork, the lead to her chest, the dark ink of the tattoos formed a tribal or Celtic pattern, I again was unsure at first glance.  Her hair was blonde, pale, platinum, I’d call her a towhead, and worn in a low side angular loop bun.  Her lips were deep crimson and full.  She reminded me of the waitress Elly, if I didn’t know better, they could pass as sisters.