Earl of Sanvich

Esta es la historia del conde de sanvich, fue parte de un reto entre mi novia y yo, ella me dio tres palabras, retrato, pan y si chimenea; a partir de la historia ella tuvo que hacer una imagen, aqui les dejo la versión en inglés que fue como la escribí, luego pongo la traducción en otro post cuando tenga mas tiempo y no me vuelva a olvidar de mi pequeño blog.

It was a stormy night.

The wind raged past the curtains and the crystal that the study gave.

The fire on the hearth burned brightly and warmed the study on this cold autumn stormy nights.

The count sat himself by the fire enjoying a piece of his latest creation, named after himself and his domains.

Above the fire hanged the latest portrait he had ordered done, the one he was most proud of, a portrait of himself holding his invention.
His gift for the world.

The earl just finished with his creation, the bread was too dry, he would have to punish the baker in the morning, he could not stand for his pride to be smeared like that, for his creation to suffer by the hands of a mere peasant.
What if on a royal visit the baker dared to serve a lower quality bread to the king, for the other nobles to mock him by his almost perfect creation, just because the mistakes of a simple and stupid baker.

That would not do.In the morning, he thought as he dozed off.

The echo of a loud and painful squeal woke him from his slumber.

He almost recognized the sound, he had heard it a dozen times before; he just wasn't sure, and why would a sound like that be made in his meditation, his slumber, in the middle of the night.

As he was zoning out again, he heard the squeal again, he tried to remember which sound was that.

He tried to go back to those mornings in the woods, hunting with his father, he was reminded in the fire of the first boar he hunted all those years back.

The squeal grew louder, closer, and made the hairs on the back of his neck to stand like trying to run from the eerie sound.

The banging footstep came next, angry but slowly, coming closer to the door.

The firepit grew dim and lighting came lowder and closer too.

Until the storm recceeded.

The night came still, not a sound, even the dripping from the ceiling ceased, only the cracking sound of the wood that fed the fire was heard.

A sudden swoop of wind then killed the fire, and the few sparks that remained were the only light or sound.

The earl, was not fazed by this, but the cold crept to his fingers and anger filled his mind, his time for reflection was ruined, he took the poker and tried to revive the fire. With mad raging strikes he hit the dying fire, white knuckled fists, and puffing red face, his tantrum only broke the wood sending sparks to his eyes, hitting his head as he fell back to the wooden floor.

He was dazed, and all he saw was the dark, he tried to blink his eyes, to get used to the absence of light, but he wasn't able to see, not even his hands. His head ached from the hit, maybe he had passed out, maybe he was blind, he could hear the faint cracking of the dying sparks from the wood, coming from the chimney, but the amber light, he could not see. 

He could not hear the raging wind either, nor the squeaking wood beneath his feet, sitting on the floor, recovering with dizziness and a growing headache like a hammer pounding his head.

He lifted his hand to his head, and caressed the place where wood hit bone, he felt sightly wet, only his fingertips, he had had worst he thought.

The pounding got worst, beating with his heart, but suddenly he realized, he felt the pounding outside his head. He could hear it again, the pounding, the squeals, growing louder, surrounding him, he knew he was alone, he could feel it in the cold and empty room, but the smell said different, a pungent and penetrating odour, like livestock mixed with blood and faeces, surrounded him.

He closed his eyes and felt the room spin, he tried to get up but found with his feet the side table where he kept a glass and his finest whisky at all times, he fell braking the bottle spilling the contents around him.

Between the overwhelming squeals he felt, not listened, he felt the overpowering voice judging him, making him responsible for crimes of an eternity, the sacrifice and massacre of their people, bird, porcine and bovine alike. 

He cried when he knew the sentence, like it was something that just occurred to him, he pleaded, and was overwhelmed by an incorporeal jury. he was cold, dizzy and covered in his own blood and whisky.

The Heat raised, first like that you would feel in the stables, between the bodies of the soon to be meat, then it increased and he felt cold sweat in midst of the burning flames, he was finally allowed to see, just as if a unnatural blindfold was lifted from his eyes.

He saw and squealed as his fear became true. His body was no more, nor his cries were comprehensible to human ears,  but he could see and understand the judging ghosts, their screams and cries of hate and pain.

The fire on the chimney burst alive, the burning flames of hell about to consume him, he was to face the same and even a worst destiny as those he had condemned till the end of time, and even worst, being concious, being sensitive, and being able to feel, smell and taste himself, knowing he was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

His hell, his punishment did not end on the smoking fires of his fireplace, the next thing he knew, knives butchered his skin, grains of salt curated his meat. The only thing missing, was bread, tomato, lettuce.

He knew his fate, he knew that moment the jury of all the ghost that died to be part of his invention.To every part of his being to be eaten and feel all those bites long after he was cooked. What he did not expect was to be fed to himself, in the moment the portrait was painted, being eaten over and over again for the eternity of time, feeling himself being dissolved in his own gastric acid and repeated, as long as the picture existed, cursed, trapped inside the painting repeating the same fate, being eaten over and over again. Damned.

To this day, people who eat a Sandvich in front of the portrait, swear they can hear, the squeals of a dying animal, and that the sudden drop of temperature on the room, but they also say, it was at the same time, the creepiest and most delicious sandvich they ever ate.

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Art by Adriana Ramos:  http://otakufrustratio-on.deviantart.com/art/The-portrait-of-The-Earl-of-Sandvich-478434394