A lone creature stands pure, flawless, yet tormented by virtue. Her flowing locks of radiance untouched, undisturbed. Like life itself retains her in a prison, life proud of its one and only perfect being, a martyr of magnificence.

Kept within a garden of Eden, a paradise of torment, plagued by thought, plagued by dreams. Forever despairing. That despair inevitable, descends to deed.

Towards the edge of a clearing in this sickly garden of perfection, a ridge, a drop of an end, trees line either side, two pure white wolves appear by her side as her arms outstretch in desperation, eyelids close as significantly as new life being born, as a final, subtle lean forward is made to end this torment.

Falling, overwhelmed, earthly green vines outstretch lacing around her wrists, like snakes slithering in spirals to consume her whole body. This now still, lifeless, the canvas for nature’s will.

Nature bursts into chaos. Feeding off such purity. Yellow blossoming flowers appear sporadically like small explosions of natures creation. Majestic birds fill the sky, trees as if in time-lapse try to reach them. Nature clashes, spirals, the amount of colour and freshness becoming toxic.

Before long the angular shadows of birds block the blinding light. Whispering clouds and brightened stars flash by as if time has spiraled out of control, an entity so pure consumed, engulfed by nature can only have one outcome…

The sky turns crimson red, cracks of azure lightning bolt through the turmoil. Blossom and vines that consume her twist and decay, vines once intertwined, broken and shriveled. Trees that reached for such glory, warped, dry and broken. The absence of moisture deafening.

Blackened eyelids open, a gasp of burnt air fills needy lungs like the freshest crystal water. As her body arches, claws clenched, brittle vines fall, no longer a constraint, no longer supreme, hitting the ground like withering autumn petals. The scent of dust after rain, a drop of cranberry and charcoaled stone fill the aurora around her.

Piercing eyes now stare where purity once was, like bejeweled crystal stones, never wavering in this new life. Power, command, wash over this reborn being, a creature of such pious beauty, the impossible. Where darkness has created and not destroyed.

Fyodor Golan Spring Summer 2012, winners of Fashion Fringe. Find out more from Fashion Fringe and Fyodor Golan

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James Joseph has written 846 articles for Noir.

James is the editor in chief of Stylenoir, he is currently obsessed with neo noir films and the wellcome collection's Death exhibition

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