talons begin the slow, agonizing process of rending flesh from living bone?
Why, oh ye gods of wisdom, was sight denied me in these proceedings?
These thoughts of when, where, why, and how…the perfect punishment. Battling one
another for spaces and defensive positions in this tormented conscience, and acting as the keen-edged razor that sunders this pining heart.
I stand alone in our forest dwelling, welcoming the torrents of rain pouring through these wind-hewn walls that seem to amerce me in its cleansing goodness.
Gazing through roof torn asunder reveals a sky wrought with heavy, fast-approaching
clouds of darkest hue.
The rolling thunder. The crashing lightning. The rain, wind, and this once-proud structure
which, like you, was forced to bear the imprecations of mother
nature. All these things ceaselessly beckon me, calling to me with rough, demonic voices
of sharpest steel, summoning me with the pointing of cruel, laughing
fingers, and offering guidance with hands bearing malice in abundance.
Guidance I need naught, for that world I remember all too well. I remember its edifices of eroded brick, painted with caricatures of purest evil. I remember
the helpless mire into which I fell, the pleas for a rope that went unheeded. Oh yes, it's all
so very, very clear to me. Lady liquor couldn't darken the
images; the needle, sending perceived respite flooding through veins and capillaries, did nothing to quell the rays of the blistering sun.
Hence, to this place I’ve returned. Returned to recount the horror from its point of origin; returned to satisfy an urge to seal my heart, mind, and soul from
future guilt. Thusly, As the vengeful clouds and storms draw ever nigh to my shelter,
I willingly take Persephone's curse'd hand, and venture forth, speaking
my tale in a slow, rhythmic tongue, as per some archaic incantation.
'Twas but a mere fortnight ago when you and I lay in this very dwelling upon hand-woven
mats of fronds; Our
bodies entwined, writhing in the reckless abandonment of fervent love-making.
From a group of hunters camped yonder, I had heard tell of a grate funnel cloud set to hit
these parts in a couple of days. Hence, my plan for the morrow
was to return home, procure the neighbors' Land Rover, and collect as much as possible
from this sanctuary that could be preserved.
Waking early, I set out to do just that, taking with me a backpack, a canteen topped from
a nearby spring, and, as an afterthought, the pearl-handled revolver,
given to me by your father last Christmas.
Throwing a glance and a kiss at your sleeping form, I stepped from the shack, made a
right, and began the quarter-mile walk north.
It was herein that the gods began to make their deceit known.
Less than half of my route had been traversed when I was forced to dispose of a huge
brown bear who lumbered into my path, fangs bared, one powerful hind
paw raised in a manner far from non-threatening.
The revolver barked once, the silencer allowing little more noise than a man discreetly coughing.
The bear took several faltering steps away from me, eventually crashing to the earth, its
grate heart torn to pumping rags by the high-caliber round that
slammed into its chest.
I drew forth my flensing knife, skinning the grate beast as quickly as I could, stowing as
much of the meat as permitted by physical space into my pack.
When finished, I rolled the carcass down the side of a steep earthen embankment,
knowing of the sustenance it would give to the other wildlife.
As high noon approached, I finally reached the city. From here, it was but a mere few
blocks until I reached my home.
The sky had grown quite a bit darker in the scant few minutes
it took to traverse this route; at times, the sun almost totally obscured from view by great rolling clouds. The wind had begun
to gain in speed and velocity, buffeting my face and body, and throwing my hair about like clothes in a drier. I still thought I had time. Time I now know
I didn't have, had no chance of ever having.
I gained possession of the car—by means of a hundred-dollar bill—and began the drive
back to the shack, only dimly aware of the wind howling outside the car's windows, and
the effort of steering. One thought echoed throughout
the cavernous regions of my mind: 'Provisions, provisions, provisions.'
As the car began to enter the forest, I was instantly struck by the utter wrongness of the
sights before me.
An expanse which, less than an hour ago had been dancing and alive with wind-blown
leaves and scurrying animals, was now desolate. Nothing moved, and rolling
down the driver-side window yielded an ear-popping pressure. It would've been utterly
suicidal to take the Land Rover into a mass of trees with the approaching
of a tornado, hence it was parked at the crest of the road leading from forest to city.
Removing myself from the car, I began to run into the forest,
weaving through the trees, bushes, and foliage in my path. 'Provisions, provisions, provisions' had long since been replaced with 'Christ, Christ, Christ,'
as every sense I possessed was vehemently telling me I wouldn't make it.
I didn't.
The tornado whipped through the forest, instantly slicing through the silence like a hot
knife through butter. A tree behind me was snapped at its roots,
the dark shadow of its form disappearing, describing a fearsome ark through the air.
Flattening myself to the earth, with arms covering my head, I knew my life was
subservient to the whims of the raging storm that was delivering its wrath
with complete and total violence. Using a motion bearing resemblance to a swimmer's
breast stroke, I inched my way forward, skirting debris, dead or dying
animals, and pieces of trees hewn to dagger-like sharpness by the deadly gale.
Eventually, after a span of mere minutes that felt like slowly passing centuries, I arrived
at the low wall of misshapen rock acting as parapet of the clearing.
Here, I had a decent view of the shack, between the two massive oaks that served to
support our clothesline. As I prepared to vault the wall, my boot heels
caught in a patch of loose rock, and I tumbled over backwards, striking an elbow on a
jagged, protruding bit of stone. Through the white-hot haze of pain
that suddenly filled my mind, I heard a grate clattering. Lurching unsteadily to my feet,
I was just in time to see the last ten feet of the left most oak break away and sail into the
teeth of the monstrosity. Moments
later, I heard the all too familiar sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. "Jesus,
it…" That's when the shack's door flew open, revealing the figure
tottering outside. I couldn't see clearly, but in my deepest heart of hearts, I knew what it was, and knew what was wrong.
My angel bride.
Her left eye had been pulped to a weeping goo, jagged shards of her splintered cheek
bone protruding from her skin. I remember thinking: 'Should've taken
the goddamn fishing pole…' There was far more to behold.
As she lurched away from the door, I was finally able to see inside— Was finally able to
see the immense cast iron Dutch Oven. The only delicacies this
device provided that day were torture, agony, and terror.
Staring at my beloved, I surmised what must've happened.
One of the shack's back most windows was probably shattered, imploding in an array of razored shards of instant, wind-driven death.
Judging from numerous cuts along her length, the glass hadn't exactly been death
personified, but harsh mistress seemed a sure guess.
She'd probably dropped to her knees in the shack, that is, of course, if she was even
awake. Then, the oven must've fallen.
Why she wasn't crushed was a mystery I had no interest in solving, However, as with
other instruments in this torture chamber of a camp site, it hadn't
left quietly.
The plummeting metal had crushed shoulders, elbows, hands, and wrists. Possibly ribs as well, given the way she was walking—nearly
bent double like a king's courtier.
Her animal scream cleared my mind of any fogginess induced by intense pain. She hadn't seen me—probably wouldn't— but was somehow making the attempt to
walk in my direction, mouth open, screaming. Screaming! She was screaming my name,
voice raised, muscles of throat
standing out on her blood-slick skin like whipcords.
Thence, the tears came.
Hot, salty reminders of actions taken, and actions not taken. I lay silent, so racked with sobbing that calling to her was nothing short of impossible.
As I now stand, a spectator to this macabre scene through the words I speak, I wish I
would've. I wish I would've said something, or tried to say something,
no matter how slight, how muffled by wind and savagely dying trees… But I didn't, and it
shall forever be a mural in my mind.
She screamed again, the anger prevailing in the ever-rising melody. Anger at being
seemingly abandoned in her darkest hour. Anger at dying, but worst of
all, dying alone. Cast to the wolves, thrown to the lions who hungrily devour the last
shreds of one's spirit, one's trust in others, trust that there
is, in fact, some modicum of honor and goodness in this world.
She was justified in her anger, and the pain of this realization was unparalleled.
Forgotten was my temporarily useless left arm. Forgotten were the many cuts and bruises, throbbing in rhythm set by my pulse.
My being of grace and beauty. The embodiment of pure innocence, and the most tender of tender love… And in the last moments of her waking existence, I was
to become everything she hated. Every facet of human cruelty of which we, as young
children, are forewarned, either by parental figures or otherwise.
A red, seething anger began to course its way to the surface of my awareness. An anger at allowing myself to under-estimate, to fall short through some
misstep of logic, and, worst of all, my angel bride was to be ruthlessly torn from me,
never knowing that I was there to disprove her suppositions.
I vaulted the wall.
It was total madness. Running, fully up-right, with head and face unprotected, whilst a
tornado carried out its raging work all around me. But the anger
kept me from caring. I could almost see it; could almost see the vast expanse of red fire
behind eyes, invading synapses, controlling reflexes and instinct,
and driving me to my target.
For a fleeting moment, she stared into my eyes, her face registering a hint of recognition.
I risked a longer gaze, never seeing the fist-sized bolder that slammed into my right
temple.
Yet still I willed my legs to gather themselves beneath me, warred against the enchanting blackness, struggled for purchase on a slippery slope of consciousness—driven
by that sweet, sweet flaming anger, and my dying bride.
The remaining oak bowed once more, and collapsed, a loose section of branch striking
me a glancing blow on the right side of the rib cage, sending me rolling
away from the impending carnage, and over the wall. The back of my head struck the rock-covered ground on the other side with a hollow crack. This time,
I embraced the blackness that availed itself to me.
When my eyes next opened, it was far ahead in time, with owls flying about, the moon
visible, and the previously seething sky now utterly cloudless.
Struggling to my feet, overcoming a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea, I stepped over
the wall and into the clearing, seeing the fallen tree lying crookedly
across three fourths of the inside of the shack.
I took a cautious step forward, suddenly aware of the absence of the provisions I had
previously been carrying. Soon, I would consummate a thorough search.
Soon, but not just yet. "No. Something needs doing first."
It didn't take long.
My eyes knew what they'd find even before I began looking, even as every fiber of my
being yearned for a different outcome. The human legs, visible to the
knee, protruding from some of the lower branches of the massive oak, told me everything.
No tears came then; despite my best efforts, despite the dull ache worming its way
through my baron heart. They would come and come often. On many a night
black, many a day beset with the glory of Hyperion; triggered in many a happening, many
a venture—but not then, and then is when they were most wanted.
A search turned up nothing of my original belongings, save the over-turned, ruined Land
Rover; head lights shattered, front bumper smashed, and three of
the axles snapped in half like dry twigs.
Thus, I moved afoot towards home.
The next morning, I returned to the site of the chaos, and set to work. I took saw to
bastard tree, and felt nothing. I tidied up the grounds, collected
usable rubble, and felt nothing.
I drew forth a tarpaulin, rapped the broken body of my beloved inside, tied it up, and felt nothing.
I dug maniacally—fighting through the pain of weeping blisters and sore muscles—and
felt nothing.
I laid my bride inside the grave, filled in the hole, and felt nothing.
I returned home, and when at last I laid upon my bed, I was given to feel, and ever so
intensely.
Even as I stand now, I feel, just as intensely. Feel the tenebrous shrouds of guilt, remorse, anger, and longing that encompass me, that threaten to banish me to an eternal,
bottomless abyss, from which there is no rise.
Until now, I've fought; fought the landslide, sometimes only halfheartedly, but a fight just
the same. Now, I'm quite sure I'm ready to lose. Each word
spoken, each nuance of sorrow-laden evil recounted… All victories for the oppressors,
and they know it.
I stoop, retrieving from the ground a cylindrical length of iron, and step outside the ruined shack.
Walking to its south side, I stand silently, facing the wind, pelting rain, rolling thunder,
and, most importantly of all, the raging lightning just beginning
to illuminate the sky overhead.
I hold the bar across my chest and speak slowly:
"As this home—once free of scorn and trial— is set to wither slowly, as modicum
amounts of this proud structure will later be used in the grate scheme of
survival, so too shall I depart, seeking assimilation into the afterlife."
The first bits of lightning crackle around me.
"My darling bride: I know not why I abandoned thee, nor if it was even a true abandoning
in the technical sense. It matters naught, for abandonment is
felt mutually—by you in life fleeting, by me then, and hence forth—so it shall be etched
into the framework about which this soliloquy is woven, with
ill regard to thoughts elsewhere."
Another flash.
"I was then, and am now, truly sorry, for whatever you were forced to think of me when
lady death came calling. I know time and a reunion will mend all;
if only I could again be near you, again hold you close, caress your tann'd skin. If only, If only…"
The lightning finds the iron.
Published by Rain Farm Press and its literary journal Paradigm.
Copyright © 2007.
