Life has been busy lately, with uni and work, so I haven't had as much time to tend to my blog as I'd like. So I'm taking another break from the Universe and Me and posting something old.
Gosh, I wrote some dark stuff in high school. This was another thing I wrote while we were studying The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.
Lachlan Marnoch, 2011
I hang above her and I stand beside her, silent and patient.
When the world burned there was no shortage of companions for me. But where now is the sport? I drift above everything, everyone, and every minute I take a new lover into sweet oblivion with me. They think to resist me, mostly, but they all come eventually.
I am a beekeeper, addicted to the honey of my charges. I cannot take it all at once else they will have none to feed themselves and will die, and I will have no honey in the future. Cataclysm is a constant temptation, but after the stream of consorts it brings me I am left starved for millennia. So I must take only a few companions at a time, or so I should. At the peak of blind impatience I scorched the world, and now I suffer the consequence.
She stands there in the darkness, a flake of obsidian poised delicately in her hand like a flower for a date. Ready at last to join me, after a long courtship.
The true challenge lies not in taking by force, but in seduction. Carefully tempting with a light touch, a suggestion, a chilling caress, until I don’t have to come to them. They come to me. They spite every instinct built into every one of their cells and they offer themselves to me.
She hesitates for the briefest of moments, glancing over at what she is about to leave behind. Only for a moment.
My lure erodes all bonds of maternity and marriage, as waves would a cliff. It is not the sudden pull of love at first sight, nor the hot-blooded intensity of a passionate affair, but something stronger, deeper, yet colder. It is the love of an inevitability, and for those who come willingly, an escape. The ultimate escape.
Turning her wrist up, she stares down at the thin membrane dividing her being from the rest of the world. Swift as fate she draws the flake across the veins, and removes the division. Red life streams onto the grey earth.
The pain is nothing to her now. We both wait for our rendezvous, as though waiting for a train.
As she ebbs into oblivion she gazes one last time at the light cast by her son. Then it is over.
I beckon to her. She looks surprised, then understanding dawns. She smiles.
I take her hand.