Thursday, June 23, 2016

The Dawn

June 17, 2016.

4AM, thereabouts. He is laying in the bed, awake and huddled in his mind. The fear is a snake coiling around his soul, tightening constraint with every exhalating until there is no air to breathe. We must empty his lungs if he is to drink the water of new life. We must drive him to the barrier and ask that he cross, and he must drown in faith unlike any he has ever known. But only the fear moves him now, futurefear and pastfear climbing through him. He does not know that the fear is shaping him to be stronger, wiser, and dangerous. All he knows is how crippled he feels inside it. All he knows is the pain of rape unacknowledged, invasion uninvited, guilt without crime. For this, he cries, and cries, and cries, then he blames, and blames, and blames. No one is innocent, but none are guilty. None but one: him.

430AM. She is there, awake and unsleeping. Worrying for his lost soul and his fragmented mind and fractured body, she comes to him to console. She does not trust her words. She does not trust her touch. She does not trust her self. She does not trust any one. She does not yet know her own danger and tongue, her fingers and clits, her power to destroy and create. She only has her beginning of knowing, like a half-seeing through smoked glass, where every hit stains on the way inside her but never on the way out. She reaches across the darkness, but it's not enough. She moves across the gap, but it's not enough. What more can she do? What more should she say? How to soothe what must go down? How to be there? Wrong move— wrong move, and the terrible torture unfolds.

"Stop! Just stop!" She came from behind. She does not know, does not remember, has heard many times but not yet understood the significance of his own subliminal warnings. The danger comes from behind, envelopes him, holds him, and he vanishes into the forgotten pain— this is the truth of his history, the repetition so subtle it takes a lifetime to remember. She wants him to be loved, but so did the pain come from love, from the desire to love. But love whom? Love how? She wanted to smother him in protection and consolation, because isolation and withdrawal have reached their limit for the both of them. "Stop it!" he screams and flies inside into the hidden lands, the dry lands, where the mages go.

435AM. He is there. Not him, but the other him. The Black Dragon spreads his wings, bears his talons and teeth, and he speaks in riddles to cast the dark magic necessary to confront what must occur. The SPELL shall take place. The words spin her the more she tries to find reasons, Reason having abandoned them both. She is turned, around and around, fighting for her own breath, her own air. She is choking on his bitterness and coldness, but she cannot resist the gravity collapsing the entire morning darkness within the house into his single point. She is fallen, has been from the moment she loved him, still falls, and will always be falling, for him and into him and within him and to him and through him. She will not forget easily this moment, and she will write it for herself in her own riddling way.

We must create the opening inside his soul if he is to survive. But first, we must break him to free him.

Suddenly, he is down. He is done. Now the violence of destruction flows through him, and the fear has opened the way.

Fist after fist against thick, compact wood. The desk's side is made for support, is sturdy and unyielding. It doesn't cry when it is hit, but he cries with every hit on it. Skin shears and tears off his knuckles. He begins ramming his head against the desk's side, meaningless words flowing in anger and rage, but where do they flow? When we let them fly, where do they go?

Who is he really angry for?

The desk moves, finally. Everything on top of the desk, resting on it, has fallen, shifted, thrown themselves free, abandoned the desk and him, or remained flat and curious about the change. They are all hoping not to break, because they all want to live as useful things for as long as they have been made to be useful. To break before your time, that's a tragedy. Not everything dies tragically.

It is a blur how he got to the floor down the ladder. The loft upstairs is still resonating with their screaming, their fear, their despair. The hardwood floor below him is much stronger than the desk. So it more than suffices for a head-banging, and he rams his head against it. He keeps missing the right spot, the exact spot, but we walk him with each hit to it.

And then he does hit it, and he can now stop for this time. The way is open. The pain has past. The Black Dragon folds in his wings, waits in its dark slumber for the next time they need him, proud of this moment, even though they all know, right here, as he now collapsed finds a different rest on the other side of pain, that he is unwound and unraveled.

Destruction will clear the way for creation. You must unravel what was poorly, thoughtlessly made if you are to make the tapestry.

4:50AM. It is over, for now. She is upstairs and bewildered and alone. He is downstairs and empty and void.

I am watching all of this, and I am eager.
I know what's about to happen, and I want it to happen.
I wrote it that way.

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