Blades

There in the deep. And the dark. There is no light of day, he has never seen it---he never shall. Something warm drips into the manchild’s eye---he pedals away until the welts and sores brush the cement wall behind him and pop wetly open; he first snorts in response to the water in his eye, then squeals in pain at the hot pus and blood dribbling between his shoulderblades.

On the scumbanks of what was once a human mind. She says ‘the leper sleeps tonight’ crooning softly, she says ‘the greatest good for the greatest number greatest evil comes though they slumber greatest triumph proves greatest blunder greatness dies but will still hunger’ she pets his face. He knows nothing of the words being whispered, so comfort is wrongly offered to such a creation lacking sense and emotions.

On which a bloody feet have started a trail of dreams that lay shattered and broken. ‘No’ she is almost fed up, close to screaming over the cries, ‘No they are only mops’ the tone becomes vile, warning ‘only mops used to clean the mess’. He is struggling away, sobbing---unable to speak his terror; pointing at the bristly mopheads, whimpering.

And there is a stake, branded ‘Ojo por ojo’. He is not so much abused as self-recluse, not so much isolated as mentally inept and physically unable. He simply is, in the dark, damp basement. He hears cars overhead, around him. House on a street. His eyes are dull but his sense of sight is sharp—able to pick out the mopheads in the corner, able to look for the crack of artificial light at the head of the rickety wooden stairs---able to notice the shadowplay off the walls and determine when he was left alone. His mind knew not of cars and vehicles, but his understanding plays that when the loud, rattling hum is deafening and close---he is not alone---when the coughing sputters die off and fade away---he is alone for a duration. He keeps his watch over the dark, and the dark keeps watch over him.

Oh how their tongues are ripped and their backs are bled—in this place there is no cross, no crown, no sacred holy ground. But there is a sign, and on a slug which is lead it is written ‘killing is company’. His face is pressed against her body, taking in her warmth, he is clinging to her waist, fingers twining in her housecoat. If man is to survive on good memories alone, this one would not. Good is ranked in black and white. He remembers in shades of grey and red. She is petting his face again. Again the words and the humming. It is quick; he knows not what to do when the first shock of pain hits between his shoulderblades.

And company is dead. He screams, moving---trying to move---back; she holds him in place on the blade. Up. Then down again. Another cry out in shock and agony. She whispers to him, petting his hair---the knife sinks in again, again, again. Another pull back, but it is weak. He collapses against her waist, exhaling shakily; he reaches up slowly, strokes her cheek and neck. Falls against her body fully, shudders.

The whiplash of suffering full in the face. She keeps petting his hair, even after his head is tilted back far enough to draw the skin taunt. She draws the blade across swiftly.

This is the blow off.