My appearance deceives. Small, unobtrusive,
no danger, no threat. A malleable child, perceived
victim, weak and for the taking. My power, monstrous,
unexpected, does not depend on belief. My
limitations are not social constructs. The laws that
bind me issue from a different realm.
I have dispatched my revealed enemy. Now my foe
is time, subjective duration, astronomical rotation,
Earth to her star. Imprisoned by day’s guard, I must
wait for liberty to find and free my one true friend.
What would myths’ hero do in this anxious interval?
The plan is simple, direct, no moving part but me, once
I pace, promote physical distraction, faced away from
a blood-drained corpse. After Autumn is rescued, I will
find less marred sanctuary. No urgency exists for body
disposal. Geoff, Peter, will not be missed. His crafty
paranoia would allow for no loose ends to follow, to seek.
This is a deserted bit of real estate in my keeping. I can
clean it at my leisure.
So much time still to endure. I catechize, make heavy
exercise of my sins for amusement, castigate my consciousness.
Pain is pain. Sharp agony distracts better than any game or
chore. I have fed well, magnificently. Hunger can not touch me
for a long while. I call upon strong, reliable anguish I carry
as locked memory. Layered horror, repugnance, wretched nausea
inheld, psychically solidified, buried legacy. Worth a few hours
chuckles and tremors. I would be feverish, heatstroke dreams,
if such fire could infiltrate my cells.
Hours escape through my silent screams.
The first call of night. I burst onto the street for action.
Self-loathing on hold so my whole will of sensation moves toward
I remember the scent so few nights ago, familiar, unwanted.
Now it is my beacon. Autumn bound inside that house behind an
alley in that unaccustomed part of the city. Ironic gods are not always
at odds with their puppets. Sometimes their game deals me in favor.
They don’t hold sin against me. They revel in abased degradation.
These gods are not lovable. That is not their desire.