Tuesday, February 27, 2007

St. Frankenstein's Day

It is a day of spilled adoration and enthused gestures, tile murals and hot air balloons. It gives permission to those bound in squares to stretch arms out wide and rub noses with strangers. Forbidden pursuits become talk fodder for tantalised radio jockeys and the wet dreams of teenage boys cross nighttime boundaries into English lesson distractions. This day embraces the absurd and awards the brave with gritty, polaroid memories and faded nail polish. It allows for invasions impossible under the strict regimes of a workers weekday and tolerates rejection to the point of manic ignorance. This day introduces the simple minded to previously untilled emotions and cultivates the seed of love. An awakening is in the wings, unforeseen and unstoppable.

“Wake up John. Come on now. Sit up.”
“A noble stuh-stride on the blunt instrument.”
“What did it just say about me?”
Finger wagging through leather glove and a spotted clothe wrapped around the jaw. Sweat trickles down dry cheek skin, beneath beaded eyeballs, and onto the jacket sleeve.
“I am not a blunt… ignorant. Tell him that.”
She whispers in his ear to pay no mind, everything is all right. Her arm straddles his bleeding head, keeping it held to her neck, and her hand holds one of his, weakened by the blow. He can feel her heartbeat through her shirt vibrating his loose skin, hurting his teeth, and a tear escapes his eye unashamedly.
“Shhh, don’t cry now child. Your duh-daddy’s here.”
“Don’t talk John. Just lay still.”
“This is my trial to face and endure, a terrible penance to pay. Can you hear me? God favours the meek and I was buh-born strong.”
The intruder and aggressor, a victim of madness he couldn’t anticipate, struggles with the moment, a blade in his hand. He came as a saviour, a knight on cracked knees, to rescue the tower-locked maiden from the brute with one good eye. No more a distant coward with his cock in his hand but a man perfect for his time. Why was he not greeted as such? As a liberator, a reformed voyeur, and a human being foremost. What hold had that savage over her?
“Please don’t hurt him more. You can take that TV. It isn’t worth much but it’s all we have.”
He has witnessed their screwing, paying for it direct, his age verified. He knows her more intimately than that uncivilised beast who hides his eyes from his own good fortune. A wrinkle on the nose, a row of cigarette stained teeth, a crooked incisor and a fluttering tongue piece together ecstasy and pure joy in a moment of ugliness. He would appreciate her, welcome her, his Cynda Moore, and recover her for the betterment of humanity.
“I am here to save you Cynda. I can take you away from him. Come with me.”
An expectant hand stretched out for hers.
“I – My name isn’t Cynda.”
“Don’t be afraid. Please. Believe in me. Just take my hand and all the pain and hurt will be over for good. I promise.”
“No. I live here. What…”
Good intentions unrecognised leaves the intruder bitter but not dejected. She is far down the sinkhole he reasons, lost to reality, as a protection, no doubt, to save her own fleeting spirit.
“You poor thing. You are not a monster like him. You are a woman, a beautiful woman. And I will treat you like one. Like a Queen. Better than any man has ever treated you.”
“You bastard. He is not a monster or anything like that. He is a poor man who has been treated like shit all of his life by assholes like you.”
On the ground John wavers. His eyes are good no more, waning to nothing in their sockets, and his hearing is blocked by a ringing, arching the real world. In the arms of the woman who loves him, he slips away quietly to the rhythmic thump of her heart, beating like a tribal drum. His passing is furthered by a dryness of mouth, a hesitation of breath, and the sad notion that his suffering was countered by straight endurance, all numbing his head. His chest remains warm however and steady in its movements, a trembling of growth is contained within. A seed has been planted in its darkness and blossoms into fullness, opening in the moonlight.
“I can her laughing. She’s calling me.”
“It’s me John. I’m calling you. Just relax now. Don’t talk.”
“I can hear you child.”
The outstretched hand has turned into an extended fist, threatening and bold, a physical position in conflict with words spoken, and a warning of events to come. The intruder, a redeemer in the offing, sees the situation with fresh perspectives removed from prior expectations. His Cynda is unaffected by words, their power diminished by time with this man, promising him unyielding love and reach-a-rounds. It is clear she must be shown, her understanding made concrete, using actions to convey his superiority as man, using motions she will understand.
“He’s lost so much blood. We need to call an ambulance.”
“No. You need to understand. With him… This is not right.”
“He’s almost dead. Because of you. Fuck you... GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE.”
“No bitch, you listen to me.”
He has her by her bicep, bruising her muscle, leaving pinch marks on her skin.
“You don’t understand the truth told to your face. You’ll get it if I show you.”
His hand twists her shoulder, squeezes her breast, a great effort to keep her still. Her arms warp and bend, elbows connect with ribs, palms slap face and nails scratch at eyes. Turned on her front, she can only squirm and her dress lifts easily. She kicks, digging her heels into his back, the base of his spine. He yanks a fist of hair and she resists. Some strands come away wrapped around his slender fingers. For a few moments she struggles, his entire weight compressing her lower back, denying her air, until her energy completely deserts her, leaving her malleable and attentive.
“There, there.”
Patting her hair she is tame but aggressive still and liable to strike. To show weakness now would destroy this foundation, and embolden her defences, but he has not yet passed from suggestion to fact, his pants still zipped. Her comprehension is vital if she is to move beyond her gutter life into the soft realms of a wet dream reality, but this remains unlikely if she stays conditioned to the ways of the ogre.
“Just relax now.”
Her body is tense, pain centres on her joints, but she is already distant, her soul tainted by a complete loss of control. In a few moments it will be over, her life as a nurse and lover. A different person will emerge, eroded by tonight and unable to breathe when left alone.
His zipper pulled down sounds like skin tearing and he enters her almost immediately, groaning his appreciation. He cranes his head back, a bobbing adams apple and an extended tongue. Through his nose he takes a stream of air, his ears glow bright red, the television screen shatters against his forehead and the box falls around his head.
He lists to one side, his body falling against John on his knees. He is caught and held, a corpuscle of forgiveness for the intruder.

“I came for you my girl. Finally I came. I got lost but I’ll take care of you now.”

This day for lovers and scoundrels, for big dream boulevards and last minute decisions, this day is for the lickers and creamers, for the bed riders and bed ridden. A day of rest for Internet Queens. St. Frankenstein's Day. Rejoicers shriek and forgive, whisper sweet, black promises of a wonderful next time into glowing red ears. Dwindling bodies, shrinking and letting loose long held breath, each mind secure in the vast forever of thoughtlessness, swallows and turns.

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