The Wardrobe - 4. Possession and Relief

Possession and Relief

You kneel before me, your eyes glazed over and looking up at me in a daze. That's how I see you down there on the floor, the abused carpeting, as I enter the room and walk towards you. The metallic echoing click of the door falling shut behind me makes you blink once, slowly, and focus a minute bit more. Why aren't you shackled, I wonder briefly. Doesn't matter. I'm lifting my shirt, dig my fingers under my ribcage and pull off this shrivelled, dried covering with a sound like old denim ripping. With fascination you're watching the white larvae spill out ouf my black clotted stomach, and writhe over my hand, my palm, which I'm offering to you know. I resist the urge to lean down to you. You have to sit up or pull yourself up if you will accept my gift. You have to appreciate the smell of must, ink, and tar if you will accept my gift. Pale worms are crawling towards you down my hand, and I manage to reach your lips with my fingertips, and trail them softly, while a small white string of living tissue moves from my hand over to your mouth. It starts to dance on your tongue, which is flitting over my fingertips with the soft satin feel of balm. All the while torturing the worm with your lips. I don't think you're noticing it. But I have to stare. And I have to stoop and kneel, because flowing out is relieving, and releasing my decay on you is feeding you my burden, and that makes you better than me. Unbearable to loom now. Too great a debt. I hold your head and study your face, and find abandon, distant lust, trust love submission encouragement. Hesitation. Grief. I adore this abandoned distress on you. The writhing mass is crushed between us, my hard hands and your piercing hot skin. Our grips slip more than once. I'm taking you, from you, and I wonder whether you can hear my gratitude, or just both our voices in this. If you can, it is impossible for you to misunderstand it, but can you understand it in all the ways it's meant, I wonder.