mark

there was a kind of 'knife in the dark' feeling that night. the kind of feeling you get before something big happens-like the day before your wedding-or maybe the five minutes before you get, well, knifed on a dark subway platform in Portland.

I was 'tunnel jumping' at an old abandoned station somewhere under the city.
tunnel jumping is dead dangerous.but there's really nothing to it-you simply jump across the tracks in front of a train.
I was about to jump again when it happened. I felt a pricking just below my jaw, and hot, rancid breath washed over me. 'don't move, gel' said a cigarette-roughened voice behind me. warm liquid dribbled down my neck. it wasn't blood-not yet, at least.
it was spit.
'maybe an inch...or two...three at most before you die, gel' the person shifted the pricking thing (a knife? a needle?) to below my ear, a gentle, caressing movement. 'imunna enjoy this...' the stranger whispered oh-so-softly, a fetid, gusty promise. the knife-I could feel the blade-slid over my jaw, tantalizing. the knife brushed over my throat, violent, suggestive, enticing. my body shook, but the stranger's hand is steady-blood, in graceful drops, shining in a train's light. 'don't move, gel...' plink...plink...red as roses. precious as titanium. my blood falls like tears. I couldn't move-nor speak, or think to scream. plink...heartbeats stuttered violently. the knife made a tiny cut-I flinched, and the knife slid into my temple a fraction. gentle,  precise, almost sexual-a reminder.
'don't move, gel'
I didn't.
I saw small light fragments dancing in midair. I still couldn't speak. couldn't run. couldn't. couldn't. I was helpless. plink...my blood was running in rivulets down my arms. the knife forced my chin up. I shut my eye. a train passed. 'look a' me, gel'
I looked.
and I remembered how to run. the knife glinted malevolently in he gloom. my feet pounded the cement.
he laughed.
my knees gave out and I fell. m heart fluttered and thumped,, was silent and began again.
'gel, its rude t' run like that' his knife shimmered, his step slow, inevitable. he looked down at me-my breast heaved. my eyes were sharp, but glazed. 'gel' he said I couldn't remember how to speak. 'goodbye'
the say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. they are liars. everything takes on a transparency-people, trains, etc-and a kind of mellow glow. the tranger's knife was cold-a caress, sensual and without pain. nobody would find me here, alone in the dark, bleeding a river. I couldn't breathe. the stranger brushed my hair from my face and whispered a word, a word that was strange to hear. 'mark'
a kind of calm stole over me. I could speak, so softly, I murmured 'why' he smiled. 'again...because I like to make them marked, then to make them bleed.'
he pulled the knife our.
I remembered a moment from my childhood; a man, twenty, perhaps, caught me when I fell from a tree. I thanked him. he touched my forehead and whispered 'mark'
my scream echoed.
the stranger vanished.
I was to die alone. tears mingled with the blood-mingled with my life. then i stood, I walked, or maybe flew through the tunnels, towards the pulse of life.
then there was a child falling towards the tracks. I began to run. I caught the child. I touched his forehead and said 'mark' back in the tunnels my heart stopped.
the chain's next link was safe with its mother.
I felt no sorrow for what I would do.
I would bleed. I would live. I would mark.



(c) 2011

midnight bells

the clock was ticking-the sand was draining from the hourglass. the door was locked. the key had rusted away a hundred years before. she flew from the window of his room, sailing through the air with the speed of lightening. the clock was ticking. her time was almost up.
there was a knife in the chandelier, it was glinting in the half light. the door was creaking open, though the bolts were shot home and the key was flakes of rust on the ground.
the chandelier was knives, all to a one shimmering with dusty lethality. there was a glimmer of torchlight seen through the open door-but of course you know that the door was rusted, bolted, locked shut. the torchlight shimmered and shook, as if it were held in the hand of a verily infantile human...but who said this being-a malodorous presence, if you were wondering-was indeed a man? I certainly did not.
the thing is in the hallway now. it holds no torch-its eyes are aglow with fire.
the clock strikes midnight.
the thing, feted, unclean, lustily puffs in the chill, dusty air. the sand has almost run out.
she flies from her tree into the hall, through a slit in the icy stone. she alights on the table, lithe and night-cloaked. there is blood on the table now. there was none before.
there are feathers on the floor.
there is wind bushing the tips of her hair
the door that shouldn't be open hangs on its rusty hinges. the thing grins at her, its eyes filled with malice.
blood is dripping to the floor.
there should be no blood on the floor.
no one is there to bleed.
there are shadows on the wall.
there are screams hanging dead in the air. there is no-one here.
the door is shut. the knives glint in the light. their tips are crusted brown. feathers drift in motes to the floor-but do they? are you sure you have seen all of this? are you sure it is real?



(c) 2011