Monday, November 16, 2015

Fiction: Martyr by Lioness DeWinter

Martyr
By Lioness DeWinter (C) 2015
 
I didn't like you.
I wanted to swat you like a fly, but you kept circling my ear, whispering honey. It flowed like poison from your pillowed lips and burned my flesh like acid; it exposed bone and gristle and all that I wished to hide. I writhed in agony--a newborn shrinking from the sun, afraid of the light.
You stepped in and seized my hand from his.
He was my plan, the blueprint of my life, the future. He dealt in facts and figures, but your body was music in the darkness--bright notes of staccato, rich and shining glissando, drums and gentle ebbing breezes, silvery keys and bells...you were a church calling the weary sinner home again in the dry wilderness of my heart. You saw worth there and you nourished it until it could be reaped--a proud and shining golden bounty--where only dead earth had been before.
I didn't trust you.
I clung desperately to the shadow, which is all that I'd known. I reveled in the blood and the pain of the razor; I had death in my clutches and hung on with rigor-mortis determination to the romanticism of the final act of self-cruelty. It would be my greatest gift to myself. Oh, what a blessed relief!
But you came on like Jesus Christ with a sword, and knitted your flesh with mine, and blanketed me with your warm heart to abate the storm, and the thunder surrounded me as your fingers coaxed sparks of lightning from my hair and the rain fell around us like needles. You told me you loved me, that you wouldn't give up.
...I didn't believe you.
I strove to drive you away with the whip. I expected you to run, screaming. As the lashes striped your skin, the blood seeped to the surface and ran over; it puddled around your feet. You cried silently, each blow a strike to your tender heart. I drove you to your knees. I couldn't stop. I had to protect you from me. I wanted you to run from me!
...And when it was done, you raised your dark head and met my disbelieving gaze. Your eyes blazed, as your quaking hand reached for mine and drew me closer. I bent and embraced you; you touched my cheek and said,
"I want to give you my spirit."
The kiss was Wormwood. It tasted of old men's blood, death and decay. I tasted your famine. As always, you gave too much. I felt you dying, right there in my arms. Your head fell back, and I threw myself upon you, my tears hot and violent. With your crown of thorns, I opened my chest and nourished you with my blood, binding us forever in universal torment.
...And now...NOW.
I look to you, my Savior with the eternal eyes of sorrow, eternally young and beautiful. I look to you with imploring soul and grievous spirit, and I ask,
"Was I worth it?"

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