heat of the night; any

[Offspring]

something has been taken from deep inside of me;
the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.

     The fire had already begun to interlace itself with the tender marrow of his weary bones, and the hardened, sinewy muscle coiled beneath the dark canvas of his marred skin – it burns brightly within the hearth of his chest, where his heart hammers roughly with a thrumming rhythm against its iron cage, steady to the beat of the flickering flame inside of him. He could feel its heat festered inside of him, just beneath the surface, leaving him hot to the touch, with trickling beads of sweat seeping from his pores and staining his skin.

  He no longer detests the thickness of the air, nor the humidity as it envelopes him in its rigid grasp. The warmth has become something of a comfort to him, perhaps because it has become a part of him – fire had become a part of him, the way ice once had, and though his memory longed for the dreary afternoons spent behind the formidable wall of ice, beneath a blanket of falling snow, the craving no longer lingered in the pit of his rolling belly.

  Where dread once touched, there is indifference. His gaze, darkened with brimstone and bitumen, is steadied upon the looming shadow of the volcano, watching as the sky – hazy; a dull and dreary gray – is filled with thick, puffing plumes of blackened smoke, as the volcano itself rumbles – ominous, and as much of a force as the fire that burned within.

  The butte upon which lava is spewed does not capture his attention for long, however, as a sudden flicker and glow of light wavers in the distance, amid the swaying, wavering vegetation. His terse browline is furrowed, as the burning light of his red eyes narrow – there is a glimmer of movement, but the sheer intensity of the light is enough to stir him to avert his gaze. Roused from him complacent stance, his thickly muscled legs propel forth, surging towards the unusual sight, as the dried vegetation lapping at his hock singe from the sheer heat exuding from his body.

  As the pure embodiment of fire changes, suddenly, into the familiar two-toned form of his daughter, a shadow of disbelief carves into his usually stoic features, while his searing gaze observes the apprehension etched into his son’s pallid characteristics. He is as stunned as he, and though he is wholly delighted by their presence (there was an immense amount of pride bubbling inside of his chest, even now – he had done much wrong in his life, but his children would always be a source of his greatest satisfaction), there was also uncertainty lingering.

  ”Spear, Spark,” he utters, his voice rich and thick, yet rough around the edges. A rumbling baritone. ”it has been too long. I have missed you.” and he has. But his darkened gaze is settled upon Spark, and on her rigid features, wrought with something undiscernible. He reaches out to touch her, to press the velvet of his nose against her cheek, but he can feel the searing heat through her skin.

  ”When?” he asks, but he does not elaborate.

  When did this start happening? he does not ask; he knows that she will know his meaning.

wounds so deep they never show; they never go away.
like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.

Offspring