and then my eyes got used to the darkness; bruise

[rapt]

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever He is trembling, almost wanton – it’s desire, yes (he doesn’t admit this – can’t – won’t – but it is, desire like a snake, like a noose, wrapped around him), but it’s more than that. It’s wanting, some terrible, core part of him that has ached for a moment just like this one. Weak, wanting, wanton. Good, says the monster, and Rapt nods, stupid – yes, it’s good. (It’s terrible – imagine his son seeing him like this. The cringing, hungry thing that he is. That he has always been. Finally laid bare.) The monster’s gaze is like buckshot, a hundred hot pellets in his skin, and he feels every one. He feels heat, and pressure, and so overwhelmed by it is he that he almost misses the next words. Now you will serve me. “Yes,” he says, and the words don’t shake (unlike his knees). The word is strong because it has been ready and eager at his lips since he first saw him. Bruise touched him and he kneels as he’s commanded, his knees giving way eagerly, pressing deep into the dirt. It’s warm from the sun, damp. His knees will be stained when he rises. “Bruise--” he says, and now the word is choked. Grateful. A name. An invitation. “I serve you.” He looks up at the monster. From this angle, he’s even taller. More imposing. Towering over him. “What--” he stumbles over the words, too frightened and too eager both, “what would you have me do?” rapt caius x else