jamie
09-19-2021, 03:54 PM
jamie
I CAN’T EXACTLY DESCRIBE HOW I FEEL
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
BUT IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT
It is quiet.
And in the quiet he remembers.
Remembers the heaving chest, the blood, the way the bones had bent and broke beneath the pressure. Most of all he remembers the darkness that had edged its way across the sky in the aftermath, when he had stood there on the battlefield and watched the moon overtake the sun.
In the quiet he craves the chaos that had followed.
(And he had believed then, just as he believes now, that it had been all for him and the darkness had fed him with new power and he had gorged himself on it.)
But is he not still Jamie beneath it all?
He had believed himself destined for more than that pathetic cripple he’d been in his youth and he had proved that he was greater than the death rattle of his breath and the aching in his joints. He had proven himself the victor and together he and the white magician had crafted daughters who commanded life itself.
But he is still Jamie beneath it all.
The breath still wheezes and rattles as he drags it across his ribs.
Today he calls upon the pain, injecting it into his joints, reducing himself to the thing he had been once. Each step jars his teeth, ropes of saliva dripping from his ink-black mouth because the pain makes his mouth water.
He hits his knees in the red clay and remains there, staring up at the sun. How relentless the thing is while he struggles to breathe around the smarting in his ribs. He closes his eyes and exhales shadows, shrouding the immediate area in impenetrable darkness.
Here he will rest.
And in the quiet he remembers.
Remembers the heaving chest, the blood, the way the bones had bent and broke beneath the pressure. Most of all he remembers the darkness that had edged its way across the sky in the aftermath, when he had stood there on the battlefield and watched the moon overtake the sun.
In the quiet he craves the chaos that had followed.
(And he had believed then, just as he believes now, that it had been all for him and the darkness had fed him with new power and he had gorged himself on it.)
But is he not still Jamie beneath it all?
He had believed himself destined for more than that pathetic cripple he’d been in his youth and he had proved that he was greater than the death rattle of his breath and the aching in his joints. He had proven himself the victor and together he and the white magician had crafted daughters who commanded life itself.
But he is still Jamie beneath it all.
The breath still wheezes and rattles as he drags it across his ribs.
Today he calls upon the pain, injecting it into his joints, reducing himself to the thing he had been once. Each step jars his teeth, ropes of saliva dripping from his ink-black mouth because the pain makes his mouth water.
He hits his knees in the red clay and remains there, staring up at the sun. How relentless the thing is while he struggles to breathe around the smarting in his ribs. He closes his eyes and exhales shadows, shrouding the immediate area in impenetrable darkness.
Here he will rest.
AND IT LEAVES ME COLD