Prometheus

I tell them in my letters that I am well, that I am eating properly, that I have found a modest little job which covers a modest little room where the crime rate is low and the streets are lined with whispering trees. I tell them I have made a few casual friends, in cafes and music venues. I talk about health food shops and real coffee. I sketch out for them in ink the warm cream pastries of the bakery a mere two avenues away, slow walks along the sea’s shifting edge.

There is a lot I do not tell them. I think how stupid it is that so much of my life, so much of importance, has to stay hidden like incriminating photographs. There is Will. I can tell them about our public transport system but I cannot tell then that Will has become my life. That I have given up the drugs and replaced them with Will. That a bold knight errant has weaved himself into my life tapestry, with his clever sculptor’s fingers.

The sun rises, throwing ethereal steaks of pink and gold across the sea; angels dancing in the morning waves. I smoke, continuously, savouring the dawn silence. Later, when I get back to the flat I will clean my teeth as though possessed, trying to erase the smoke gripping them so that my tongue is sweet and fresh for him. Not that it matters, if there is anyone who smokes more than me it is Will as he paces his studio floor. He exhales like a dragon, a fine bluish stream rolling from his nostrils.

The studio is bright,  sun pouring in through two tall windows looking straight into the sky. If I twist my neck I can make out the spidery sprawl of the rooftops, the outline of the city. I pull the windows open on Sunday to hear the church bells for miles around piously singing. Then I become angry, and clap my hands over my ears to block out the gong and hammer of weekend praise. Will gently picks apart my distress, deftly reworking a tight seam. I clasp his strong fingers around my wrists, handcuffing myself.  The muscles of his arms are well-developed from practicing his art. He is slicing away my exterior, setting free the minimal thing that lurks beneath the crude outer layers – all clean lines and near-transparency.

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I taste fennel on his breath. He is Prometheus, fashioning men from water and earth, and giving me the stolen fire through that mythical spice on his tongue. He presses the taste into me, and makes me immortal, immortal.

Sometimes, on a grey day, I see him staring out of the windows at the heavy clouds, booming overhead, storm-pregnant and lazy. I imagine him reaching up and up, working them until the texture and form of the very atmosphere is different. Sculpture is a strange discipline. Will’s work squats defiantly in three-dimensions; drawing the gaze the way a black hole pulls in the universe, eyes orbiting his creations like stars about to make that irreversible leap of faith.

Later, we will drink rum and work; his fingers deep in the damp clay, my pen leaching midnight blue. I will watch the cigarette smoke hit the mirror glass and vanish, as though it has passed through the silver into superstition. I smile secretly, turning suddenly at the sound of my name. Will is there, watching me spin under the bleeding trees, and I am eager, very eager, for him to continue his work; until the sculpture emerges from my centre. A masterpiece that echoes down our lifelines, replete and terrifying in its fulfillment.

Drowning

We’re walking through the marsh together; I know, because I see a wisp of black cloth in the corner of one eye, following me. He sits me down by the ruined wall, where everything is rotten from the ground up. A sickly brown heart throbbing beneath the bricks, like a wrinkled apple. The trees don’t care, they sip up the stinking water like lovers sharing wine, growing twisted.

‘What do you want?’ His voice is soft, coaxing, but there’s something else beneath it, full of molten metal; something else in the eyes. The thing that pushed us both through those dim corridors, spiders crawling through a tunnel web, tearing clothes from one another. Teeth popping through lips, the flood of copper-mouth. I wore bruises like bracelets for days, watching them change like mood rings from blue to yellow.

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‘Nothing. Not from you.’ A wild bird is scraping at my ribcage, its wings fanning panic. My hands twitch into claws, of course I want something. I want relief. I want exorcism. I want annihilation. I know the dark mud of this place, foul as it is, would be gaspingly cold on the skin of my back. I want my limbs to shudder under those dreadful eyes. I look at the span of his hands and wonder if strangulation would be a kind of suicide.

‘I’m possessed,’ I say, my body feels like a violin string. There’s no oxygen in my blood without this; I’ve tried to burn it away under the holy light of stained glass, my face serene as a crocodile. I want something to crack and let my soul escape. I want sin written across me in thumbprints.

‘I can comfort you.’

Down, down. Into the nauseous heart of the dark water.