Damnation

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The Pretty Boy smiles at me. I only gape at him because I'm sure I killed him last time. I even used my biggest butcher knife, just to get the point across. Now, that's a pun, and normally I'd laugh, but my God, he's back with a vengeance. And really, that should be the end of it because now I'm talking like a movie cliche. But what's important is that he's here and he's reaching out to take my hand.

A montage of tortures plays out in his eyes, sparking at the contact between us. In these obsidian eyes, I glimpse Prometheus chained to that unforgiving rock, the eagles feasting on his liver. Punished for gifting Man with the secret of the gods: fire. And then I taste sulfur in my mouth when the Christ raises his head wearily, his head a crimson crown. Blood drips from his wounded hand, every droplet splashing on the ground below. I kneel like a pilgrim at his feet and send my prayers up to heaven, all wrapped with my remorse in ribbons.

"He's not your god, claro," the Pretty Boy whispers. "I am."

I plunge my hands in the divine blood. The earth drinks deeply, taking most of it, but there is some left for me. I tip my head back and paint my lips scarlet. Salvation, salvation, I pray. Save me, succor me, sanctify me... The lifeblood runs down my throat, drowning out the sulfur, and I fling my arms out. Be reborn in the life of the Christ, my priest thunders - only that my priest is the Pretty Boy, and he doesn't have a traditional robe. He's only crossing his arms, tilting his head, his eyes deep burnished amber.

The blood turns to ashes in my mouth. I try to voice a protest, but he's suddenly there, his deft fingers plucking the ashes out. He tastes of old ivory, the kind that poachers steal from wild elephants, animals long past their prime. I don't want to be there, with him, at the feet of the dying Christ, but he grabs my hand and twirls me around. "Dance with me," he whispers, but the sky thunders when he speaks. "It's just you and me."

And we dance under the bewildered, sorrowing eyes of a changeling born of a virgin. I'm going to hell for this, I know, but maybe heaven was never for me. It's a glittering province ruled by angels and their harps, and what do I know about music anyway? Be good, be honest, be merciful, be loving - oh, there are so many precepts I can never remember. But if the Christ so loves me, enough that he would die for the entire world, shouldn't he come down from his cross and save me from this ferocious ballet?

He doesn't.

So I pirouette in his blood, my footprints mapping my damnation as I run with the Pretty Boy across Mother Earth. We go for the stars too, wheeling across the galaxies, and then we'll stop when the sun burns us. We'll slumber and then we'll rise, newly formed, our blasphemy shocking the world anew.

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AUTHOR NOTE: My friend Kendal made me do this. There is no excuse, none. This is wholly her fault.