© (Herbal) Osaka-neechan

Content warning: Incest, implied pedophilia, slash (boy/boy), noncon

Storyline warning: May be disconcerting

Complete genre: Contains an overload of angst, tragedy and a touch of romance made of poetry

Summary: His older brother breaks bonier, stubbier fingers..

Perspective: Third person present progressive

The conceptual corner:

I wrote some of this on a piece of paper during a long period of boredom when struck by sudden inspiration. This was rewritten on my Not-Near-Computer Journal during detention, finished, and checked over much.

The inspiration came from an earlier detention-idled short story I began, and was spun from the style of “Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird” by Wallace Stevens. Another English teacher who was nearly better than mine entertained my class while my teacher was absent (as she was every two or three weeks) by giving us an assignment of that nature.

I didn’t do that assignment, but adored a friend’s that focused on shipwrecks, and thought on doing a pretty thing like that for awhile—until, in sheer boredom, it came.

Smutty if dark, giving me happiness.

Pure 100 percent pretty.

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FOUR WAYS TO DIE AGAINST PIANO KEYS

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1.

His older brother breaks bonier, stubbier fingers,

pallid things that swell darkly and dankly—

blood slips from them, thick;

stains what is still white, and shines.

2.

Fingers have revealed veins that bulge,

thrum to a pulse echoing his heartbeat;

there is bruising left, that flowers,

black in dim light, blood trapped inside,

and as saliva slips from rosy lips that

were never so full, the lewd clarity in

such liquid falls off ivory keys;

irises are drained, wide blue greys,

lukewarm waters rim eyelashes,

speck skin.

3.

Underneath clothing, a color burnt on edges,

his skin is too susceptible.

Red welts rise over fading bluish-greens,

hips shift and grind—he shudders,

breath caught, as lips roam the expanse

of his neck, teeth biting—he gasps;

hands are acutely in places, wandering from

pulse points, playing the shaft, lank fingers

finding inside, leaving him whimpering,

body shaking.

Later, he is screaming, left

cornered, cramped,

blood leaking where a white-hot

pulse throbs

still, after cold.

4.

Huddled on the leathered black

of their bench, once smooth,

where fluids gone dry

crack;

a silken blanket from an empty bed

cover sickle bodies, touching,

and this burns, a ghost of something,

as his older brother sobs,

racks—flesh in tremors, and arms that still

a sickness, are slight ashes from whole,

once creases on paper, a life kept locked, writhing.

Sad, the piano sings.

But from this hold, he smiles. There is a secret—funereal.

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END

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