Slit Sensilla
“There was a face in the darkness, hovering over piles of bones. There was an image burned from the shadow cast by empty eye sockets. She was a beautiful maiden. Innocent only in effort but nothing else, as guilty in circumstance as the rest”.
This melody dances through her mind as she inhales throats of smoke and wisps them back and forth casting a haze over her gift, regardless of its unfortunate penetrations into spectrums not experienced by the slow roaches that traipse about her.
“The red queen shuffles her cards”.
Blades upon fingernails, a click clack symphony combined with the sound of a wet finger circling a wine glass rim. Finger painted portraits of lives spent running from the end. The white hand-prints of ghosts outlined by the red lines of aged wines. Her fingers ache in anticipation as she grips the sticky green fibers of the dilapidated recliner. Her fingers strain to dance across the viscous static that sticks like silken webs cast from her mind into the whirlwinds of percussion whipping around the rocking skulls of the crowd as they undulate their bodies to the music. Her occupation feeds her addiction and that is what she is here for. Addiction.
“No… occupation”.
It’s easy to get confused in the confusion of simpler minds. But bright, bright are her eyes and that inkling of reflection guides her focus into the darkness. Her eyes spin, in their sturdy calmness, tracking the gyrations of the room as she removes her silk shawl from where it has hung, draped around her neck. Her embodied cognition is most accurate when certain portions of her bare skin are exposed, and the darkness of the room helps to obscure these symmetrical patches of skin. Although they only appear as rough spots, she is somewhat sensitive about their appearance but covering them also allows her to manage the ever-present environmental inputs clamoring around her. For this same reason, she has developed a somewhat peculiar, yet functional sense of fashion that has translated into functional entrepreneurial endeavors in clothing design. She is never quite so pleased as when she feels the hum of the Singer Featherweight Sewing Machine, while the visions in her mind materialize, as if from somewhere within her. The only feeling greater than that is when she is able to fully extend her mind and body, feeling as if she is tuning her flesh and joints in such a way that she is aligned with the harmony of frequencies bouncing around her surroundings. When she is in these moments it is as if the world around her is speaking to only her. It is as if it is calling out to her to welcome all her many appetites and offer the comfort of her being accepted for having them. The comfort of being accepted AND sated. She is feeling that very thing as she discreetly adjusts her posture in the seat and gently removes each of her silk, knee high stockings. The tune of the room washes over her newly exposed skin. It’s a boiling kettle on the verge of a steam powered scream. She slowly sits forward, still griping the velvety arms of the soft chair, adjusting her posture. Eyes closed, she sits poised upon her keen precipice. She imagines her judgments sliding up and down the walls, as if tentacles, and any trepidation melts away as the song, only she can hear, tells her that everyone is too timid to evaluate anything more than themselves. She begins to feel pangs of disgust at how she finds different thirsts quenched by this counterfeit ballet, but the melody of the world whispers, “That’s the dead part of you speaking.”
She almost worries herself for a moment but catches the bout of self-righteousness, “There is no shame in being alive”.
The steam rising from her own breath into her nostrils brings her back to the flavor of her own flesh. The song moves her and she springs into motion, grabbing the hand of a passerby.
Everything in her mind shrinks to a pinpoint, “His hand is full of weakness”.
She feels the grooves of the slivers in his palm and fingers. She feels each wrinkle like it is a dried leaf, plucked from the wind.
“If I only close my hand, it will turn him into rubble.”
He turns to her, smile on his lips and eyes, she smells his mirth like a lemming’s mountain fragrance. He turns towards her curling his lip in a self-conscious smile, that she knows, he thinks passes as confidence. She pulls him down towards her and leans into his neck, breathing deep. The sweat licks her nostrils, perspiration tickles her lips. She takes a hand on his drink as she gently presses her teeth on his neck. It is almost sad how easily she pulls the drink from his grasp as she trails the tip of her tongue just above the skin of his neck, not touching, imagining it as a silver blade creating beautiful red blossoms. She relishes the images of an entire garden of weeping willows, whipping back and forth in a breeze of his pathetic woes. As she brings her eyes to his, she is almost disappointed as she recognizes what is there – acquiescence. He may make the motions of struggle, but she can tell the fight is already over. The thrill of the pursuit is counterbalanced by the simplicity of the capture. She can feel him stumbling within his own mind, searching for words. She has spent her life trying to live against the exact exchange she verifies deep within his eyes. She sees the exact fact he has been living to deny, as his lips articulate the lie his mind strains to deny. He is weak. She can taste his weakness as clearly as she can see the reason the song has chosen him to come to her. As their shared gaze deepens, she feels for a moment as if he is able to feel…?
“Her?”
It is as if she can feel him seeing her the way she feels the world when she hears its melody playing against her skin and pulsing inside of her.
“Did he hear… the song?” She is caught by surprise as he suddenly releases her hand.
Although reeling from the confusion of her own thoughts, she feels the escape of his hand from hers and instinctively rises to press her lips to his. Dropping the glass, it shatters, sending shards of glass and sticky liquid against her bare feet. Ignoring this she purses her lips, held against his, into a tender disgust and for a moment is afraid he can taste her hate. Whether or not he recognizes the seething energy, his own song pushes him forward to accept it. Just like his resolve, his lips part. This is the tune strummed on strings tied directly to his ability to create life. It’s an autopoietic melody that is the white noise of all things rational. It’s a mutual handshake that she sees him realize. As their eyes meet, her eyes smile, “All deals end in dual sacrifice”.
She remembers why she does what she does, and his eyes fade away into darkness.
“Another face in the darkness, covered in bones”.
