Soiled Part 3

Until my lord father too, realized, what must have transpired in his absence.

He cried and begged me on his knees, his red face moaning on my boots. Until I raised him again. There was never anything to forgive, not that I have needed to project on him what he infinitely would not

Last name forwarded, my father volouteered,

~~~

The yellow vomit-like gel, mixed with blood squished at his feet, which his assistant quickly picked up, which dangled before the crowd and was thrown hissing into the brassier. I have never seen the interior of a woman's bosoms, but...there they were. She was screaming now, not merely crying, but braying as the pliers edged the torn pockets further, till the assistants were satisfied with the mere red bands of her wet ribs.

She begged and screamed, the last few shred of her mind unhinged, as wild spittles dripped from her slacked jaw. More and more incoherant as the wintry wind cut across the bloodied wounds. Dog words, mad words, tongues. Blood from her lips from her teeth, her eyes were searching our faces, familiar wounded faces together under the light.

Then the aid patted her knee and told her to take a deep breath. His eyes squinted at the thin wisp of her neck

Of the boys who showed up, of the fraction who dared, raced closer to the scaffold's edge. Something shimmered in her eyes like hateful embers.

The head was taken off before the eye could trace the blow. The shivering body remained kneeling there, nearly an eternity, before an aid tipped it splattering into the reeking planks.

Two seconds after the head fell a medical student examined it before her face turned purple, the body was undressed from her bed of pulp, her heart was removed while it was still beating for scientific experiments. Then, the men with greasy hands casted the awkward shivering thing of leg and hips into the flames.

From boy to boys we smelled it, smoke, overcooked, undressed meat, the kind that still had filth within its bowls roasting over crackling flames, plus copious wine...and that familiar overdone perfume ignorant for all others here.

Some began to talk amongst themselves, the sons of nobodies and somebodies. And the story, our mutual story was dissected from first to last. I was relieved to know I turned out to be her last mark, somehow, something stopped her.

Little kids scatter across the streets, enlivened by the spectacle of witches, played games in tainted air, fake wands and fake brooks, as flakes of ash whirled lazily.

A world away.

At sometime, some boys began to leave, satisfied with the sentimental vengeance, and then the truly quiet ones who never uttered words except nods and shakes.

They too began to disappear to their lives, they too needed to see this, still broken, but now could sleep better, in this less inhabited world.

My father too, a feeling hand on my shoulders, more apologies, more sympathy. I smile to him, pretend that nothing changed.

Until there was only another boy and I, there alone watching the bundle of charcoal and bones blacken. I've never seen him before, but he was not a stranger...something, that told us we are not strangers. We watched as the fire consume that familiar black skull.

A mutual moment, because he knew too. Her story mangles us both. A simple black pain, with infinite mysteries, that...still urged us to ever closer toward uncleanness, toward wherever she is now.

It was great.

Some times...

All we need is the perfect devil with our own brand of whip.