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how do people change
It has been a week since you began praying in the dark. You have not eaten nor slept nor spoken in that time. The temple guardian has left you alone, and you are beginning to lose hope that you deserve the attention you seek.
And then the world falls to pieces around you.
Or it doesn’t.
You open your eyes and you are sitting in the front pew of their temple, though the space is rather starkly empty compared to what you remember. At the front there is a plain, wood table and the god themself. They are willow thin and tall, wild black hair curled to frame their face, eyes burning red or purple or sometimes not at all, as if they've been burned away entirely. Every time you think you're sure, it changes.
They are standing at the pulpit, watching you with a slow nasty smile.
They are sitting on the table, swinging their legs and humming a lullaby.
They touch your face. They look into your eyes.
They split you open down the middle and your guts steam in the cool, still air. You cannot scream, you cannot move, you cannot do anything except watch as your life is thrown in front of your eyes. The knife carves a long, straight line from your elbows to your wrists, down the insides of your thighs. They filet your skin away and when you finally find the ability to wail around the binding, they cut your throat too.
And all through it you watch yourself lie and cheat and hurt, every wound you inflict is echoed back and you're bruised, broken open and sobbing in moments. You watch your wife pledge herself to you, and you watch yourself do the same, and then the parade of men and women who came after that. Each face cuts a cross above your heart, deeper each time, and you would beg for some kind of forgiveness from anyone in the world, but all you can do is gurgle around the blood in your mouth. You are sure you are going to drown.
They are laughing.
it's nOt my jOb tO take yOu~ i'm sOrry~ they say.
You wish you had never come here, and this seems funny to them as they laugh, sad or manic or cruel. At least the bloodletting is finally over and they gather everything in buckets as the replay of your life finally comes to a sharp, jagged halt in this moment here. You feel more real then you ever have, like everything around you is mist and you are the only truth to be had.
Their hand in yours sends goosebumps up your ruined arm, and you are thankful when they let go a moment later. They draw a needle and thread and begin to sew your wounds together again. Every prick of the pin somehow feels a thousand times worse then the knife blade ever did.
When they have finally tied the last bit of thread, they whisper in your ear what you must do, a long list of things that will set you back on your path. You are too shaken to ask how you will remember what they’ve said, your throat so run ragged that you think you will not ever speak again. They still laugh knowingly though. yOu will remember~ they say.
Their smile is terribly, awfully cruel. The sharp arc of it settles burned into your mind.
They fold your clothes up, and they tell you it’s time for you to leave. You remember, vaguely, that in the myths they never give their mortal visitors' clothes back, and so you do not protest. They do not help you as you stumble to the door.
They are laughing at your struggles.
Their hand is still fiercely, violently cold against your neck when they stop you at the door. You do not look back at them, focus drawn down the dusty path in front of you, but you can feel the way they are smiling. Three times. Three different emotions. Three different voices.
walk dOwn the rOad~YoU WILL FIND YoUR WAY BACK.
Perhaps.
So you walk, and the impression of their hand against your skin stays cold cold cold even as the sun rises and you sweat and curse and wipe the pain tears off your cheeks, clasping uselessly at the clammy points of your elbows. Still you walk. You cannot stop. You will not. You have come too far, much further then you ever meant to…
And you open your eyes. The temple guardian is standing over you with a flame lamp. The light shudders over you and the sympathy you find in the guardian’s eyes makes your skin crawl.
You open your eyes and you are sitting in the front pew of their temple, though the space is rather starkly empty compared to what you remember. At the front there is a plain, wood table and the god themself. They are willow thin and tall, wild black hair curled to frame their face, eyes burning red or purple or sometimes not at all, as if they've been burned away entirely. Every time you think you're sure, it changes.
They are standing at the pulpit, watching you with a slow nasty smile.
They are sitting on the table, swinging their legs and humming a lullaby.
They are walking up next to you and you jump when they grab you round the shoulders and draw you to your feet. You find you do not have the power to stop them as they pull you to the table and you are stripped down by three sets of hands. They guide you to lay on top of the wood, to watch the colors painted in manic swirls into the ceiling.
They pull a long, thin knife from their cossack, and your eye settles on the glint of the blade and your own bare flesh and your throat closes. They bend across you and touch the blade to your ribs, draw a shallow line across and down your chest. Their thumb is an ice cold point between your eyes as they draw a circle there and you feel your body lock up. You begin to panic. They smile, very softly.
They pull a long, thin knife from their cossack, and your eye settles on the glint of the blade and your own bare flesh and your throat closes. They bend across you and touch the blade to your ribs, draw a shallow line across and down your chest. Their thumb is an ice cold point between your eyes as they draw a circle there and you feel your body lock up. You begin to panic. They smile, very softly.
They split you open down the middle and your guts steam in the cool, still air. You cannot scream, you cannot move, you cannot do anything except watch as your life is thrown in front of your eyes. The knife carves a long, straight line from your elbows to your wrists, down the insides of your thighs. They filet your skin away and when you finally find the ability to wail around the binding, they cut your throat too.
And all through it you watch yourself lie and cheat and hurt, every wound you inflict is echoed back and you're bruised, broken open and sobbing in moments. You watch your wife pledge herself to you, and you watch yourself do the same, and then the parade of men and women who came after that. Each face cuts a cross above your heart, deeper each time, and you would beg for some kind of forgiveness from anyone in the world, but all you can do is gurgle around the blood in your mouth. You are sure you are going to drown.
I would let you. they say.
They are laughing.
You wish you had never come here, and this seems funny to them as they laugh, sad or manic or cruel. At least the bloodletting is finally over and they gather everything in buckets as the replay of your life finally comes to a sharp, jagged halt in this moment here. You feel more real then you ever have, like everything around you is mist and you are the only truth to be had.
Their hand in yours sends goosebumps up your ruined arm, and you are thankful when they let go a moment later. They draw a needle and thread and begin to sew your wounds together again. Every prick of the pin somehow feels a thousand times worse then the knife blade ever did.
They stand above you and their voice brings ugly, angry tears to your eyes as they lay out your talents and your flaws in excruciating, vivid detail. You just want them to stop. You just want to go home again, and apologize.
They pace the room with your blood, painting your story into their walls, and when they are done they climb on the table and crouch over you, taking your face in their long-fingered hands. They kiss your forehead and you can move again, but before they release you, they murmur, YoU ARE DYING, MY LoVE.
When they have finally tied the last bit of thread, they whisper in your ear what you must do, a long list of things that will set you back on your path. You are too shaken to ask how you will remember what they’ve said, your throat so run ragged that you think you will not ever speak again. They still laugh knowingly though. yOu will remember~ they say.
Their smile is terribly, awfully cruel. The sharp arc of it settles burned into your mind.
They fold your clothes up, and they tell you it’s time for you to leave. You remember, vaguely, that in the myths they never give their mortal visitors' clothes back, and so you do not protest. They do not help you as you stumble to the door.
Their hand is still fiercely, violently cold against your neck when they stop you at the door. You do not look back at them, focus drawn down the dusty path in front of you, but you can feel the way they are smiling. Three times. Three different emotions. Three different voices.
walk dOwn the rOad~
So you walk, and the impression of their hand against your skin stays cold cold cold even as the sun rises and you sweat and curse and wipe the pain tears off your cheeks, clasping uselessly at the clammy points of your elbows. Still you walk. You cannot stop. You will not. You have come too far, much further then you ever meant to…
And you open your eyes. The temple guardian is standing over you with a flame lamp. The light shudders over you and the sympathy you find in the guardian’s eyes makes your skin crawl.