Expurgatory

Psyche laid wretched with desire
I sat and considered
Simply staring at the beauty

Lament
That is what they call it
A configuration for revelation
An intricate display of simple order

For a time
I could not fathom its secret

How could this Box enlighten me
Its perfect form
In no way marred by the intricate filigree
The golden symbols of unknown meaning
Etched upon its surface

How indeed

 

Soon

My fingers found their own will
A thumb tracing the etching
The perfect circle on the top most face
As if sensing something

Someone?

Waiting

A small reward

The box begins to open up
Portions sliding effortlessly upwards
Rotating

Then nothing

Just a half remembered melody
As of a music box

Not knowing why
I pushed the exposed portion down

A click

The Box seems to leap from my hands

Once more entire

Leaning forward
I stared intently at the circle atop it

Was that motion
Or simply the tide of dust
Disturbed by my presence

Leaning closer still
I feel the adrenaline surge of anticipation
As the circle atop the box irises open

Once more silence

Though I am still unsure about the bell
It’s doleful chime redolent of funerary rites

Time stretches
I sense the shadows moving across the dusty boards

I was ready to cede defeat
Willing to admit it was just a fantasy

Then

A chain shoots out from the Box
A barbed hook at its end

Seeking

Raping the flesh of my face

More join it

I cared not how they arrived
How they managed to come from this innocuous Box

I was too rapt in the moment

My flesh was alive
The merest breath of air
Caused by the subtle motion of dust
Felt as a tornado to me
As each new hook
Penetrated me
In an orgasm of evisceration

Pain?

No
This was much more than that
An awareness such as I had only dreamed of

It was the sweetest pain imaginable
Like the soothing touch of a lover
Revealing to me

My self

The undeniable truth of me
As only the greatest desire can

All too soon

 

It stopped

I lay there
Drenched in sweat
Blood
All the myriad juices and excreta of this flesh

Impaled by the multitude of hooks
Still seeming to multiply
Poised like serpents above me
Extruding metamorphic nodes
Some seeming like drills
Others akin to the tools of a dressmaker

Each breath an ecstasy of agony

A moment more
And my error revealed itself

What had passed
Was no awakening

Merely a test

One which I passed

For then I knew pain

The exquisite pain of creation
Resurrection
As my flesh was reformed
Made to conform to my id

My cheeks were stretched
My scalp split at the base of my skull
Folded forward to cover my eyes
Razor wire stitched it to my upper lip
Leaving me sightless

Briefly
I panic

My sight is my searchlight
Allowing me to read others
In a moment
I feel my eyes change
Once blue
I know they are now totally black
No trace of white

The skin covering my eyes
Burns a way
As if sprayed with liquid nitrogen

My nails turn to chitin
All the better to emulate the hooks

Coarse
Black leather

Appearing from nothing

Floats near me

Waiting

Waiting for the hooks
The metamorphic nodes
To finish the beginning of me

Slicing of flesh from my torso
These sentient tools
Proceed to weave them
Interlacing my being
With the dead flesh from a cow

The leather accepts the offering
Moulding itself to me

Me to it

Sections weave their way through my spine
As ribs are torn out
Stiffened pieces of leather replace them
Leaving portions of my organs exposed

 

Each stich
Each barbed tendril of wire
Reveals more of me
To me

The apparent chaos
Simply a reminder of my beginning

 

A beginning now ended

For now
I truly am

I know the limits
And beyond
I know the mind of man
Petty
Ignorant of true feeling

And so they see me
And they cower
Ignorant of the sights I have to show them

The sweet agony of being

The unutterable bliss of being void
Free of the fettering that emotion brings

How I remember the days when I cried
What a waste of good suffering

And to think

I hesitated

 

No more

I shall be demon to some
Angel to many

They shall lament their sorrows

I shall give them everything

 

And nothing

Only open the Box

I will come

© 2008, Mosquitobyte