Ch. 2: First Blood (I)

These wooden hallways trap me.
Chain me.
Strangle me.

They rip the air from my lungs—
pull me aside.
Tie a rope around me,
imprison me.
They nurture me.
Seductive. Symbiotic.

The wind gnaws at my skin,
reminding me...
to breathe.

Subconsciously, I bite at the air—
my dry, hungry lips touching each other.
Praying—begging—
for the frozen, sharp oxygen
to let me live.
To let me see him again.

My hand clenches;
each pore rubs against the other.
A soft chime, then cracks—
my bones clicking together.
Eroded by unbearable shaking,
my fingers move without consent.
Hairs on my hand—my arm—lift,
cutting through her crimson, transparent blood.

Then, my whole arm freezes—
unable, unwilling to move.
It’s scared.

These shackles around my throat—
claustrophobic—
Shorten, break, steal my functions.
But not enough to kill me.
It’s predatory,
masked as inanimate terror.
It’s alive—
it must be—

I can’t take it—
I fall—

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

It isn’t until I’m staring at her flesh—
Pulsating around me—
My hot mouth pressed against her contorting bones—
That I’m conscious again.
In control.

For a moment, my sanity rips my eyelids open—
Stabs at my legs.
Stand, it says.
These scrawny legs, forced into labor,
Sweat breaking through skin—
A desperate, hollow act.

And so I do.
I tear away from the floor,
As if staying longer
Would invite more hands to drag me down—
More flesh to tangle with mine.
To consume me.

But these legs—
Overworked.
An engine breaking down.
A stomach—empty.

It will ache.
And so it does—
A morbid, sharp pain slicing down my leg.
Reflexive. Involuntary.

I fall—
Again.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

Her rough intestines that I nest in break my fall—
Save me from falling forever—
She cradles me.
Rocks me back and forth.
Brushes my hair back.
A wolf in sheep’s fur—masquerading as motherhood.

Her grotesque womb—moves, gurgles, sizzles—
Digests me. Melts me. Betrays me.

But it’s the prison around my neck that terrifies me—
The grasp on my throat—
Like two innocent hands,
Feminine fingers crawling into my skin,
Dead fingers shoved into my veins.

I squirm on the ground,
Possessed limbs crawling like a spider—dead, unresponsive.
So acidic, eroding my skin.
But it's addictive.
Her beauty.

It acts as one—
Wrapping livid tentacles around me, a tsunami—

I’m overwhelmed, drowning.
Her naked legs, hungry lips:
Arousing.
I feel it—eating at my humanity.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

She nags, nags—
Her dense microvilli ripping, scratching my skin.
She bites down, stitching my skin, wearing it as her own.
A mercy—

I refuse.
I shove my hands between the chains—
Leverage an opening.
Air— finally.

I imagine it:
That red line across my frail neck.
The mark she’d leave.
The mark I escaped.

I breathe—
Once.
Then again.

Slowly,
Deliberately,
I pull myself out of her digestive tract.

Suddenly,
Another victim—
Another number,
Another man aroused by her beauty.
Her singing, deep sea blue scales—
A facade.
Her cold, fake “human” kiss hides her fangs.

Surreal.
Unfaithful, unworthy, unknowing men:

She sucks their blood,
Swishes it in her mouth before playing.
They can’t escape;
She coats them with rum—neurotoxins.

The men—
Imprisoned, shackled, caged—
Some executed.
Her siren song—symphony of dread—
A mirage.
Her mature, orgasmic moan masked as singing
Bleeds the words:
“You have nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.”

But unlike the others, I don’t run.
I don’t scream. I don’t beg.
I just stare—empty, trembling—
Drawn toward her like a shadow chasing its light.
And she sees it. Me. She sees me.

Her gentle, pale skin touches her guts.
She touches me.
We lock eyes.
A warm, faint smile appears from inside her—
Reminding me of him. The chef.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

Almost instantly,
I’m flooded with thoughts—
Of the chef.
Of my mother, my father.
The captain.
Of Silas.
Of myself.

Twelve eyes—
Smooth, opaque ivory film blocking her parasitic blood from nesting.
Each eye with distant memories, sorrows.
They stand tall, close—but distant psychologically.
Each statue an appendage of my thoughts:
A manifestation of a dead memory.

Silas’s moving corpse catches my eye.
His blemished face, a single tear.
His lifeless mouth opens:
Nothing.
No sound—just a shape of a word I can’t recall.

The dam breaks.
I drown in the afterthought of who I used to be.

Seconds later,
Her gentle skin—a soft breeze—
Covers my mouth, silences me, protects me,
A playful mercy—a mockery.
It reminds me of my guilt...
How it separates, splits my consciousness—
Labels me evil... good.
I’m lost—lost in lunacy.
I pray—pray for the fever dream to end.
I dread the phantoms that may follow.
But it continues.

Outside—
A symphony:
Mockery of birds, whales, rats—
It won’t stop.
So vivid, unreal—
Jesting on trial in the world’s courtroom.
They laugh. Mock. Push me aside. Call it a joke.
Trying to erase my torture, my pain—
As if it never existed.

But I don’t let it build.
I don’t let it fester.
To retaliate—
To state my counterargument:

I continue.

Now,
I’m floating.
My steps no longer touch ground—
As if dense air grabbed hold of me.
Each cold particle flirts with another,
Bonding, pulling—
Foreign, sharp—
Each collecting part of me.

I’m evaporating.
Disintegrating.

Unable to piece myself back together,
As if the world holds its breath too long.
It all becomes distant.
My vision smears, slides off my body—
Depersonalized.

But my dying breath... warms me.
Feeds me.

My body reimagined twitches—
Hands, feet—
My little mechanical heart strings a simple, uncanny melody.
A melody bleeding into every pore,
Giving it life.

I pulsate.
In each vessel, plastic blood streams—
Slowly reaching capillaries, recycling through veins.

Like a hug,
It surrounds me.
Embraces me.

But I can’t let it make me.
I abuse it.
Control it.
Strangle it.

My little mechanical heart...
It beats:
I continue.
Stronger.

—

Now, I’m the guilty one.
Stepping forward,
I stretch out my head—
Slipping it gently into the slipknot,
As if more punishment might make me less human.
Less true.

Subconsciously,
It tightens.

My breath tightens.
My dread intensifies—
Dread from my guilt. My actions.

Ignoring him.
Silas—

Can you forgive me?
Please...
It was an honest mistake.

It shakes me.
My mouth clenches—
Those words ask for pity.

To ignore my mistake.
To baptize it in falsehood.

It’s my only horror—
This deep, unrelenting realization.
It stabs me in the gut,
As if my honor were forsaken.

But it won’t stop me.
I can’t stop.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

I throw my arms into the air—violent. Unrelenting.
But weak. Feeble.

My head drops in detest—
my body mimics a toddler—
A toddler charging toward a dismissive parent.

She sees it.
Groans.
Annoyed. Embarrassed.

She turns away—
body moving like chain links,
almost perverse.

Her melody—addictive—
I chase.
This heroine.
Without it, I’m helpless.

I press my eyes.
A slow stream flows from each.
So gentle, unnoticed.

I wipe them away—
hide my weakness—
So she can’t prey on me.

But it continues,
Each drop gaining traction,
Filling with emotion.
My eyes masked in reddening hue.
A premature storm.
Each opening in my face—
dread.
Mouth, nose, eyes:
all bleed the same.

Through walls, you hear it.
Notes reverberate across her broken ribcage.
Bleeding through crevices, reaching marrow—
Soft pain, chewing insides.
Sea animals return the call.
A dreadful melody—reaching her entire body.
My cries—animalistic, genuine, pitiful.

That path—
Thunderous.
Each step emboldened in her gut.
Each tear—
an angel weeps.
Each bone moves forward.
Doctrine of war.
Devastating.
Small.
Painful.
My mouth opens—
to resemble him,
the captain.
Take his strength.
I let out a hollow cry—
a draconic screech,
A war cry.

Slowly, the hallway closes in...
But it won’t stop me.

I force it—
Joints pop, messy, out of sync, hollow.
Every step pushes farther—
Driving me deeper into cold.
The void.
A deep, unsettling unknown.
A whisper.
Rumors.
...

Farther from who I used to be.

My empty soul feels sick.
Deep nausea.
An appendage,
consequence of my lost soul.
Ghostborn. Drifting.
At the end—
In this cruel world, I can’t pinpoint where I am.
North Sea?
Red Sea?
It doesn’t matter.
I’m lost.
But it clings—
symbiotic love—
Dating my sanity.

If I stop, will I lose him?
If I breathe?
If I think?
If...

Silas, please wait for me.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

I can’t tell—
am I masquerading as sane?

With these hands,
I reach forward—gripping her hair, her walls—
I drag myself into the room.

But this room—
A gallery of hammocks.
Some sag under the weight of rats—pirates.
Their yellow eyes track my every move,
Drinking in the canvas of my terror.

One hammock squeaks.
They’re hiding their growling stomachs.
Starving.
Waiting for me to fall again.
Waiting for a new host.

This labyrinth of parasitic hammocks...
It holds me back.
It forces a breath down my neck.

My eyes—blurry, strained—
I force them open.
Dry of tears.

I inch forward,
Toward where he sleeps.
Shifting left, then right,
Careful to avoid the rats.

Their breath—hot, airborne—
Slips through the rips in my clothes,
Burrows into my skin.

I stay cautious.

But its soft, creamy fabric—
Maggots clean my eyes.

His hammock—a twin of mine—
Suspended in its beauty.
Bathed in gold:
This rotting ship.
This poisoned apple.
A bed of worms, devouring its delicate charm.

As if I need to kiss it.
To breathe it in.
To grasp that hammock.
To wake him up.

But they bite.
They chew.
They surround me with their tails—
Each one linking to the next,
Forming a grotesque mass.

A counterfeit rat king,
Perched above.

Their audience squeaks,
Marching in circles ’round my body.
They lick me with sharp tongues.
They feast—on my will.
On what’s left.

Their siren song plays—
A mocking ballad...
No.
An elegy.

An elegy for the man—
The husk—I left behind.

A plague of free men,
Unknown to accountability.
They clutch me.
Manipulate me.
Cutting themselves raw—
Just to feel something.

An intangible line divides them
From their own motives.
They are narrative.
They are story.

And they mock the poor man.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

But, tell me.
Tell me.
Tell me—
Whose body will lie lifeless in that hammock?
Will I handle it—
Live with myself—
Drop dead—stop breathing—
When I explore that hammock...
Or will I stop—
Stop caring.
Stop moving.
Lifelessly stop.

Tell me.
Can I handle it?
Am I so helpless, not to take these steps?

My legs move on their own, drifting dreamlike across the wooden boards.
I feel everything.
My toes drag—splinters tear them open.
The hardened floor bruises my feet, and I bleed without regret.
The pain softens something in me.
It melts my heart.
My cheeks twitch, my mouth waters—
I’m anxious, already anticipating more pain.
Still, I offer myself.
I let my foot hover, then press it down again—hard.
It reeks of pain.
But that’s what drives me.
That’s what feeds this masochistic descent.

Above, a droplet trickles down, then veers.
Sliding off her grotesque heart.
It’s rebellion manifested.
It’s rouge.
It’s insane.
But it continues.

I continue—
Each step strangling me, tightening my neck.
I feel the rat’s teeth gnawing at my bones, corroding my skin into something less: shredding me apart.
I’m getting grated:
Whatever is left of me,
It can’t breathe.
My subconscious—he doesn’t want to go.
He’s protecting me...
It’s my guilt.

It’s that imaginary border:
Their tails pull me back.
A line I can’t cross—
But so desperately need to.

My skin—dry, scaly—clenches,
Then stretches, contorts—an organ alive.
Each finger flexes out.
But my hollow lungs squeeze tight,
Shutting out the dreadful breath—
The necessary breath I refuse to take.
I choke on it—choosing ignorance instead.

That hammock—resting profoundly, surrounded by garbage—
Towers over me.
Gigantic.
Too big for life.
Its shadow falls across me,
Like a ladder—necessary, daunting.
But I continue.

Seconds pass—
Too long.

My cicada reaches out,
Breaking the artificial halfway mark.
I’m trapped—barbed wire, poison gas, nuclear fire all around.
My mind races ahead, mapping every possible outcome—each step unfolding like a future I can’t escape.
My mind races through every possibility.
But I continue...

Like rain splashing into a puddle:
Step.
Step.
Step.

Like hail splashing into a puddle:
Faster.
Faster.
Faster.

He won’t wait.
I’m nearly there.

Then I cling on—
Climbing this tower,
This pillar that seems to reach the heavens,
It’s so high up, it’s suffocating,
Then I’m at war, fighting for an unfair justice, trampling enemy lines,
Then I’m sailing through a storm, rebelling against Mother Nature,
Then I’m killing—

Just to get to you...
...Silas.

My breath stops...
Suddenly, the ladder had no more bars.
The pillar ends abruptly.

My eyes widen.
Each eye extends its hand, hoping to get tomorrow’s share.
But suddenly, I can’t tell if there will be a tomorrow.
I look left to right,
Right to left...

...But he isn’t in the hammock.

The rats snicker behind me:
“Whatcha find there...”
It fades into a wake of laughter:
Each lip smacking,
Each tongue pushing the words out,
Each mouth moving in harmony...
It’s repulsive.

But I contest:
I see it—
Only a speck of blood—
A star in the dim sky.
An altar, for a sacrifice:
Grim.
Melancholy.
Unholy.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

I’ve pushed too far. My vision warps.
Skin hums. Head spins.
Is this a dream—
or have I finally slipped?
A soft steam seeps through my skin.

A sharp snap cuts through the air—
the clink of a rusted cutlass.
The rat’s attention breaks, slipping away from me.
Drawn instead to their cravings:
Rum. Gambling. The endless cycle resumes.

But that blood intrigues me—
drives me.
It’s a cliffhanger,
a map with no destination,
an answer that spits out more questions.

The muscles behind my eyes tug at perception.
A soft glance stretches across my field of vision—
and everything I see becomes
a woman’s lips, mouthing the word:
Where?
I follow it.
Where would Silas be?

Above—
a creak from the upper deck.
It reaches my raw, willing ears.
Broad. Subtle. Inconclusive.
Still—
it’s my autopsy,
my only clue.

I’m a mosquito.
I’m a soldier.
It is my light.
My war.
My rightful murder.

As if to drink her blood,
I bite into her skin,
gliding along the wall.
This amorous friction—
it bites back.
An intimacy laced with ruin.
A self-destructive love.

My arms. My legs. Twisted sideways.
Each limb breathing on its own,
swaying through the air—
drifting like leaves in a restless gust,
pulled along by my torso.
It’s an odd position,
but I’m too exhausted to question it.
Too eager to understand.

It’s the flow of the stream that pulls me,
coursing through my bones—
ambiguous, consuming—
devouring mind and body alike.
A warm, candle-sweet scent burns into my nose.
But it’s the movements—
these perverse, involuntary movements—
that can topple me.
The wave that will drown me.

My eyes—it’s troubling—
they want to close.
To mask this as memory,
a vivid afterthought.
A lucid dream.
It feels cowardly.
But then—
his warm body resurfaces in my mind,
only to fall
into dark.

He’s lost.
Silas.

But I’m jealous:
I’m weak.
Starving.
Fragile.

I close my eyes—
lift frail legs, one by one.
Each bolt strikes against the next,
an electric harmony.
It stings—
but I accept it.
Mechanical.

My iron lungs contort,
flooded with her blood—
organic, interspecific.
It’s a strange feeling.
I exhale something false,
and wonder:

If you’re born evil... are you always evil?

I don’t believe it.
It feels like a melody that only sings false—
but what if it rings true?
What if it lusts for a voracious afterthought?
It dances in my head.

Paranoia.

I’m not paying attention to the hallway,
so it shocks me—
when I stumble, rhythm broken.
Something juts from the floor,
a blemish on her flesh.
A growth. A wound.
What’s beneath my foot?

Rags.
Torn, tattered—my size.
And beside them,
the cold gleam of a knife.
Silas’s knife.
There it lies in its profane beauty—
his lucky knife.
An heirloom, passed down from the chef.

I pick it up.
A thin layer of rust clings to the blade—
as if the sea herself had wounded it.
I wipe the untouched facade clean.
And for a moment,
I imagine him holding it again.

He’d like that.

A soft warmth—
a mercy in my gut.
A flower in bloom.
The rainbow after the storm.

But that’s all it is—
condensed, small,
only salvageable
from dissected, cold intestines.

I look forward, beyond the stairs—
sunset eclipsing the distant cosmos.
Clouds drift apart in their own direction.
A vagrant pressure calms me:
salty, veiled in a spring mist.

Each wave splashes against her cold body,
intimately urging her forward.
I hear it—
each sail catching a different breath of air,
as if the world is interconnected here.

The ecology hums outside.
It’s softening.

But it’s that—
that soft yellow warmth that makes me uneasy,
that spring breeze that hides my sorrow,
that smile—so bright,
it’s livid.

How can the world rejoice without pity,
in a moment so intimate with despair?
Warmth frolics—takes my hand—and whispers,
“Nothing happened.”

As if Silas was never here.
As if I stand alone
in the tomb of my own making.

The sky, golden, rich, drunk on light—
Feels like mockery.

I step into it anyway.

My hands clutch the knife,
each knuckle paling under pressure.
But it masks my sorrow—
my failure to recall his faint smile.

Tighter.
I try to squeeze his distant face
from the stone.
From that unyielding statue.

But I can’t—his face—
I want to see it healthy, warm...
...vivid.

Instead, this knife tells of his sickness, his sorrow.
It tells of him: the chef...

My body moves toward the knife—
to hold it like a crucifix,
to whisper to it:
Silas... where did you go?

Each step I take
draws an undying battle.
I limp forward.
Bones creak and grind.
Knees scream.
Muscles stretched thin,
tendons out of sync.
Each stair groans beneath my featherweight husk—
alive, angry.

I feel her disappointment.
Her mourning.

Above, a creak again.
Closer.

Maybe he’s waiting.
Maybe hiding.
Maybe—

A drop hits my cheek.
Salt.
Not rain.
A tear.

Mine?