I was given a dowry at midnight. Fourteen Thousand jewels worth, to be exact. Given to me through mail, to be exact. Specifically, on a pigeon. Most definitely peculiar was it that, were my emotions more exact, I would not have otherwise known. It flew down from the night sky like an estranged owl, banging its clueless head against a glass pane. And, when it awoke to its own pain, it flew down and promptly fell into the mailbox. What a smart bird. So smart, that I had to wake up to the sight of gloppy gooeyness of gore and disgusting delight. And, a promptly cooked meal of a pigeon’s carcass. Well, at least it had its own use after all that. Tremor me to the bone.
By my own exacting account (my mind still blurry from a prior ordeal), it was a sloppy job. Green shining jewels in the light of my mind were stained red and will be so forevermore. Letters and mail quickly piled at the door when they already couldn’t fit in my overstuffed mailbox. Advertisements, notices, tax reports, leases – all useless things – were cast aside in the wake of their formality. Yes: After a fortnight, when the excess blood had all washed into the light of time, they were clean enough for the taking. A delicacy, I say. Fourteen Thousand jewels worth, soggy in the taste of blood red wine. And, when I was done with it, not even a speck would be left for any others’ selfish taking.
I quickly took it back, where the feast was to be started, when I heard something. Outside of the mind, a nuance of decadence, and a beating heart trembling in the rubble. A heart, to be exact! Oh… a heart. I murmur softly to the shape of my exact shadow. “A heart.” Hey.
I repeated those goddamned words softly, but steadily. The situation was growing softly, steadily, out of the exactness, to be said carefully. To my own excitement, might I add that I loved it…? I shall recount to you, too, that the heart truly was trembling. My heart was trembling. So, when it tried to escape from the extent of my grasp, I held onto it tightly.
It felt weird. It was elastic and strange to the bone. Hey: It had no bone. It squeezed, oozed, slipped in, and out… in, and out, of my fingers. I held it in a tight grasp, a choke hold, as it beats – once, twice, thrice, coerced by my shell. But it spoke.
‘Hey. Do you want more?’
‘Oi,’ it pelts at me. A deep employment of necessity hails. A vocation?
My words. My words. The brain tingles at its arousing voice. The exactness screeches to a halt and stops before the creature. Afore the nature. Before the nature of mesmerisation. A scourge and a moor of blood.
‘Marry me,’ I reply.
A quick thought grows and subsides. It grows, then subsides. Again. Again. Like the beating of the heart. My heart.
‘Want more. Come get.’
It too, subsides.
I wanted more. I needed more. Well, say, I blatantly needed more, to be exact. In short, I feed. As it stops…I go on. I only keep going forward, hanging onto the beat of time. The bead, itself, slowly crawling to the halt. I am the remaining inexactness, so I feed at where it hailed from. It’s there. In the mess of blackness and flesh. Creatures crawl from the depths screeching and yelling. The innards hail blood and flesh, turn, twist, and tumble. The walls fumble and bicker in space and against the bulging heart, grinding in itself, expanding, protracting, engorging into the mass of illogicality. Blood spurts out from here and here under the shadow of provocative time. As puppets, like puppets, as the envoys of time, dangling on engorged cells of muck and glob, held onto, by silky waves of disgust in my bosom. It cries out in screeches of jovial disgust. Likely envoys gang up and pull their own flesh out in stabbing revolt and bathe in a vomit of their kin. Against the bird my dowry had come from. And a string of goo squirms up through one hole and out the other from the denial of auto-fermentation. It withers without the compassion of my heart, without a second for time.
I can only hold on the the dowry as I fall asleep at home. However, I too reach that brink of disgust. As I do, I heave. My body arches. The inner tears strike midnight again, and a most jovial piece of lice smears itself into the glass pane, trapping itself forevermore. A most likely pigeon cries out in disgust, and peculiarly bangs its head into the window. Again, and again. Until it lies down on the mailbox for a quick nap.
That morning, I woke up to no mailman at the door. A dowry of Fourteen Thousand jewels worth lies scattered in the mailbox. I feel slightly bad for it, to have had to see the many creatures walking about the towers of goo and streets of shadows and darkness. I pity it too much. Perhaps a feast to best dispose of such a creature.
Much credits to my teacher for error checking. Don’t feel like fixing up tidbits in continuity and other syntax errors.