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3 NOTE: it is the sequel to Sex in the Slammer. NOTE 2: Ask before putting in other archives, thank you. Feedback is the air authors breathe. We are odd so we welcome with open arms any kind of negative feedback too. TRIPTYCH – part 1 –
DELIVER ME FROM ME Dark warmth, not heat,
something different from heat, but a kind of warmth, soft snuggling, not quite
right warmth, but soft snuggling warmth. The dark behind the eyelids, not quite
right warmth, dreams, visions… Curled in soft white blanketing softness pain
loss grief guilt a long gallery of dreams visions too real too final too true
to dismiss in the white dark not quite warmth cocooning a loss too great for
words, too great for feelings… One by one the dead Morlocks pass by spitting
pissing tossing pieces of dripping flesh at him, at him, at the traitor mass
murderer slut bastard devil trash… One by one and not a drop of saliva, not a
drop of urine, not a drop of blood can be ignored. All have to be felt one by
one, no recourse, no forgiveness, no pity, nothing but the dark blinding white
darkness. One by one they are accepted, not welcomed but endured in the
knowledge of scores to be paid forever and ever amen. Humming, hymning in the
ears traitor mass murderer slut devil trash, a hymn of guilt and final
damnation in a cold hell that’s stopped being so cold a while ago and now is
only a dark warmth cocooning the fading mind and numbed flesh. Dreams visions
nightmares of an uneasy death beating a slow tempo fading fading to
nothingness… A breath, not willed
but swelling nonetheless, a spike of icy heat in the lungs, a new pain searing
white hot cold, a face an image an obsession – should be gone by now but isn’t
– blue eyes like a winter noon, a wanting a longing in the bones, blue eyes not
unkind but unloving, hard body not unloved but uncaring, lost gone not here not
now not then, lost and lost and never said goodbye, never said farewell. A
grief like an ocean wave, burning lungs, burning in searing ice… “You will stop
that, you will stop if I have to kill you, little whore! Little trash slut try
that once more and you’ll pray you were dead!” punctuated by blows, hard hands
hard cane merciless slashing belt and not understanding what it is that is
wanted of him, desperate trying to please to stop the blows to be approved of
“Non, non, je vous en prie, will be good, monseigneur” “Don’t call me that, you
stupid whore!” Blows blows blows angry blows “Non, je vous en prie, non plus!
Monsieur LeBeau” But that is wrong too, nothing he does is ever right, nothing
he thinks is ever right, nothing he tries is ever the right thing “What name,
pour l’amour de Dieu what name?!” he screams and screams and the voice like the
hammer of God the hands raining blows “Pêre, je suis ton pêre, to my eternal
shame I chose a piece of filth from the street and now I’ll make you into a man
if I have to kill you to do it! Call me pêre, you bastard!”… And the others
come, one by one, monsters – but you are a monster – killers – but you are a
killer – evil – but you are… NO! NONONONONO! – evil. Evil wrong devil trash,
worthless guinea pig lab rat lab toy men’s toy… Mocking faces, cold metal
slabs, cruel hands, crueller bodies – NONONONO! Burnburnburnburn… Explode. ******** “What?!” Wolverine’s
raspy voice rips the air in shreds “Afterwards we left
him there.” Not quite shame, not quite triumph, a good-riddance note in the
arrogant voice. “What?!” not just
unbelieving, it’s becoming to sound like a declaration of war. “He killed all these
poor misfits.” ‘not quite our kind’ the voice is implying – maybe unknowing –
‘not quite up to the mark, but still…’ Logan takes a deep
breath, and finds he has to take another, breathing has become not easy. He
looks at the people around him and discovers that that’s what they are to him
now, people, faces, voices, nothing important, the important thing – man, kid,
boy, baby, darling – is somewhere in ice and snow and dead. This time the
breath he takes seem to shatter his frame. “I’m taking the jet.” He says,
rasps, growls, “He will be buried here.” A pause. Sneering now he says “I’m
taking the jet. After he’s buried I’m out of here forever.” How easy to say the
words in blinding rage, dark heat that consumes him like a black sun. ******* Speeding over white,
white, white nothing to see nothing to be seen but the white icy desert.
Desolation of the heart, desolation of the land, desolation of the very soul
and a name like a bell ringing in white filled mind – Never called him Remy,
never could say the love words, never called by his darling name, never could
say the longing words, the mating words, the I-will-make-it-come-out-glory
words. All white, silent, dead, deadly beautiful white terrain, ‘my love where
are you? Now that I can say the words in my mind, maybe even with my mouth, I
lose you, I turn my back for a moment and you are dead? No. Not possible.
Hiding here in the white, just hiding from the hurt’… And he sees it, hours and
hours of dead white and he sees it, the circle of broken fire, the dead brown
earth, and nothing – no body, no messages, no sign but the circle of dead fire. ******** Dark warmth on a
different scale, dark cold of a different surface, too much life, too little
life… ‘Where…?’ Death should not be like this, but maybe this is worse, maybe
this is life. It hurts. Everywhere. No help, no end, no mercy. Not death, death
would be kind and silent and quiet, but not metal ice. Or is it? Red pupils on
black open to the world and the world is fuzzy and cold and unkind. Strapped to
a slab in a lab… He knows what comes next in this particular ditty and doesn’t
want it. A vision, a last wisp of vision floats before his eyes behind his
eyelids: blue eyes, sharp claws… love. Dead, lost, forgone, safety, real
warmth, pitiless justice… He doesn’t know he has croaked the name like a
whisper of prayer ‘Logan…’ He can’t see, he has lost his eyes, dark and warmth
that makes him shiver shudder sob, nothing can bring light to his heart. Pain.
Everywhere No end no mercy. And all the blood that was shed like a cocoon of
grief and guilt. No end. Defeat. “I kill them all. Remy kill them all.” Does he
know he’s saying this out loud? A hymn of despair an anthem of death. Does he
know he’s saying this out loud? * The jet lands,
Wolverine jumps out, but too late for smells, just the acrid burn of the
explosions and a hint of fear, too icy cold to try and track any spoor.
“Someone found you, kid.” A whiff of fuel “Helicopter. Damn! Cant track an
helicopter. DAMN!!” Logan screams at the white sky. But there is no recourse,
no coming back – run to Japan before it is too late – run for cover before the
kid gets you – But the kid has got to you all right, Logan. Too late to run and
too late to save him. * The man is tall and
strong, a bit weathered by age and his profession, but still strong. He licks
his lips, hart beating faster. He looks at the wreck strapped to the steel
table and licks his lips again. ‘Will he know me again?’ he thinks in a sort of
breathless anticipation ‘It would be nice if he knew me again’… The man on the
table moans faintly. Awake. The man’s hand caresses long legs, brushes
fingernails on the inside of taut thighs. The captive’s head jerks. ’Oh, thank
God he knows me’ in a sigh of relief, now it *will* be perfect. “Hello kid”,
the man says. Silence. “Me again, yes. Missed me? Missed our little games? Of
course you did, kid. Never saw anyone react so beautifully to my little
pleasures. Saw the flares from your explosions. What did you use?” Silence.
“You’ll tell me, not that I care, just for fun I’ll make you tell me, alright?
Another little game. But after that… *after* that, we’ll play our best game
ever.” And the fingers crush the balls like a vice. The body arches the mouths
opens in a silent scream back tense rising from the table straining against the
bonds. “Your eyes are bandaged to save them, almost burnt by the glare, put
something in them, but you’ll see in a while, believe me you’ll see it all.
Pity about that bandage now, I always liked to see your red fire of pain. Made
me hard.” The man’s voice is soft, like a caress, creating swirling eddies of
pain and shame in the tired mind, but nothing nothing nothing can compare to
the maelstrom of grief sucking at the very soul until nothing is left but the
need to obliterate himself, to stop the ruthless unbearable sorrow that devours
his being. “Tak’ your pleasure, colonel” he whispers tonelessly. The man opens
his eyes wide at this and lets go. Steps near the white exposed throat and
grabs it “You accept your fate, then?” he asks, but he’s squeezing too hard and
the body on the slab is unconscious again. “Rape him, all of
you.” The man orders his troops. “Why, sir? He won’t
even know.” “When he wakes up he
will.” * ‘Where is he? Where?
Bloody Cajun, trust him to do a disappearing act on me when I need to find
him!’ In the jet Logan growls and mutter while flying ever-widening circles.
‘I’ll never find him, never always too late to do something… Why did I run away
from him?’ Where to look, it’s all dead white and freezing, he can’t have moved
gone far… Who took him? A growl that seem to start from his feet, low and
furious, the beast slavers wants blood wants death wants… Like an arrow to the
target a clear thought that cannot be denied ‘If the beast takes over we’re
both dead and for nothing. Think Logan think be human logical and think!’ The
beast doesn’t want to go down, the beast wants to go back and howl its pain in
the spilling guts of Rogue, Warren, Scott… But Remy, boy, kid, baby, darling
Cajun that used to be a spite word and has become a song of a tsunami love. The
remembered image steadies him. ‘There are bases here, people, scientists and
military’ but he doesn’t know where they are ‘Have to ask the professor…’ NO!
another snarl of hatred ‘yes’ thinks the human in the grip of an icy rage that
nothing can deflect now ‘yes, let the beast howl to perdition. If I ask, they
will tell me’. All the same it’s not easy to turn on the communicator, like
wading through molasses each movement of the arm and hand is so difficult, but
the icy rage cannot be stopped or slowed. He doesn’t recognise his own voice
when he snaps “Give the coordinates to all known bases here. Now.” * Dark pain dark warmth
dark awakening to dark existence – when will it end when when? – He remembers
the colonel. The colonel was the man who pushed him into escaping the brothel
and ending up in Jean Luc stern arms. He wants to love his father so much, but
he never measures up, no matter what he does he never measures up so he is
thrown away, a bad catch, a poisonous fish a worthless inadequate nothing devil
trash whore… But if the pain is strong enough if the shame is strong enough
maybe it will drown the ghosts spitting pissing throwing pieces of living blood
dropping flesh on his soul, if the pain is strong enough if the shame is strong
enough maybe it will give him release from his unending grief. His body is so
battered he can’t feel it anymore, the ghosts of tearing cocks the ghosts of
bruising hands and teeth are not enough to annihilate him. He almost wishes for
the colonel’s games to begin, maybe maybe he will lose himself in the horror
and end this throat constricting grief. His mind a dark churning whirlpool of
self loathing he waits for deliverance. “Hello, good morning,
I see you’re awake. Let’s take this bandage off, pretty whore, I really want to
see your eyes.” Nothing the man ever does is kind, but then who has ever been
kind to him? Not that he deserves kindness – evil traitor mass murderer slut
bastard devil trash – “Now we play, mmm? Our favourite game, what do you say?
Nothing? Silence is yes, a scream is no, not that it will serve you, you know
the rules. Let’s see if my men fucked you properly, child, I wouldn’t want you
in need of some hot cock up your ass, not now.” Unkind fingers probe him, he
almost doesn’t feel it, almost, but that’s just the start of the game. “Now,
could have been better, couldn’t it? But no matter, we’ll make do with what we
have, I’ll have to reprimand my little hungry soldiers, next time they’ll do
you better. So…” A slap slamming his face on the table, another, another… What
got to him as a child was the clinical precision of the man’s actions. He
slaps, stops, examines his works and slaps again. He seems to be measuring the
bruises, the reddening of the skin, like a scientist. – But that’s what you
are, isn’t it? Lab rat lab trash let’s see what *this* makes him do – but now
that’s nothing, it doesn’t stop the images, the visions the dreams nightmares
that never end. “Right, you’re not much fun, are you? I wonder what happened to
you… No, not really, couldn’t care less. Now open wide, little whore, I saved
it for you.” The golden stream is hot and stinking it burns eyes and the tender
mucous membrane of the mouth. Has he really opened his mouth? Is he really
still obeying orders unthinking willing ready to do anything to be approved of?
He chokes a bit and then chokes helplessly on the hard cock being shoved into
his mouth. “You’re not so much fun anymore, you know what it does to me, makes
me want to *make* you fun whore. Now service me.” Same old words same old contempt
not enough to make him react. Choking is good, no air no breath no life no
visions. He doesn’t fight the huge shaft in his mouth and down his inflamed
throat. Choking is good… * Wolverine is almost
totally Logan by the time he has the coordinates he needs. The beast has
nothing to offer to this all-consuming need to find the beloved prey. The beast
is almost no more, just a dark flame of rage deep in the guts that becomes
frozen hatred in the mind. Scott would gape to see Logan so coldly flying over
targets, landing, methodically sniffing and getting on the jet again to the
next target, and the next and the next. Logan finds he has to shut his mind to
the thoughts of what might be happening to Remy, just the name like a bell in
his heart no thoughts of happenings no thoughts of death or life saving care
just Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy Remy…. * There are periods of
unconsciousness but the visions never let go of his mind, periods of violence,
but he is unconscious so the body only murmurs of the ghosts of violence, the
man is furious – that is good make him lose control and destroy the traitor
mass murderer slut bastard devil trash – on his involuntarily heaving body the
bites rending flesh, the blows bruising flesh, the red hot cock forcing itself
into burning inflamed openings, but nothing makes the visions the dreams the
nightmares stop. “Oh, well, can’t hold it anymore, here it comes ‘cherie’°.”
Pincers on his nose and the body breathes through the mouth. “Pretty” the man
breathes and pulls down his trousers. Positioning himself over the gaping mouth
he releases his shit with a sigh of pleasure “Eat, boy, get fat on it” he says
thickly as the double urge hits him. Remy LeBeau, thief, mutant, X-man,
traitor, mass murderer, slut, bastard, devil, trash, finds this final
humiliation fitting and chooses not to swallow so the thick greasy turds fill
his mouth and throat blocking air. An image – it *won’t* be denied – blue eyes
not unkind but unloving fill his mind. If this is death it’s fitting and
welcome, the brain slows down, no visions no dreams, fitting and welcome,
fading fading into white nothingness… And a scream a shower
of meat and guts frantic fingers scooping out shit from his mouth a neverending
howl “Live live live live live…!” Gunshots and screams. Red death from raging
eyes invisible death from a raging mind. “Slice his bonds, Wolverine!” a voice
like a whip ‘Scott?’ and a mind blinding howl “HE’S NOT BOUND!!” She never uses
this voice in the mansion, she doesn’t use in a fight, this is the voice of
Death “Take him out, NOW!” this is the voice that *cannot* be disobeyed with
the full force of her mind to push it into every hook and cranny of the brain.
Logan grabs him – mind fading unbelieving strong arms hard body not unloved but
uncaring – and runs to the jet. The others are beside him in seconds. “We’ll
take him home” says the voice of the goddess of Death. “You follow.” And the
other unrecognisable voice answers unafraid “Fuck the jet, come with us, take
him with us.” Logan is already on
the Blackbird, crushing to his chest the battered body of his one reason to
breathe. “What?!” he rasps desperate to a murmur only his ears can hear, but
the other is too far gone to understand. Lost in a delirium of visions Remy
babbles softly “Deliver me from me, oh mon Dieu°, deliver me from me….” “As fast as you can,
Scott, but steady. We’re going home.” Triptych – part 2 –
Death walks inside of me * Silent and lightning
swift the Blackbird flies over white white white and grey black blue deep ocean
waters. Inside, a tableau of rage and grief. Scott’s hand rock steady on the
wheel, Jean a blazing flame of rage and Logan? Logan lost in a nightmare of
bewilderment cannot stop repeating over and over again ‘he was not bound’ He
was not bound he was not bound he was not bound he was not bound… his mind
cannot accept it cannot wrap itself around it cannot deny it cannot refuse the
images it makes rise like acrid vomit up a troath - he was not bound –not his
hellfire beloved fight-to-the-death-and-beyond crazy indomitable beloved
beloved man kid child baby darling… But he was not bound, but he had accepted,
but he was *not* bound. * The mansion the
running the stretcher like a stupid soap a badly made and melodramatic soap.
The voices the reactions – where’s the director? he can’t make soaps – The
cliché things to rush a body to the infirmary. But he was not bound, Logan, he
wasn’t, there’s no way out of this. Stretched on the table arms open wide legs
open wide letting that unspeakable man do… He says it out loud in a
disbelieving croack “He was not bound” and his own voice sounds lost and
terrified even to him. The others turn to him stopping Scott’s urgent voice
telling Hank as much as he can, Jean doesn’t dare speak, this is no place for
Death to speak, and the killing rage is still too hot in her. “He wanted to
die?” tentative, like a foot testing water. Logan hanging for dear life, dear
death, on the infirmary bed whispers “Don’t tie him up, for mercy’s sake don’t
tie him up.” * Later, tests done to
check the damage, airways freed, body cleaned, Remy lies on the table as if
already dead. Logan - or is it the Wolverine? – is crouching near the abandoned
head, intently watching not touching, Hank’s voice is a meaningless sound all
his ears hear is the whisper of breathing from the table… “This is what we call
a pseudocoma or wakeful coma. We don’t need to hook him to a machine yet. It
may worsen if he doesn’t wake up in the next 48 hours…” Then suddenly Logan
hears “… talk to him, show him he’s safe and in a friendly place, talk of
everyday things, maybe play his favourite music.. I don’t know it has been
known to…” Talk to him? Say the
love words the caring words the I-will-make-it-glory words? Can he? Can you,
human and animal, strong and weak, can you use words as medicine, words as
healing like a shaman of old? Can you Logan? “You know, my love, I don’t quite
*see* things like humans do.” His despair forces him to try, but he’s no
talker, but he can’t say things out loud, but he must, must try, must sing the
mating song the love song the life song to draw his mate to him “My nose is
better than my eyes at seeing, you know? It’s weird, I’m no good with words and
I don’t think there are any, nobody asks a dog how it *sees* things. Now you
see weirdly enough, I would say, with those infrared pupils of yours, but I see
with my nose, mostly.” A bit more sure, on safe ground – do you know he’s never
said anybody this, Remy? Do you care? Do you hear the mating song the love song
the life song or is it too much for you? – “Smells are colours are taste are
texture, smells are the shape of the things that left the smell. I can smell
the past as well as the present, you know, I can tell what people do in a room
over several hours. And I can always say, I always know, where you’ve been. You
know how my nose sees you, my beloved? You know why and how I fell in love with
you?” Crouching near the abandoned head, intently watching, never touching “You
are russett streaked with gold, all that’s best of Autumn, all that’s good of
Autumn, slow soft sharp hard and gentle. Never smelled such a warm generous
smell, never loved like I love you, never never, this my body *knows*, not my
false uncertain memories, never loved like I love you. Silk and velvet, russett
and gold and a tang of applejack, your burning courage, your iron will, your
steel integrity… You don’t know what applejack is, love? Let me tell you. In
Autumn you take the juicest apples acidsweet smell and glass peel and you press
them slowly slowly slowly so they drip their juice heady perfumed juice like a
lazy afternoon on a sunny river, then you put the juice in a barrel and let it
age, all growing fermenting things turning sweet laziness to dizzying alcohol.
So you have cider, not you, cider is too bland for what you are, my darling, no
strength no real tang of danger and laughter. You come after. You know, you
take the barrel of cider and put it under the snow. Ah, but yes, snow can be
friendly, even useful, smells feels tastes like the clear waters of yesterday like
the clear waters of tomorrow…” * “He’s gone, is he?”
Hank shakes his head – damn he has a headache – he didn’t expect this he hadn’t
wanted this when he allowed Rogue to leave Gambit in the snow. He just wanted
rid of a problem, wanted not to have to choose between his old friend Warren
and this obnoxious newcomer, wanted not to take sides, and the problem is back
in his lap huge and terrible, cannot be ignored, it came back literally
stinking to high heaven forcing him to shame and regret. “How the hell do I
know? Logan’s talking to the kid, it may work.” Yes and that you don’t like at
all, do you? To see your image of Logan distorted and darkened into something
you don’t like. Normal people don’t do *those* things, even normal mutants
don’t do *those* things. * “… then you take out
the barrel and scrape away the snow. Clear water is fine but it waters the
potency, you know, it’s still cider, a little better but still weak and you’re
not weak, strongest person I ever met, strong inside, I mean, where I’m weak as
a pup where I fear to face my feelings leaving you alone in the dark and cold…
Nonono. Oh, my beloved you *know* I can’t talk, told me often enough, wasn’t
able to tell you it didn’t matter, just adored you to talk to me was joy, so
witty and sharp tongued the taste lingered for days, like pepper and rosemary
and silver and leather all at once, and the perfume of applejack. So good, so
lovely, real and supple strength. Anyway, what was I telling you? Ah, yes,
about applejack, nice name too isn’t it? Like your acrobatic flights, a jump a
spin a twist a landing and wham. Applejack, apples made lethal by distilling
their essence. So you scrape the snow and bury it again in the snow… * The cold sleep before
death has no sounds, no senses, no feelings. The cold sleep before death is
dark and impersonal hiding the spark of self from the encroaching world. But
the spark of self is slowly being entwined in a soft sticky not quite warm
cloud, a mellow cloud spinning a gluey gentle hoarse – hoarse? – whispy honey
vine like a memory of cobwebs like a memory of silk threads like a memory of of
a heartbeat… “… and the tang of it
the russett burnt honey spice of it the tender acrid heady perfume of it…” In the cold sleep
before death this thin snaking enticing feel of small wings beating, of soft
wings beating, of rustlings, of swirlings, of falling light leaves, of… apples? * Remy’s eyes slam open,
the suddenly tensing body an emphatic refusal of life an emphatic denial of
life. You want to play God, Logan? You want to wake the dead? Where does it say
that the dead are grateful for interrupting their cold sleep? * “This meeting is not
to appportion guilt. The guilt is mine, I’m responsible for the group. This
meeting is called to determine our attitude in the future. When Remy wakes…
*When*, I refuse to contemplate the alternatives, I want you all to treat him
with all due respect and courtesy, in acts not only in words. This is not open
for discussion. You do this or you’re out. If the majorioty is against, then I’m
out. What is open for discussion are the reasons for not wanting to obey this
command. I will listen and if some are valid I will try to mediate.” Warren
cannot be silent “He caused the massacre of the Morlocks, do you need any other
reason?” “LIAR.” says the voice of death and Warren looks at Jean, shocked by
what he sees he gulps and goes on, doggedly “I lost my wings because of him…”
“LIAR.” “Damn you, Jean!” goaded beyond fear “Stay out of my head!” “I am not
into your head.” says the Goddess of Death “It’s fairly screaming these are
lies, oh, they may be true things but they are not the true reason for your
hatred.” Warren is panting but can only open and close his mouth like a fish.
“Alright” he gasps, having abruptly decided “You’re right. These are true
reasons but not the true reason. Wanta know what he did? What your lily white
murderer did? He killed my mother.” * Suddenly the tension
slacks the body sags but the eyes are still open and empty, reflecting the
ceiling of the lab, empty open dead. There, here is your creature, your
creation, what monster have you created doctor Logan? How can you breathe and
see that? * “He seduced my father,
my father couldn’t think of anything else after a while. Didn’t think of me
didn’t think of my mother, left her alone because all he could think of was
this red haired red eyed whore who’s got his hooks into him” - But he was a
child, Scott thinks out of balance out of breath - “He spent lots of money on
the little leech, lots of time with the little leech, he didn’t come home, he
faked business trips and my mother couldn’t take it anymore. She took sleeping
pills instead, lots and lots of sleeping pills and I called and called and
called her but she was cold and never answered! And he never looked at me, the
freak, he paid for things but never looked at me all his life, only at the red
eyed whore who got into his poor guts…” “ I remember your father. Remy called
him the Tower Man. The Tower Man not so very big but liked to say ‘Look at my
tower Wawy’. He said ‘Lick my tower Wawy’. He said ‘Sit on my tower Wawy’. He
said ‘All the way down Wawy’” The voice is empty of all feelings an indifferent
monotone, the eyes are empty of all life, so empty they look blind. “Remy
always had to have his hair curled for the Tower Man” Hand up takes a soft
golden curl and Warren wants to kill to scream to rage like a beast, but is
paralysed by empty eyes empty voice empty hand, can only manage a strangled
scream “He never called you that! He called me Wawy when I was little! My daddy
called me Wawy when I was 3!” The dead voice goes on as if he hadn’t spoken:
“Remy was always 3 for the Tower Man. He wanted Remy to be 3 and so he was 3.
The colonel wanted Remy to be 7 so he was always 7 for the colonel. The
Dogcatcher Man wanted Remy to be 5 so Remy was always 5 for the Dogcatcher Man.
The Tower man was very rich. He once bought Remy for a whole week all the hours
day and night. Remy had to have a perm for the Tower Man, Remy’s hair too
straight. He paid tens of thousands for Remy. He played many games with Remy
the whole week. Remy always had to say yes daddy to the Tower Man. Every time
the Tower Man stopped speaking Remy had to say yes daddy. Remy could say
nothing else. The colonel said ‘nod for yes or scream for no as you please’, but
it never made any difference. The Dogcatcher man wanted Remy to bark nothing
else. Remy had to learn how to bark for the Dogcatcher Man. But the Tower man
always wanted yes daddy” The hand drops like a leaf in autumn the dead
unfeeling voice is unchanged, eyes filled with a nameless horror Warren hears
the red haired robot say: “You are lucky Warren, he never touched you.” Remy
stops like a wound down toy and doesn’t move. * So they – Logan, he
never lets anyone else do it – have to tell the shell that once housed a mind
to do everything. But he does. Eat. And he does. Drink. And he does. Piss. And
he does. Sleep. And he does.The wound down toy never speaks again, but that was
surely life, that dead defense of a ruined childhood was life. Words have made
him waken and words will make him come out from hiding. Not even Jean, whose
rage has collapsed into inchoate pity, can enter that shielded and sheltered
mind. He is a hawk of the lure, he has to be teased out of hiding, enticed
attracted drawn in, lured back to life. And Logan talks and talks and talks
some more… * But Hank has taken a
decision, anything to get rid of that problem and besides the man’s father is a
basic figure in his life, he will cope, let his family cope. * “… and then I would
take you to Japan, you would have liked the cool formality of the place hiding
deep feelings hiding deep honour deep integrity like yours no compromise to
justice but all clear ordered intense formality. And I would have loved you in
Japan like making tea, a slow elegant ritual slow and precise and like a slow
motion dance, I would have loved you like that in hours and hours of bliss and
tenderness…” They are in bed, in Logan’s bed, Logan’s arms tenderly and very
lightly encircling the still body not refusing not accepting, but tenderly
encircling the still body as if it were paper thin crystal “then I would take
you to Figi and we would make love like otters, slick and frisky and fleet in
the water, snorting mewing gasping in the warm transparent green waters, more slippery
than water snakes more joyiously abandoned than seals and dolphins and you
would laugh at my clumsiness and laugh at the delight of it. But you can’t now,
my beloved, I know you can’t, so it won’t happen, but it doesn’t matter, that’s
not the point of love, the joy of love but not the point of love the point of
love is love so I will love you, day and night every second I will love you and
hold you and defend you and hope that you come back to me even to spurn me even
to kick me away even to deny me, just so you come back to yourself and live and
laugh and jump turn twist caper land on your sure feet. You are my mate my love
my life my all but you don’t have to be tied up in my clumsyness, you just
spread your wings and fly, my hatchling, nevermind this short runt gasping
thing wishing only to see you fly… * Warren is sick, puke
puke puke, sick to his soul, puke puke puke, you can’t puke away what you are,
what you’ve been made into. Little slimy toad, little envious slimy toad now
you know what you envied all those lost years. You say ‘I have wings I can fly’
you say ‘I am better than you earthbound creatures’ you say ‘I can soar higher
than any bird beating my white wings my strong wings’ you say ‘I can take you
all you groundlings and fly over your heads and spit at you’ you say ‘I am
special better stronger, you cannot get me you cannot stop me you cannot be me’
you say ‘weep because you cannot be me’. Those things may be true, but they are
not the true thing. The true thing is 3 and he’s weeping terrified asking why
his daddy cannot love him. The true thing is 3 but now suddenly he knows why.
The true thing is 3 and cannot encompass the revelation of what his daddy’s
love would mean. The true thing is 3 and is puking his little soul out. |