Alley: Michael (iii) Please

I lay there, insensate.

I had given of myself, up to my limit and beyond. And there was comfort, here at the bitter end of the world, in a stinking alley, underneath the edifice of my soul. Here, I was hers, totally. Here, I let go of the reigns of self-control and gave myself totally to another.

I had never done this before. In a wingspan of a life that trailed through centuries, millennia, I had never given up...well...me. But this was it. She had found my soul, naked and defenseless, and had taken advantage, probably the only being that could, in such a way. Oh, I had suffered wounds before, grievous and flowing. My body has been slicked with the gore of my own passing, and I have stood upon the battlefield and retched black bile from deep within my gut. But in intent, there is difference, and the best of my enemies were never this cruel. They respected me, wanted me to respect them. Even as I descended upon them with madness concealed in the cup of my wings, they knew their limits.

But this one, no, she had not known her limits, nor mine. Never had. Always taking it too far, she found me, alone and needing succor and gave me the sharp blade of her knife. And now, she was about to give me a new gift, a different existence, an end to my means. She grasped her gore smeared hands around the root of my wings and tensed.

"Please."

Please take me, like a penitent unto her Father. Please take me, unto you, into you. She has made my decisions, charted the path of my ritual, she has grasped and loved and given and I am ready, ready for her. For here, I have found something, something precious, like a pearl of great price. Something to sow in the ground and reap for the long ages yet to come. Something that was an undiscovered part of me, a vast wasteland.

I am hers.

Does she realize, I wonder. Does she know the height of it, the length of it, its volume? Does she feel the roundness of the sphere of nothingness she has ripped from me and given to me as a gift? Does she feel the enormity of it? She must. Such a thing could not go unnoticed, passed like a shadow underneath a dark bush at the blackest midnight of the new moon. She must, as she holds it in front of me, a bloody, perfect round hole. My soul kneels in front of her and rips the garments that have clothed it, the layers of pain and righteousness built upon century after century. My soul purses its lips as she dangles it in front of me, enticing.

"Please."

I am begging for it, but it doesn't matter. She plays with me, cruel. Caressing my wings she murmurs sweet nothings. I am hers! I am hers! Take me. Decide for me, it will be a relief, a blessing, a blessing.

May Christ support us all the day long,
till the shadows lengthen,
and the evening comes,
and the busy world is hushed,
and the fever of life is over
and our work is done.
Then is his mercy
may he give us safe lodging,
and holy rest and peace at the last
          Amen.

So here at the end, she would require of me the ultimate sacrifice, my self, my soul. She would not take it from me, she demanded that I give it to her.

Give it to her.

"Please"

I flexed through the aether, and brought my wings to the present, brought my self to the here, brought my soul to the now.

And spread them for her to degrade.

I stood before her, naked, wings wide, pinions grazing the sides of the alley, feet smeared with mud of the centuries. I stood, transfixed, begging her to take me, to let me find solace in her mercy, her cruelty. Again she outlined my wings with her hands, and again I offered my surrender.

"Please," she mumbled.

And walked away, leaving me in my shame.

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copyright 1996 by David Micko

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