go to the next part of Alley
I said and threw the knife. It landed solidly in his shoulder. He grunted, flinched, buckled. He looked at me, eyes going wide with shock and recognition and...something else.
Was it...fear?
My heart sang a joyful song of rage.
He was mine. Mine. I could see all his wings flutter with distress. But, even as I reached down to pull another knife out of my boot (much, much larger this time) I sensed that his wings were not on this plane/place/time. They were other/where.
Was he hiding them? I shrugged inwardly. No matter. I could still see them. They would be mine.
Blood oozed out around the knife in his shoulder onto his pale, luminous skin. He was naked but for a pair of black silk boxer shorts. His chest was hairless, his nipples a soft, dusty pink. Broad shoulders tapered to a small waist and hips. His legs were tensed and his slender, bare feet were half-submersed in dark water.
His face was pale and shocked.
Mine. He was mine! Payback time, stormbringer.
Vengeance is mine.
I stretched my arms out to either side, as if I was being crucified. I felt my invisible wings flare and brush the sweating walls of the buildings surrounding us. I clicked my bootheels. Inclined my head slightly. And oh, how I smiled and smiled! The large hunting knife flashed in my hand, said its own "hullo."
I wondered what I looked like to him, grinning and bowing. Some avenging angel come to bring him pain. Torment. Agony. Oblivion.
Bloody vampyre come to beat the living shit out of him.
My combat boots were oiled and gleaming. They creaked. They ached to kick him.
My legs were decorated with lightning bolts and curving swords. I always painted my body when I went clubbing. Or hunting. A snake curled out of one boot, wrapped around my calf, above my knee, its head buried somewhere in the leather shorts I wore.
The leather shorts rode low on my hips. A painted silver chain emphasized the smallness of my waist. Red and blue flames circled my navel.
A cut-off leather vest clung to my chest. My arms were bare and countless sets of wings fluttered across my biceps, forearms. Wings. Nothing but wings on my arms. All colors. All sizes. Bat wings. Bird wings. Insect wings. Even angel wings.
I embraced the rage. The joyful rage. Oh, my tormentor, how I shall please you with the pain! You will never hurt me again.
Never hurt me again.
(the girl's blood whispered in my body)
Around my neck I had etched a piece of barbed wire. My hair stood out from my skull like coppery flames; like a golden halo.
My smile was like a knife-wound, a slice of moon, a slash of loving pain.
I ran at him, howling.
He did not move.
Gracefully I leapt into the air and knocked him back with one foot flat on his chest. The breath went out of him with a great whoosh and I landed, cat-like, on the dumpster behind him.
I crouched. I threw my head back. I laughed and cried and kissed the knife.
He lay on his back, gasping. He slowly pulled the small knife out of his wounded shoulder. Blood gushed out. He grimaced, tried to roll over.
I jumped down, one knee pounding into his chest. I heard something crack--his ribs? I casually knocked the knife out of his bloody hand. Another snap--his fingers?
His eyes were wide and wet and gazed up at me uncomphrehendingly. Long, lustrous hair trailed in garbage and slime. Lovingly, I caressed it back from his face with the knife. My fingers brushed his trembling lips.
I whispered to him.
I punched him in the throat.
I answered for him, and hauled him to his feet.
He cried silently but kept his eyes locked on mine.
Good. Very good.
I wondered briefly how he had come to be so weak. How he had fallen into my hands so readily. So easily. My tormentor, my loving tormentor--oh, how I had been taught to love such a one as he!
I began to dance my knife dance.
It is a strange kind of dance. No one taught it to me. I dance it from my own darkness. It is mine. My own expression of beauteous vengeance. Violence made graceful.
Like a spider. A slow monkey. A dripping flower. I lift, I fall; I crouch, I spin. It is slow. It is fast. Mostly, it is sharp.
He watched me, fascinated.
Hypnotized by the sparking tracks of the knife in the gloom? By my strange and sharp movements? Perhaps.
As I danced before his slouched and panting figure I spoke:
My knife darted closer, moving the sodden tendrils of his hair.
He did not move. Even his wings were still.
"His eyes are like doves
beside running waters"
With infinite slowness and loving grace the knife parted the flesh under his right eye. Three bright drops of blood welled up and slid down his angular cheekbone.
Still he did not move but my blood (and the girl's?) sang with his silent pain.
I punched him in the mouth once, twice. His lips parted. Blood poured out. I slashed his left cheek, his ear, the side of his neck. His tears made me want to cry.
My loving tormentor, let me share with you my pain. Let me exercise my rage on you. Let me break you so you will never break me again.
"His body is a work of ivory
covered with sapphires"
My slow-moving knife danced across his thighs. Cut away his silk boxers. Completely naked and defenseless, now. Bloody stripes decorated his chest in a strange and purposeful design. A work of art--my hate. My vengeance.
How he would pay! How he would suffer my wrath!
With one hand I cut; with the other, caressed.
I leaned in close, my lips next to his bleeding mouth. I sucked up his ragged, hot breaths. My angel, my angel! The knife rested across his throat. My other hand groped behind his back. Reaching in and out--
Touching wings! The root of him. Wings, his wondrous wings.
I began to cry.
My lips brushed his, but I was careful not to taste his blood.
I stroked his wings. The feel of them almost made me forget my joyous hatred. My wish for vengeance. There is nothing like the feel of an angel's wings. For us, to touch--oh, there!--is something so intimate...it is like making love.
To touch the innermost heart and soul of an angel.
To touch and...take away. Destroy utterly. Rape.
I grabbed the root of his wings tightly.
A sigh escaped him.
My angel!
copyright 1996 by Julieann M. Brown-Micko
crown o' gems | introduction | center | master index
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