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The thunder-voice rumbled:
I was still, still. Altogether still.
Leather creaked. Thunder and lightning cracked. I whimpered.
The thunder-voice rumbled again, stronger this time:
And, God help me, I did. Shaking and crying I crawled out, still clutching the bear, now bloody. I had to come out. Far better than having him come after me...
I crouched by the bed, unable to look any higher than his knees.
I did. Oh, and I did. I stood on weak legs and held the bear in front of my stomach. I still couldn't look at anything but his knees, his boots. Those black leather boots.
He took two steps towards me and gently removed Boris from my arms. Chuckling, he took the bear, smoothed the blood-soaked fur and tucked him in my bed. There was Boris, safe and sound, covers up to his chin.
Thunder shook the house and I winced, drawing inward.
He took me by the shoulders and walked me over to the window. Reluctantly, I went.
Standing behind me he put his hands on either side of my face and made me look out at the storm. I started to cry again, silently. The tears fell over his fingers and I think I felt him smile.
he whispered in my ear.
I cried harder and flinched with the lightning.
he asked, placing the question in my ear as he opened the window wide.
I shook my head, crying. His hands rested on either side of my face.
The rain whipped in the window, pelting us both.
he whispered and shoved me out.
I fell without a sound and landed hard. My wrist snapped and my knee twisted. The ground was soft and yielding. I landed in the mud of the garden.
Lightning flashed and I rolled over, back arching, screaming screaming screaming soprano to the storm's bass...
In the second storey window he laughed. I finally looked at him. He gazed tenderly down at me.
he crooned.
I shrieked back:
The buffeting winds carried him down. He floated. He flew. He landed next to me and turned me over on my stomach. My face was inches from the mud.
he sang to me.
I wailed. Thunder crashed and I flailed, but he held me down.
He caressed my back, tore away the cloth.
he breathed and fingered the scars.
I shrieked. Thunder rolled.
His hand touched the scars experimentally and then he reached in, his hand parting my flesh, right along the lines of the old wound...
I was still, still. Altogether still.
all. to. get. her.
STILL.
He reached in and took out a palm-full of blood. My blood. He sipped it from his cupped hands.
Because the blood is the life and he had come to take a little bit of mine. Blood-drinker. Life-stealer.
The blood is the life seeping across the sky like a serious wound pouring out rain and half-healed scars torn open with barbs of lightning and no wings can withstand the storm winds...
My body hummed and vibrated with the rain and the crashing clouds. Here on the prairie the sky is as big and as empty as God's mind and all things are exposed...
He casually held me down in the mud and lowered his mouth to my back. Drank from the source. His tongue fit perfectly into my scars and he lapped up my blood slowly. Drank as it welled up from my core.
I mumbled. My invisible wings beat at him.
He laughed and drank more.
I let him drink his fill as the rain and thunder pounded me into the mud and the storm raged on.
copyright 1995 by Julieann M. Brown-Micko
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