Í think í awake to the feeling of faint fingertips tracing my stermum.
Í jolt and suddenly say: í want to write for you.
He says: you do that already, yes?
Yes, but í mean to say í want to write to you.: í say
You are not conscious, yet, aurora. Slow down.
⊙
Let me trace your collarbone and the ligaments that pronounce from your neck. Let me delicately pinch that sweet Adam’s apple in your throat.: í say.
He says: Anything to stop you fidgeting with your fingertips.
That’s why í keep this cord wrapped, seven times, around my left wrist. Í play with knotting it.
He says: I know knots. I also know that you loosely bind your wrists together with it when you sleep.
Sometimes, because í am curious and desirous of that which no-one has done to me.
He says: I know.
⊙
He asks: did you dream last night?
Yes.
Tell me the story you saw…
Í am in a pub by the shore. Minimal decoration. A few pithy sayings adorn the walls. The wood of the floor and the glass installation behind the bar is the crowning aesthetic detail. There is the one drunk guy. The level of toleration he receives suggests he is a bar fixture, as well.
There are, perhaps, seven tables total, yet there are multiple hostesses. They sit at a service area by the front window, giggling in hushed voices and rolling silverware into cheap, paper napkins. Bohemian Rhapsody plays.
Alone and a’sat at the bar’s counter drop, í drink my beer too quickly.
It gives me goosebumps and a head rush.
The chandelier is double-sided and made of eighty, clear, glass beer bottles with candles burning inside. Í count them up and think: í must be back in Electri-city, where there is only candle light.
It is nearly charming, but the staff is in their own world.
Bad service kills the ambience.
Í see eight people sat around a large rectangular table.
That’s my group: í think.
Í rise and find my way into the only unoccupied chair.
As í lower myself into the chair, a courier enters the pub. Wearing a solid black cloak; the hood pulled so far overhead, no face or form is visible.
The courier strides to me and hands me a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
Í take it.
No words.
The courier turns and walks out the door.
Open it: urges my table mates.
Í do. Inside is a hooded robe. The colo(u)r of burnt sienna. There are stars and slivers of new moons in col(u)ors nearly unnoticeable.
The others at the table clap and cheer, like this is important. Like í have earned it, somehow.
Like they already knew and had planned this as a celebration.
Í leap to my feet, having, still, spoken no words.
Í run out the door. Í look wildly up and down the street.
Who was the courier? Í must know.
This is no time for celebration, this is another moment of testing.
Í feel my heart pound.
Í want to be scared but there is no time; so, í imagine
Í am a beast, a wild animal.
A junkyard bitch set to strike and kill.
And, the adrenaline becomes ichor and not poison.
Then, í woke up to sensing your fingers on my sternum: í tell Him.
WrittenCasey 