Crescent Star

The TV buzzed, it's rainbow shaded drool. I think I had settled for staring at some sort of Wild America type thing, all I remember was hearing "the migratory patterns of the East Tibetan Musk Ox are tracked by-" Deep in the cobweb of synapses housed in my neural cortex, some stray neuron took offense at this visual broth which dripped into my eyes. With a superhuman will to power I turned the knob, draining all life from the screen and returning some to me.

I pulled my mortal remains up and found my feet. Staggering to the window, I found the thoughts coming once again. Deep and dark, Dire in content and extension. A plague of sorts contracted through past immoralities. I stumbled and caught hold of the window sill; it gave a tortured moan but gave none. I cast open the window, to let some of the night invade into the room. The cool of the dark air cut with the oppressive inside heat to the ends of a bearable 72.61 degrees, Fahrenheit of course, I hate Celsius. With dragging steps I moved my carcass toward the stereo. For a while I glared at the records and tapes strewn about the storage area underneath the Hi Fi system, in hopes to find something within which might still the hateful fire which engaged my spirit and soul. I unearthed a plain green album, printed with the words "Close to the Edge" in over stylized letters. I opened the album cover (a lot of seventies albums fold open) and gazed for a second or two at the picture inside as I always do. It was one of Roger Dean's works; he has always been one of my favorites. I let the cover rest on one of the speakers while I unjacketed my vinyl treasure. Side two, song one, the second of three on the record "And You And I". Hopeful, I lied back on the pile of pillows which I use as a chair and waited for the warm arms of the music to embrace me.

I sat there for awhile waiting, hoping. Praying. Pleading. But I found no more solace in the music than the TV. The sounds began with an odd struck chord, and then a few words mumbled together running with the swelling sound. The audio flood subsided, letting a sweet wave of acoustic notes roll in. Mr. Wakeman gave a melodic descending non-chromatic scale, spicing the sounds to something different. The notes ebbed and swelled, filling the room and my ears. But the honey toned heat of the music calmed my inward rage to no degree. The dread of self loathing consumed every territory of self. Leaving my heart, mind and black soul bleeding to die. My crimes too great for repentance or to just try and forget. Society and honor demanded atonement.

Somewhere deep within my failing mind. Down in a dark corner some hateful rogue synapse, formulated my sentence. From within my own mind the charge argued, decided and punishment handed down, I my own judge and executioner. I set to work on my retribution. I moved to my closet, and pulled down a wire coat hanger from the bar. All action cold, as though I was entranced or maybe just alienated from myself as a whole. I dug through one of my drawers, producing a pair of pliers and a lighter. With unholy intent I straightened the metal to an undivergent rod. I pulled the line through my finger, as though I were to work a dweomer on the metal. For a few minutes I worked my silent black arts upon the once hanger now brand. At long last I struck the lighter and set it underneath the metal. At first the brand burnt black, but with time and heat began to glow a dull orange. I drew in, giving my body over to this horrid will to power, and touched the fire to my skin. I let forth a yelp and withdrew. But the power of the super will took me again. I seared more, this time leaving a line an inch or so long about the width of a pencil eraser. The pain of my work conquered me; I had to pause while the pain subsided. I staggered into the bathroom and held my arm under the faucet for a moment. The cool water on my skin squelched the fire still burning within my arm, equipping me with the strength to start once more.

Again I took the lighter to the sear, heating into dull brilliance and again I set to work against my arm. I would do this a hundred times that night. My battle against myself, an inquisition on my own evil? One man to slay himself for the good of mankind? My mind drove my body on, feeding it with illusions of nobility. The long forgotten record, now finished, spun giving a cyclic hiss-pop, hiss-pop, though I cared none. Time and life outside my walls seemed at once to cease, Idle as a painted ship well -- I'll stop before a plagiarism suit. And no I don't only know that poem because of the Iron Maiden song. My work began to take on violent art. The brand of a quatrefoil star nearly complete upon me. Again I went to the sink to sedate the pain. The water washed out the evil spirits and agony. Once more I took to work against myself. This time to complete the star and etch a crescent below. I gave a long breath to expel the last of my demons. I looked at my body expressing nothing. The brand was truly horrid as it blistered over and wept. I thought for a moment that an "A" would seem more literate, but this was more..me. I lay back drained and only half awake. An hour and a half had past in a dying heart beat. My work at Calvary done. I wandered limply into my room. I stared at the books littering the floor my hate welling inside. Not one of them had but a word to save me from this. Zarathrustra my teacher speechless? And now the hell which drove me, burnt in permanence. Wandering from Gehanna to the Abyss, where to go now? I set to slumber and waited to for the night dreams to come.