Darkness has always been a friend of mine. Normally it follows me like a hound nipping at my heels and baying for the blood it knows will fall in the wake of me. Sometimes I miss the light that used to chase it back each time my sister laid her lips at my cheek and told me to be kind.. But sometimes, as my thoughts and my rage wander in that strange realm between dream and waking,and pain, I only want to sink deeper and deeper into the black.
Sometimes I want to be ink and oil and everything that chokes as it drowns.
I know, somewhere outside the black, there is blood scattered across the sand like bloody pearls. I can taste it on my lips when I think hard about the muscles in my tongue and my throat (and I know I shouldn’t have to remember how to swallow, something is wrong). The tide is lapping at my hocks like a cool, wet wolf’s tongue. Seaweed is tangling in my tail and curling like my mother’s chain around my curled up knees.
The sea is trying to either drag me out of the black or drag me in deep into the dark of it. I’m never sure with the sea, never.
I try to blink. I try to whisper an assurance to the wolf towering viciously protective over my body. I try to do anything, anything, but fade deeper into the black. There are piles of sand behind my eyes and each cuts and stings each time my lashes flutter. If I still remembered how to cry, or feel anything but hunger and rage, I would have.
I would have cried in the same way I rage in the black of my weakness. In the wake of war the only thing agony does is make me furious. And it’s in the wake of the clarion call of this new war I have found that I lay my lips in the sea with the last remnants of my energy. The tide catches my whispering, soon, as it races back out to sea. And hope it finds a way to curl like a noose around the sea-stallion’s neck.
Soon. After I am free from this darkness and pain. Soon.
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