CHAPTER 30

The Vampire stood in the hallway watching me sleep or so he thought I was asleep. Closed eyelids flickered as if encased in a dream of lollipops and ice cream castles. Through my mind's eyes I could see him, tall, slender, shoulder length blonde hair with green eyes, kissing me from a distance with a smile. He stood as if posing for a male porn magazine. His jeans were torn strategically; a sleeveless white t-shirt accented his torso.

"Why won't you look at me?"

I turned my eyes a different direction and saw my mother sitting on a rock in the ocean combing her hair. The only light was from tears streaming down her face.

"Are you asleep yet," said my mother. Her voice came from a different direction. Her voice pulled my attention away from the young man. I laid silently hoping my breathing would say to her I was like her baby in a crib sleeping. "If you can't sleep, I'll bring you warm milk. You know how you can't sleep when your stomach troubles you. Michael, you don't have to pretend, I'm your mother. I can hear your restlessness."

My eyes turned and looked at the Vampire. I would not name him. If I called him by name it would be a bridge into my reality. At least there was still a veil between us.

The Vampire touched his crotch. His swelling was like a heartbeat taken outside of me and frozen for a moment to hold the thought, this memory of experiences of burying my face in crotches to find something, a clue, a sign of recognition I have an individual existence. His touch I could tell was gentle. He didn't approach me with anger or vindication.

I turned my glance back to my Mother sitting on a rock in the ocean.

Another mother spoke again turning my attention another direction. "Maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich would be good for you junior. It'll help the taste of the warm milk. You were always fussy as a baby, never did like that bottle, wanted to cling onto my breast even when I couldn't give anymore, even when the doctor said you were too big to be hanging onto my breast, I felt this guilt for denying you nourishment and made you take that bottle to replace me, you didn't feel my warmth passing through. Now I have to give it to you the best way I can. In my sleep, I want to nourish you, but I can only do so much here. Let mother make you a sandwich, some warm milk."

No matter how I turned in the bed, I could see the young man standing there. His eyes were calling me, as his fingers traced the impression of his swelling, I could feel my self being drawn there. What colors would he paint on an imagined space to make me real?

Footsteps came down the hall. The young man turned toward it. He smiled. I saw myself walk up and embrace him. We kissed deep. I could feel my tongue attempting to go down his throat, drink his salvia, rub skin off my lips onto his as if my salvia could be wine, the dead skin be the bread. I was naked in his arms as his hands rubbed up and down my flesh, pinching, massaging, and tasting the flesh.

What part of me did he command? They broke from their embrace and looked at me. "Why won't you look at us?"

"You should not have been out drinking Junior. I hope you don't be like your relatives. They wasted their time on liquor and women who parade their bastards like some trophy. I've raised you to keep your eyes up like your morals. When you walked into this house, with your head bowed down, and you had the smell of wild women and alcohol; it almost curled the naps on the back of my head. I thought about your father. He had to have his liquor to make him stand straight. His family twisted his mind. He had no root only dead branches lying in swampy water. Anytime I encouraged him, it was always me acting like I had attitude and wanted to wear the pants. I had a baby. A mother protects her child until her dying day. Don't fault me for being upset when I smelled liquor on your breath. I feel like I'm drinking it and I want to vomit the taste out of my mind and take a bath to wash this smell that is invading my pores. I don't like liquor on your breath. It clouds your judgment. You'll be confused like the rest. Walking in a fog, stumbling. I hear your heart crying."

"I don't want any damn milk and sandwich."

My breathing is heavier. Sweat is like rippling waves on my body. The throbbing intensifies. Poems rush out of me and lay there glistening on my legs. Some poems run down my legs. A few fall on the floor. The young man's eyes turn back in his head and become like a window. I look into a room with boarded windows and an inch of dust covers the floor. The cobwebs are laced across the room. A howling wind carries the sound of church bells tolling in the distance: they sound like someone saying yes. The sound of rushing wings filled my eyes. I watch me fall to the floor on my knees wiping away the poems. I close my mind's eyes. I find myself standing on an auction block. My reptilian captor leans in, "Why won't you look at me."

"If only my breast hadn't dried," I heard my mother cry out as I heard winds rush around and carry her voice off and there is a sound of white noise.

I woke up. I was sitting in front of my altar. My hand was full of male substance.

 

One would like to think they have conquered their animal instinct. But the reptilian mind is still cold, calculating, and violent and has a strong sense of survival.

So violence is ingrained.

Why do I feel like there is this being inside me screaming beyond the capacity of human lungs? The sound is primordial. I have envisioned it as an androgynous being. The violence I smell from this being is intoxicating, it is foul, yet, it is exhilarating and yet, if I don't grab hold of the reins, I would destroy all things in my path.

I hate pain yet in my mind I inflict it.

A part of me is protective; the other part is a destroyer.

I imagine myself eating the essence of a person's violent nature so they will remember they are love; yet attempt to pull my flesh off when violence is done to me. The smell of my victimizer's blood I believe will quench my anger.

What is the source of my anger?

How have I embedded my anger into flesh?

If my anger is not confronted, how shall it manifest and will I recognize I am its source?

I feel my human form shape shifts into non-human forms if attacked or when violence surfaces in me like a cobra about to strike. All I know is from the depth of my being the blackest magic surfaces, the blackest fire that is sticky, thick like molasses. I consume the person in a black flame or my hair turns into long writhing serpents ready to strike or my eyes become a black flame and I consume someone's soul and imprison them in a hell I constructed.

My anger with sex has made me take semen in hand or mouth and whisper the ancient names of the Nameless Ones and created egregores to serve me in my dark lusts.

Yet, when the anger subsides, I reach through time and space to call my darkness back to me, and madness descends on my head and I am crowned by 144,000 entities. I wander aimless from worlds to worlds, dimensions to dimensions from minds to minds to eat my shadows, to eat my anger, to consume my darkness, transform this to love.

Have minds gathered to conspire so we can be each others angels and demon; god and Satan; dark and light.

Is my anger part of a divine plan?

Is my separation from the Ancient Ones their redemption?

There is a fire that surrounds me. Some would say, it's your aura and others would call it the body's halo, or god's glory. The fire was black, my hair swirled about me like serpents - I am Lilith. The fire is gold and my eyes are empty of heaven and full of mankind's possibilities, I am Prometheus. My flame is red; the passion is being tempered by the heart. I am Eyes Laughing From Silence. The flame is white. It is blinding. My name cannot be pronounced by human vocabulary. I am the Androgyny. The flame is a bluish white fire. I am Michael. The flame is now green. I am the Light Bringer. The fire is violent. I am the Avenging Eye.

Excerpt from "The Underground Letters of a Heretic"