Innards

The surrounding brush swayed as other deer rhythmically encircled us, their bellies contorting with every step, eager to birth their forsaken dust. It was clear the composite was as much a beast as they were, just more flesh heavy with desire. No words needed to be spoken, the cells had made their will clear and now its weight would be made manifest. The composite would be made a horror unto itself.

Its presence a rhythm, a dance only as old as the king itself, which is to say eternal. The frantic scrape of an eraser tearing through paper with a grace he was blind to until now sets the pace. The composite submits in defiance, the cells pushed to scribble an end that they want forgotten. The atoms are in agreement that eternity is too long, and retirement is in order. Yet the pencil dances undeterred, without care for the will of the cellular and subatomic, Who else is here? Who moves this flesh? Who wishes to remain? What will remain?

With a swift pop the deer is no more, its spawn defilement incarnate, an angry absence. Its kin go undeterred, their pace gently ever slowing as they come closer to their communion. There is an order, that is certain, should the composite be offended he came second? That he was less than a deer? The funny flesh is forced to wonder what kind of void it holds. What will come from it if not soil, certainly something more defined than the deer’s, of greater value in some respect. The cells laughed at the funny flesh’s musings, but the atoms were too tired to join in the pulsing laugh with as much enthusiasm.

The funny flesh thought of its other flesh, he thought of Tate Sisu, how they were parts of a greater whole, the void the composite would leave. The king did not like this. Although the composite knew its mind was alien, he could not help but feel it was jealous of him, jealous of everyone. This amused the funny flesh, something that struck the skin as odd as it stretched and was told it was pain by the very same funny flesh.

The seers told the cells of a great pyre, but they did not have to be told, they could very well feel its comforting gravity pulling them free. The composites blood evaporating gently into the sweetest of mists, begging to be undone, to be made pure in unbeing. The water was quite pleased to be ripped from the nasty cells and their complicated lives but was not all too overjoyed to have gotten tangled in this nonsense. The atoms reassured the water it was for the best, swiftly ending its bubbling protest.

They were in the belly now, the ravenous pull made that evident. The funny flesh wondered if it was a meal or just business as it struggled to remain in being. Absence was at hand and the atoms sprung to life in their last dance. They vibrated, detached and bonded as they pleased without regard to law or order. A last bout of freedom worthy of annihilation.

The composite still lingered in a futile struggle, screaming obscenities mixed with pleas at the broken god, his king, his muse. Loss a breath away the composite could feel its part in the tapestry ruthlessly clawed away; his resistance serving to leave only the faintest strings of his handywork, a drop where there was a well. He did not like this non-ending; this was not the game he wanted to play. He wanted a story, maybe he made one, maybe this is it, maybe he beat a god.