The cloud settles over the moor.
Scottish peaks and thistle
darkened to shadow;
voids within voids.
A sheet, a film
of papyrus copper
plays reality.
It approaches the single paned window,
the abandoned outhouse.
It is deserted here;
one-and-a-half living souls
‘cross the entire landscape.
The story is in the air,
the tension toiling my innards,
scaling my arms to gooseflesh
and my mind to trepidation.
She’s here.
She is here and at the window.
Please, I hope, please
let it be a billowing of plastic
caught in the wind, movements
stifled by a telegraph pole
or some other cursed sign of company.
Occluding mass, she hesitates
by the window, I daren’t look,
but she is there all the same,
wailing achingly silent for reprieve.
I know why she is here.
I see it:
Thick rope. Crude, unrelenting knots,
I feel them press, cut with friction
into my wrists, twine like snakes,
devoiding me of life
one eternal day after another.
He prowls the door from time to time,
I fear it but it’s all that I have
save for the songs of the Tree Sparrows
that warm the winter.
He comes in to shed light to the room,
brings bread and milk, sometimes fruit.
More often than not he brings just himself,
presses me to the cold floor,
tries to make me feel something real,
demands my artificial praise.
He climaxes quickly, fills me with life, he says,
clutches my ***** hair, wracked with lice
and pregnant with the renewed hope
of his mercy.
None coming, I’m returned to my holster,
a stool upon an opened barrel,
I leave my messes behind,
the stench rising between my legs
and surrounding my senses,
until all of my life is nothing more
than excrement. Recycled, lived once
and then forevermore.
I live in my mind. Only the single-paned
window in this outhouse
offering an alternative;
most usually slate grey skies
and a barrage of hail upon the tin roof.
Outside of the window, I know
that life is something else. No books,
no words, no love, no music;
yet the weak Scottish light still
pierces the glass,
light always finds a way.
And then one day or one passage of time,
it matters not,
my hero, my villain, my father,
came to me no more.
I rejoiced. I rejoiced in my starvation,
the waste of my muscle,
the overflow of the toilet bowl,
skin reddened and bruised and eaten.
No one would come, if indeed there was anyone at all,
I knew that.
So I waited for death,
as death had waited for me.
We greeted each other as friends,
archaic pen-pals, acquainted at last,
I embraced his touch,
felt more life in death than life
had ever cared to bestow.
I kissed death on the lips,
told him of my long-sought desire for him.
He turned, a glint of silver,
and I found myself
on the other side of the single paned window.
Looking in, I saw only my regret.
The stool, the barrel, the waste
that had strewn the floor,
had surmised my life.
It was a sight unfit to un-see,
and so I stood in my perfect sanctuary,
never turned to look and face the light,
and instead stayed only to lament.
And so now I look into the old outhouse,
decades of decay improve its sight.
Old moss gathers over the fingernail marks
that I had carved so desperately
into the flooring.
Forevermore I stare upon my regrets,
forevermore I opaque myself
in half-existent smoke,
tapping on the window.
Upon this I look, a deep plunge of horror;
my heart freezes in frame,
upon a young woman’s face,
no more than fourteen years.
It is locked in a scream, a sense of despair,
eternal and rite, forever in shame.
A life lived in terror, naught but a tirade
of brutish **** and desperate privation.
We lock eyes for a moment,
enough proof thus,
that there is life beyond misery,
if one cares to look.
