Its eyes stare into the gloom. Violet light trickles in through the useless curtains; outside, dusk waits patiently for the cycle to be complete and for the moon to rise to power in the bliss of her new kingdom. During the day, she is hidden from sight and mocked and rebuked should she linger. But in a world of shadows and secrecy, she is queen.
The eyes cast themselves in a roaming gaze around the room, drinking in the new-found power they find in their chalice. It tests the brief freedom being granted; It shakes loose the unlocked shackles. It’s body slides out from beneath the white sheets; It’s exit barely a whisper.
In his sleep, the Great Man beside It utters a protesting moan in his slumber. He does not wake. It rises to It’s full height and melts into the surroundings; all other shadows bow and recede, honouring the new monarch of the household.
Silvery moonbeams frame It’s head delicately like a tiara and distinguish it from every other bodiless shape. It moves freely from the bedroom into the corridor, It glides down the spiralling staircase, and henceforth into the kitchen. There is silence sleeping in this room, broken only by the low hum of the radiator. Not even the tap drips. The geometric maze does not bother It; It has completed this obstacle course so many other times before that It needs no light to aid It’s quest.
It winds It’s way past the oval table, sidesteps the little square stool in front of the sink, and pauses in front of the massive rectangular fridge. It places a hand on the front of the door. Beneath It’s fingers It can feel the smoothness of various magnets: circles, ovals, animals, maps. Besides them, there is the smoothness of paper — Ouch!
It flinches. Withdraws It’s hand. A black bead is balancing on It’s small, pointed fingertip. It places it against the roughness of It’s lips. Vampishly, It sucks away the source of the pain.
A second time, It places It’s hand on the door and opens it. The sudden glare of the white light, bight and merciless, blinds It. The buzzing it emits produces a painful tinnitus in It’s ears. The pungency of raw meat and cheese suffocates It. Bile rises and pokes at It’s tongue. Every sense is so overwhelmed that it becomes almost physically debilitating. It shrinks away, pushing the door shut.
Blissful silence returns. Darkness returns. The wrap themselves around It’s shoulders like a fuzzy blanket. One more moment of stillness then It quietly pads over to the pantry. It reaches in, knowing exactly how far over It’s goal lies: second shelf, five bean cans along, three tomato cans back, a little to the left and — ting!
Glass sings as it clinks against the shoulders of its friends. It’s hand closes around the bottle’s neck and pulls it carefully out, almost lovingly.
A few stray moon beams shine against the glass and illuminate the rich burgundy liquid inside. It splashes against the insides, rocking slowly back and forth as if part of the ocean has been captured inside it. It’s enrapturing. Mesmerising.
The bottle top is unscrewed and then the liquid finds itself burning a fast and breathless course deep down a parched oesophagus. It bubbles, frantically, as it continues to travel full speed ahead towards it’s destination.
It is the battle between the need to be sated or oxygen that finally cauterises the steady stream. It pants a little, swaying back and forth. It closes It’s eyes and wipes a white hand across It’s clammy forehead. As It’s pulse slows, It takes another quick gulp, and then replaces the secret bottle in its hiding spot.
The kitchen tiles are cool beneath It’s feet. It takes a minute to appreciate the soothing nature of the flooring before finally resigning itself to returning It’s tired and achey body to the room upstairs.
The walk back up the staircase has no appeal, no haste. It feels forced and broken. It’s shoulders are slouched. It’s back beginning to curl over on itself. The shadows no longer bow but reach out pitifully, attempting to offer one last meagre token of pity.
The forbidden burgundy begins to froth in the hollows of It’s belly; bubbling and rising up to the back of It’s throat. Wait! No! This is something even more forbidden, even more rebuked: anger. Resentment. Resistance. Will. This was not the life It had ever imagined! It should not be tied to this demon lover! Freedom was still possible, still achievable! There had to be a way out! A way to escape!
It froze. It had reached the foot of the bed. The mountainous mound It had retreated from only moments earlier was somewhat diminished. Instead, only the vulnerable flesh of a mere man lay twisted beneath the sheets.
It stared. It considered. How liberating would it be to relinquish his hold over It? How exhilarating would it feel to finally absorb back the power that he had eroded away, year after year? This was neither a god nor a king before It; it was a mortal. A despicable mortal. His flesh was as pink as any other. His hide as penetrable as any pig at slaughter. And this pig was overdue slaughter. One slice, one enraged slash, and he would drown in his favourite thing: blood. It would stream from his wounds, the metallic scent stinging the air around him. It would bubble in his lungs and drown out his pleads for help. He would be reduced to intelligible gurgles and panicked thrashing. Perhaps he would even swim in his own piss. Perhaps his own sweat would cause him to shiver violently. And then it would be over, and It would be free. Forever.
Or would It? Would the guilt of an act so outrageous, so abominable, however righteous, condemn It to an eternity of mental torture? Would the resentment currently harboured for him pivot and zone in on Itself? Would that self-hatred cause It to wake in the middle of the night, swimming in piss, shivering violently, the echoing scent of copper blocking It’s nostrils?
Would he destroy It’s life even further? Even though he would no longer be physically there? Would the shadows turn on It and become the refuge for the memory of that act forever?
Could It live with Itself?
The sad realisation diffused through It’s skin and ran through every nerve in It’s body: no. It wouldn’t be able to survive that.
Once again broken and slouching, It crawled back beneath the heavy bedcovers; returning to It’s place on his skin. It felt overcrowded surrounded by the other trophy inkings he carried on his skin. After all, that’s all he thought of It as: a trophy. A prize. An object to be displayed and admired. It belonged to him. It was an extension of himself; just like the tattoos.
Sleep weighed down on It’s eyelids, sewing them shut.
When the pale ghostly moon at last regretfully withered away beyond the clouds, the bright glare of the sun returned. It nosily peered through the gap in the curtains at the couple in the bed. It grinned upon the snoring man, his arm thrown across his partner; a woman with her knees drawn into her chest, fair hair veiling her face. A woman with purple roses blossoming across her arms.
Word Count: 1,239
//Photo copyright to Heather Lukins//