Chapter 24
XXIV
At first, there’s only colours. Colours and sounds.
They swirl around each other like petrol in a dirty puddle.
I hear the echoes of a waterfall, but all I see is shades of brown.
The sound of wind howls through tree tops, and leaves fall into the thicket.
The breathing of emeralds and charcoals drowns out everything else.
The side of a mountain.
Moist and dark.
Conifer trees try to climb its surface, giving up half way to the top. Grey clouds hang low. Mist crawls along the sandy ground.
Then, a boy.
Thin limbs. Too short. Too sharp.
Dull eyes. A mean mouth. His head is too big for his frame, like a toddler’s. His mud brown hair droops like a faded curtain around his head. He’s holding a puppy by its scruff, dangling it in the air, staring at it not moving an inch.
A shake of the wrist. Piercing yelps, begging for release.
With the puppy still clutched between his bony fingers, he climbs up the side of a boulder.
From there, he lets the dog fall to the rock-covered ground.
The puppy whimpers, tries to move away. It struggles.
Slips. Legs twisted in unnatural angles.
The boy grins and grabs a rock, lifting it high over his head.
I want to close my eyes.
I don’t want to see what’s coming.
But my eyes don’t belong to me now.
The sound of whimpers and death pierce my ears as the boy cackles in delight.
Muted colours, washed out and faded from the passage of time. A thin curtain of rain draining the life from everything it touches. I see a thin man crouching in front of a hut made out of sticks and mud, barely big enough to stand. I recognise those same dull eyes and mean mouth.
I want to look away.
The clashing of stone against stone fills the air. The man holds his work up toward the sun. A spear glints in the light, thin as a razor’s edge.
With the spear in one hand and a torch in the other, he sneaks along the side of a hut.
This one is bigger, but still, it’s barely a building.
Wooden beams hold up the sides, and the roof is made out of straw.
The darkness of the night is unnaturally oppressive.
The dark is full and alive. But through the cracks of the wood come laughter and light.
The thin man lights the straw on fire. The flames lash out furiously, ravenous.
A woman’s scream cuts the darkness in two. The wailing of an infant. A terrified family tries to escape the hut, but the thin man stands in the distance, growling. His eyes are wide and shining—delighted.
“Aba?! Aba?!” they shout, too afraid to run for safety.
The screams blur.
Colours amidst the black.
A petrol puddle—no, the smell of roses.
Beiges, reds, and golds streak the vision. Bright and full. Sounds of happiness and drink surround me. I feel full, then my eyes pause and narrow. A boy.
I see a boy with bronze skin, as vivid as the world around him. But something is different. He’s different from the other people.
He’s striking. Hypnotising. Unusual.
His hair is black and wavy, and with limbs too long, too big, so unfitting, he looks like he must be nearing adolescence. The boy stands in the midst of a crowd at the edge of a wide road.
Black and white pebbles draw geometric shapes below leather sandals.
With a soft mouth too large for his face and eyes that are filled with delight, the boy watches a long procession.
Joyful music fills the street, and the scent of spices and grilled meats hangs heavy in the air.
Luxuriously dressed people carry flowers in every shade imaginable inside large wicker baskets.
They throw petals and sweets over the bystanders.
The boy jumps and catches a peeled date. He devours it in one bite.
The crowd vanishes. Night falls. The sounds of joy are faint in the distance.
There is only the boy. He’s sitting in the shadows of an alley. Alone.
The light of a lantern. The sounds of footsteps. The thin man appears with a false smile and dead eyes.
I hear the cackling again, a sound so vicious, it makes my head want to crack in two.
Colours melt, but no image appears, only the sound of a whip cracking.
Too many times.
A storm of choked whimpers. Gleeful laughs. Snapping and cutting, threatening to never stop. I feel each lash as if it were lacerating my own flesh.
Stop.
Please, I moan.
And then, the black haired boy, only bigger now, almost a man.
He lies breathless in a pool of his own blood.
His back is cut open, angry welts of bone and flesh.
The dead-eyed man pulls him into his lap, his thin legs barely tall enough to make space for the boy’s body.
He lifts his face and kisses him on the cheek, whispering lies tightly wrapped in love and devotion.
The black hair falls from his blood-stained brow.
Lazarus.
Sad eyes stare into the man’s face. Empty.
A throne inside a palace. Walls covered in vibrant murals. Shades of blue.
The thin man doesn’t move atop his throne, sitting there, held immobile by a spell. His hair is gone, but his face is the same.
Dead eyes and mean mouth.
Lazarus lies at his feet. Spasms of agony contort his body. His lips are open in a soundless scream, and his eyes are filled with horror. The man smiles down at him as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I don’t want to look…I—a tomb.
A tomb that tugs at memories.
Remember?
The thin man sits on the same throne, but his skin is bleached like ancient marble. A dark cave. Illuminated hands.
Lazarus bent down on one knee, his forehead almost touching the man’s decaying feet.
The scent of spices. Warm. Comforting. Familiar.
“Bring me a human,” the man commands.
Lazarus pleads, but the man spits the words back into his mouth. The more resistance he receives, the deeper the pain.
Utter darkness.
No sounds, no smells, just nothing. Then a faint light.
A torch.
It lights a thin path in the distance. Something moves between the shadows.
A man.
A pale man, barefoot, dressed in dirty livery. The scent of food, and then—memories crash into each other. Blur. Blend.
Not food, but blood.
His long slender hands clutch a strange machine.
Wake up.
He tucks it into his pockets. The chamber. The pale man’s face is blank, like a trance. Wake up.
The throne.
Blood. Death. Life. Wake up.
The statue. The man. They twist and then—which one is which?
Wake up.
I can’t. Please. I want. I hunger.
The image narrows once more. The pale man’s face is blank like a trance.
The smell of blood, the beating of a heart. Wake up.
The pale man walks; the machine hums; the chamber breathes.
The memories slow down. I can hear their words. I want to obey, but I’m caught.
With a soft mouth too large for his face, only the delight’s gone now.
The crack of a whip.
Please. Stop.
I should not be here.
Wake up.
Lacerated skin, split open to the bone.
No!
A man. A pale man, barefoot, dressed in dirty livery. The memories—I need.
Blood-encrusted hair. Thick lips. Sad eyes. A hand.
Stop.
Wake up. Wake up!
I open my eyes. Everything old is new again. Brightness in the dark. New colours and a scent.
The sweet scent of blood fills my lungs.
Thick and fragrant.
I breathe it in with a hunger I don’t remember ever possessing. Every other colour of this world fades. The only one left is the deepest shade of red. The crimson pool calls to me, and I answer.
I open my lips wide, letting my tongue lap up every drop around me.
The decaying head of a man.
Dead eyes.
Mean mouth.
I don’t feel disgust. I only feel need. Need and hunger.
The thick liquid pooling from his carved throat in spurting rivulets invites me in.
I lift the head by the tendons still clinging to its neck and start sucking the sweet syrup from his arteries.
I hear my greedy slurping without shame.
With my tongue, I tease every last drop from his flesh.
I hear—no, feel—someone near me.
I pull my eyes away from the rotting flesh that is the meal between my hands.
I see a wooden throne. A beautiful man sits atop it. So striking. Wild and breathless.
Remember?
Hair too thick, too smooth, falls in waves to his shoulders. His eyes are watching me. Intently.
I feel.
I remember.
It’s the face of my lover. I smile at him, blood dripping down my jaw. I catch it with my tongue, smiling still.
I want to thank him for his gift. I search my memories for his name.
Lazarus.
With his name, knowledge settles in my bones. I crawl to him on my knees and present him with the bloodless head.
An offering.
He looks at me in confusion.
I put my mouth on his maker’s face and bite off the remnant of his nose. It’s hard like granite, but my new teeth grind it to dust with ease. I rip off an ear and bestow it to him in honour. When he doesn’t move, I hold it to his lips.
“It must be done,” I whisper. The words are ancient. Sacred.
Lazarus parts his lips, and I place the ear on his tongue. With a crunch, he chews it in three bites then swallows it.
His eyes burn crimson. My smile widens.
I feed him the face of the man that haunted him.
Bit by bit.
Ripped to pieces between my fingers. Every morsel delicately placed between his wide lips.
When the head is no more, I gather all signs of the man’s existence in a heap.
Putrid hands, every rotten limb.
We devour it together like it will be the last thing we’ll ever eat.
Every bite is a curse swallowed.
The sigh of the ages lies upon us like fog.
Each petrified piece is ground between our teeth to ashes. As his body vanishes, the fog lifts, leaving only freedom and peace behind. Not mine, but something far older.
Then, it is done. Nothing of him is left.
I feel different now. It’s so new, I still don’t know its name. But for the first time in my life, I feel full.
I look up at Lazarus. His eyes glow like raw garnets. Bile and blood stain his clothes, streaks of it running down his chest. His legs are spread wide and fearless. His red-dipped hands are placed on the throne like a prince.