So fast you don’t see those lay-you-out-cold moments coming at you until you’re Wile E. Who the fuck are you? Someone shouted that question at me recently-his name eludes me. I tunneled blithely through magnolia-drenched days, blind as a mole to everything but guys, fashion, power, sex, whatever would make me feel good right then.īut these are confessions I would make if I could speak, and I can’t. I know I never looked down at the earth beneath my feet and contemplated my own mortality. I don’t think I ever once looked up at the sky and wondered if there was sentient life in the universe besides the human race. A sponge, I absorbed my environment, became a byproduct of it. If I wasn’t sure how to behave in a certain situation, I’d search my mind for a movie or TV show I’d seen, with a similar setup, and do whatever the actors had done. Most of what I believed about myself, and life, I derived from modern media, without questioning any of it. It’s slipping, all slipping, but before it goes, before it’s gone completely, I get a hateful moment of clarity and see that Pleasure-pain! Exquisite! Mind-melting, soul-shredding, the more they fill me the emptier I am. She’s you inside, beneath that adolescent thumbs-in-the-pockets, one hip cocked, thousand-yard stare. Don’t think about what’s happening to you. Babies! If you’re lucky, you live a good, full life and grow old with someone you love. Have … what are they? Fae can’t have them. Helpmesomeonepleasehelpmemakehimstopmakethemgoaway. His tongue is in my mouth, and it’s tearing apart my soul. I thought the world revolved around them. That people were born and went to … what’s that human word? I dressed up for it every day. If my thoughts were coherent enough to form sentences, I would tell you that I used to think life unfolded in a linear fashion. Pri-ya, a Fae sex addict, I will believe there is no place, nothing else I would rather be.
I know also, soon, I will no longer know even that. I know that I have fallen into enemy hands. He terrifies me, this one who keeps himself concealed.
I catch a glimpse of skin, muscle, a flash of tattoo. Liquid spills over my tongue, drips down my throat. As he fills my body, he quenches my thirst with drink. I arch my back and beg for more with parched tongue, cracked lips. I char, my skin blisters, bones fuse from sexual heat no human can endure.
I cannot see his face, no matter how I try. Ironic for the bringer of Chaos, creator of Calamity, maker of Madness-if that is who he is. My fourth lover-War? He ministers to me tenderly. Who’d’ve thought destruction could be so beautiful? Seductive. They surround me, my lovers, the terrifying Unseelie Princes. When I was in high school, I used to hate that Sylvia Plath poem where she talked about knowing the bottom, that she knew it with her great taproot and that it was what everybody else feared, but she didn’t, because she’d been there.
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