Dolor est Amor

(Pain is Love)  

By: Amon Storm

Yesterday 10:52:54PM

The clock ticked toward inevitability.

There is always a choice.

Eleven minutes and six seconds. It was coming. He imagined the moon moving toward the oblivion of earth’s shadow—and darkness. In contrast, his house lights burned with new 150 watt bulbs—all of them. The coffee table holds a cup of coffee, just within his reach, faint gossamer clouds rising up from the chipped rim. John Murphy, social worker for recovering addicts, currently considered unstable by his co-workers, didn’t need the caffeine to keep him awake; terror was its own stimulant, but the distraction of picking the dirty cup up and putting it down was some relief, almost nothing, yet something.

The clock ticked to 10:53:32 PM. John’s heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in the bright silence of the house. He felt smooth crème colored leather beneath his hands, imperfect, in places, where anxious fingernails had gouged out pieces of imitation Corinthian.

 Esurio. Must wait for Luna to hide her face.

10:56:03 PM. John’s head felt as if it would explode. He stood up and brushed unseen crumbs from his pants.

He whispered nonsense to himself and walked around the coffee table, three times counter clock-wise. John’s resolve snapped. Her face popped into his mind, again, or maybe it had never left; he had to tell her, to give her the name. A cell phone appeared in his hand; he saw himself dialing her number. The blue face of the phone blinked--dialing.

“No!” He screamed and threw the phone down. The relief was immediate and gratifying as it shattered into a myriad of multicolored plastic pieces: with no cell phone, and no land line, there was no way, no time, to put her in danger--she was safe. He blew out an explosive breath and bent at the waist, suddenly nauseous. Dry heaves knotted his stomach keeping him from standing up for several agonizing seconds--the cramps set in like iron hooks, but they finally eased and he straightened up slowly.

 Almost time .

His attention focused on his right pocket where a weight suddenly appeared; he knew what it was. Manic eyes scanned the floor--no cell phone, broken or otherwise.

 Faith.

10:58:48 PM . His chest felt tight as his breath chugged in and out over dry lips. John sucked on his bottom lip and watched his hands shake. He closed his eyes. He prayed. It seemed that God wasn’t listening.

 Always.

John made his way from the living room to the bedroom. He focused on the floor, the hardwood, the cracks between—shadows there.

 Hungry.

His hand found the brass knob and turned it. A click. He swung the door open slightly and reached in quickly flipped the light switch as if reaching into a pit of snakes. The 150 watt bulbs filled the room with unnatural yellow light—the darkness seemed necessary for his sacrifice, but not for John’s living quarters—no the darkness was…

 So very hungry.

Muted shadows played on the blue walls. The east wall held two posters above a double bed with an antique brass frame. One poster showed Miles Davis getting down and dirty; the other was of Bob Marley and his Mona Lisa smile beneath heavy dreadlocks—both posters were reminders of better days gone by.

John kept his eyes away from the dark spaces of the room. Dark gossamer tendrils played in the corners. He wondered what might be under the bed, but wouldn’t look, under any circumstance.

 The hands of fate.

The shadows weren’t shadows anymore.

 Innocence is necessary.

The centerpiece of the room was a young man mummified with white cotton ropes: only a face was visible. He stepped to the edge of the bed and looked down. John could feel sweat bead up on the back of his neck, and the hairs on both arms stood at attention. Fear stared—pleaded—through brown eyes. John understood fear, it was the center of his universe now, fear and fatigue, but he could do nothing to help. He was alone.

 Never alone.

“I’m sorry.” John whispered. “I really am. Especially for your tongue, but I couldn’t allow—the chance of a mistake—I’m sorry—Sorry.”

 Tilled the soil, planted the crops.

Another check of the time. Six more seconds—almost here. John had seconds to save his life, and Sandra’s—if he was right.

 Genesis.

Mig made grunting sounds and his breath huffed in and out of him. Dark red blood soaked through a gag which grew wet again, as blood flowed from a still fresh wound. A tongue, which gave a name to John, was missing from Mig’s mouth—the name was a dark gift that ate John’s world leaving nothing but scattered crumbs of existence behind.

 Sixty and six come for eternity.

John could smell fear on Mig. It smelled like a combination of piss, shit and blood. He heard his watch beep and the alarm in the living room went off a moment later—11:01:54 PM. Exactly sixty six seconds until the new moon. He whispered into Mig’s ear, just a single word, only heard on earth by a select group of damned souls—the name. The name of hunger. The name of rage.

 I Am,

The name burned in his mind, and he unleashed it, allowing it flow over his lips--finally. His ears heard himself speak a word he knew, but didn’t understand, and the world changed: he felt, heard, something scream, something raging in the shadows.

 Forever,

A weight, dark, foreboding, and infinitely heavy fell from his shoulders. John nearly collapsed as the weight rolled off of him

 Beginning.

John turned and left the room. Unlike Lot’s wife he didn’t turn and look--he just flipped the light switch and closed the door, shrouding the sacrifice in darkness. John shook slightly feeling relieved and sick; his head, slick with sweat, leaned against the door with his hands flat at shoulder height, not quite listening, not quite resting, his lip quivered and a tear fell to the floor. Three more followed and his chest hitched. As the second hand ticked to 11:03:00 PM, John could imagine the moon, showing her dark wonder to earth in the soundless vacuum of space.

“How long?” John cried.

He didn’t have to wait for the answer. The lights in the house flickered, flickered again, and went out.

Now.