Concrete Court

Under a broken sky, he crawls, weeping. Craggy backdrop, dark and weary, springs up to split the Payne's gray heavens with industrial art the likes of which nature cannot duplicate. It beds us in a blanket of twinkling lights that glitter against the ominous height of so much steel and concrete. We are captive.

Nonsense noises fall from his lips like bits of pain-poetry and scatter to the ground bouncing away to blend with street sounds: the rhythmic click-clack of hooker heels, the static hiss of blinking neon, the creaking pendulum sway of nocturnal movement. His moans, though stirring, do not arouse pity, nor do they offer solace.

It is a ritual constructed from the rough sands of time unremembered, but refined to a keen edge here on our balcony, the one on the south side of this mortar monolith that overlooks a river of pernicious fumes and littered banks.

We began in the gloaming, he--angry and strong, me--afraid and weak. Seconds ticked by, abrasions fell, scars formed, patience waned. Twilight fell under midnight's attack.

Below, the River Lethe thickens, churning spent latex and empty tubes in its wake. The water mirrors our anger, it is the only sheen it owns, and the sky is as black as sable.

A flicker of red on high draws my attention. Blood in the sky? A fluke, I conclude, and all the while, he drifts closer, his voice a whiny mewl, his face a ridiculous pallor.
I remember. Arteries open until the flicker of red lunges, coating the world in bright and startling cerise. The shoe feels good. It fits the other foot. It fits well.

It is the heart's cry that does the trick, my heart's cry, and his answering supplication. Our tones match, at perfect pitch, rising like a charmed snake to dance in the broken sky. Unspoken, we need only the sting of cutting eyes and our souls' outbursts to hold court.

Memories guide me through the hesitation of fondness. Rejecting the distraction of good, I reach for unpleasant. I see the gropings, feel the fondles, relive the pain, and witness the passing of green paper into grubby fist. He understands that in this midnight moment I have judged, sentenced, and will now deliver punishment. His frailty disgusts me.

A small silver blade lies in his hand. He opens it, tempest-face calm, and hands it up open-palmed.

I accept it and stroke his cheek. Eyes locked, I open his throat one small slice at a time, and watch a darker red than that which taints my vision coat his neck in runnels. They are beautiful.

"Please," he whispers, "perdition."

I kiss his cold lips and thrust, burying the blade in his neck past its scrimshaw handle then tumble his body over the Astroturf-covered deck. In seconds Lethe swallows him whole. With luck, he can drink before he drowns and undo what is done.