First Chapter of a Destroyed Book

   Terror stroke the flesh, as the knights of darkness shattered upon the crucible of the dreams, an epystemologic failure of Destiny. Insane again.


   I wake to the shattered shore, the sea of regrets washing upon the sand of time. Black sky. I am cold, I am empty. I am not. Am I? How did I escape the teeth of oblivion? I remember the taste of blade. It is sharp and overwhelming, penetrating, the pain. My flesh, my flesh, where is it? Oh! the fleeting warmth of my heart, the vessel that could not be touched, never be touched, but it was, and in such a brutish manner. Oh! why did I come back to such place, which I never forgot, nor forgiven? Why do the sky wear this robe, that which was always white and never black? Oh! whirlpools of toughts, in a mind which is not flesh. Impossible and grotesque. Why did it not come, the death, infinitely desirable. The dream was shattered. The dream was shattered. And the tears do not come to the eyes, since there is none. And the laments do not come to the mouth, since there is none. The dream was shattered. And the pain is all too real.


   Time passes, and nothing happens but the danse of the sea. The pain shapes into torment. The torment shapes into a broken mind of its own. My mind washes off into the sea, comitting to oblivion the good memories. The inconsequential memories. I could never part ways with the other memories. Creature of two minds. Everything is dark. But today, and I do not know which day, something unusual happens; a woman.


   She is poorly dressed, as much in flesh as in cloth, but her head is warming me in ways I had forgotten. Trivial, even futile thoughts. Festivals, and cooking, and working, and fucking. Young men she cares about. Nothing really interesting. And as she walks upon the beach, her bare feet swirling and shaping many bridge and many tales; to my fear and surprise; to my joy and despair; something incredible happens. She collects my fragments. What does it even mean? I am not dead, yet I am not flesh, yet she collects me, upon the shore, gently displacing my self within a small bag full of sand and living monsters. What does it even mean? I wish to love her. But I don't. Does she even know I am here? How did she come here? Why is she not dead? Will she end my predicament? I need to take her warmth. The ambroisia is She, and soon I lose control over my hunger. And as she grows colder, she wakes up to my presence, a fire eagle of Destiny, an explosion, a tornado, a maelstrom, incandescant flammes of Great Power, thousands of eyes ripping away parts of me. She has the flesh of the Savior which I was not. We struggle, still, for quite some time, not that I want to, the matter is out of both our control it seems, an unfettered feast, or rather a fight of the wills.


   Few people are gathering around us, and as a man touches us, the cheer pressure of the conflict pushed me inside his flesh. I did not expect this structure, permeating and emprisoning my self, an insufficient brain and a pounding heart, obnoxious noises and tastes, nauseating even; I vomit, and shake, and barely registrer what is happening around me, completely overwhelmed by these new parameters. My hands, his hands, they contract, so does his neck, pounding, pounding heart, his dick gets hard. I vomit again, but this time the liquid does not exit my mouth, my jaw hurts from the pressure of the contracted muscles, and I begin to suffocate from the vomit stuck in my throat. Some of the vomit travels to the cavities of my nose, his nose. It hurt and smells bad. Pounding, pounding heart. As I gesticulate, as I contract, and hurt, and suffocate, people grab me someone dislocate my jaw and jams his arm in my throat, clearing up the vomit. A woman touches my ears with an exotic language, looking at me fearfully. She holds my hand and it help me calm down. Her eyes are as green as jade. She has nice lips and they are calling my cock. She wears a yellow necklace, sitting on top of big jiggling tits. I look around, trying to dismiss these thoughts, and my gaze stops upon the woman, the first one, the one which collected me. Her eyes penetrating my eyes, my flesh, knowing me, looking me. She is up, I am on my back, surrounded by people. I grow lucid enough to start feeling ashamed of my hard cock, I casually conceal my dick with my hands, and think about mathematics. People around seem to realise I am out of danger, there is some laugther and bizarre language. I am "helped" to get up, there is some more laugther, and the woman with green eyes take my hand and lead me somewhere. I gaze one last time at the woman, the first one, the one which collected me. Her eyes penetrating my eyes, my flesh, knowing me, looking me.


   For some time I walk with the green eyed woman, my erection goes down, my heart as some linguering pain. I am not sure what I am supposed to do right now, I mostly feel tired. She was the one, on the beach, she was the one, she doesn't know it yet, I need to help her undo what cannot be undone. The green eyed woman talk to me, laughing and smiling and sexually excited, leading me somewhere. I do not understand one word she says. As my nose stops hurting from the vomit, we arrive in front of a house. She stops, looking at me. I press against where my pant pockets should be, but there is none. And then I notice the door as no lock. She opens the door for me, and wait, I am not doing what I should be doing right now, at least not in her mind. I walk inside. She close the door behind her, full of purpose, eagerly bare her feet, bare her chest, touch me, drops my pants to the floor, in the same movement kiss me, as if afraid of losing me. The man that she loves. The man that I killed.


   I do not know if it was weakness, that which allowed me to consume her passion. I see, I see inside her, I touch the children, the happiness, the economic and social cravings, petty dreams from a petty mind, utterly dedicated to this flesh that I have stolen. I close my eyes, I only see the sea, and its waves of regrets, growing now, brewing into a tempest. I don't want to give her her dreams. It was lust, it was protecting my identity, to try and act like one of them. It was fear and lust. Not love. I have to look past her and her needs. The big picture. I need to help the woman of the beach. I need to impress upon her my friendly intentions, the best way is to speak to her, I need to learn their language, I need to learn who this man his, whose skin I have clothed myself with, I need to learn who I am. I need to remember what I have to do. Crucible of the dreams. Destiny. What does it mean? What does it do? Who knows... I have failed. I take a deep breath, the rock of will erodes slightly to the waves of regrets. I gaze deeply upon the fragility of this beautiful woman sharing my bed, gaze deep, deep upon past memories, looking at my self as in a mirror from the past, as if the reflective surface of mirrors could be permeated with love and dedication. This will be a long night.

2018-09-04 02:05:17
Renaud Olivier Chouinard