Apr 14, 2019

The Art of Man

The broken man shrinks against the garbage strewn in the street. His wounds bleed, dripping blood in small puddles around his broken form. His tormentor stands silhouetted against the streetlight. A knife glints open in the dark figure's hand like a reptilian tongue, tendrils of light smoking off the polished steel.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice grating with the promise of violence.

The broken man shakes his head slowly.

"Good. You will never be ready. We'll just get on with it," he sits down on his haunches and starts to cut into the broken man. There are already cuts on the man's face and body, but this time, it's done with a purpose. Like calligraphy, painting, or writing a letter to a loved one. There is thought and meditation behind every cut, every slash, every poke of the blade. The steel is drenched in crimson and the man wipes it on the clothes of the broken man every few slashes. He stops after a while to let the light shine on his handiwork but something is missing. He turns his head this and that way trying to see what is missing.

"Ah," he slaps his forehead, "silly me, you are still breathing."

He puts the blade to the side of the man's neck. "Have a good journey, friend."

The final slash opens up the man's throat like a ziplock bag. Blood pours freely, staining the man's knife hand. He dips the fingers of his other hand in the arterial spray and draws a symbol on the broken man's forehead. Satisfied with what he has created, he stands up, turns around and raises his arms to the sky like antennas.

"Accept my gift, mother. I give you death and blood and pain and suffering. Accept my offering and call me home!"

The skies remain, silent.

Can't let 2019 go without an update now, can we? How are you doing, constant reader?