Outside (Finished)
Outside
And now, on with the story!
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Outside, the Mothers keep the Heaven and the Earth under the omniscient watch of their crimson owl-like eyes.
Outside, the Mothers rule over the whole world.
But that’s outside.
Inside, my hand is rolling ever so slowly over Julian’s naked thigh, and though we both know this is not real, I can feel his skin goosebumping under the slightest touch. His lips are pushed so powerfully against mine that the pressure almost hurt, but the mad dance of his tongue inside my mouth obliterates every feeling except passion.
I wonder if the Mothers are aware of what’s going on between Julian and me. I wonder what they think when they see us both in the tattered beds of our tattered huts, our bodies shivering in pleasure for no cause as we moan in response to nobody’s ministrations.
I wonder if they care.
I wonder what they’ll do to us if they do care.
But then Julian laughs out of the blue, a lively, clear sound.
(The Mothers may see everything, but it doesn’t mean they can control everything.).
Julian’s right hand is playing with my nipples, teasing and stretching and twisting them with uncanny skill. His kisses are soft and delicate and reassuring, even if from time to time one of them becomes harsh enough to mark my flesh with a fresh dark circle. But my mind wanders in spite of myself, and when I raise my head, it’s the three blood-shot round eyes of a Mother and not Julian’s dark irises that meet my sight.
Heaps of needle-sharp silver hair fall down bony shoulders, down cotton-white little breasts. Running a hand through her locks is as dangerous a temptation as caressing a razorblade, yet I’m barely able to restrain myself.
(Michel.).
The Mother is frighteningly beautiful, in her own way. And Julian was wrong.
The owl-like eyes of the Mothers do control everything.
(Come back, Michel.).
The Mother opens her legs. No flower blooms between them.
I wonder why they call themselves the Mothers, but I’m too scared to ask.
(Come back to me.).
The Mother laughs, and the sound is lively and clear, just like Julian’s was only a moment ago, maybe because it’s Julian again who’s laughing, his eyes black and blazing like embers, the weight of his sweat-drenched body pinning me against the old carpet, two fingers already prodding inside me. He’s almost impossibly hard, and I am, too, against all odds.
And the Mother is watching us for sure, scrutinizing our lovemaking. I fancy I can see her eyes fixed on us, like three shining drops of blood. When I look beyond Julian’s inflamed countenances, however, I find nothing but an empty wall from which the paint long peeled off.
Only this is not real, I remind myself. Not the room, not the carpet on which we lie, not Julian’s chest or arms or legs, not even my own. This is an imaginary place, this is our haven.
No harm can overcome us. For this is inside, and only outside is real.
Even so, when Julian lifts my legs so that they rest on his shoulders, the shiver though my spine does feel so very real.
As real as the Mother and her three eyes and her dangerous silver hair.
But Julian enters me with no warning, and the image of the Mother vanishes into nothingness. To hell with her. All I want now is to be lost in Julian’s reckless embrace, to be set alight by every single one of his thrusts until the flames of lust burn us to ashes.
All I want is to feel him inside.
The steady thumps of Julian’s hips against my buttocks mingle with our moans, with our groans. A solitary bulb hangs from the ceiling, rhythmically shifting to one side and the other in time with our frantic movements. The desire is so strong that it threatens to destroy my sanity.
Even now, I am vaguely conscious that when this reverie is over, our minds will return to where they belong, back to the real world. Back to our hopeless existence, to the digging under the implacable heat of the suns for days on end.
Outside, I will dare to exchange no more than one stolen glance with Julian, a promise of what is to come the following night. Because outside the Mothers are forever watching, and that’s one reason why I don’t want this reverie to end, even if I long almost wildly for the moment of utter release.
(Michel, Michel, don’t…).
Almost there.
(…don’t…).
My mind goes blank.
(…d…).
Julian trembles like leaves in autumn.
My eyes open wide. I’m outside, and something’s wrong.
I’m in my bed, and Julian’s lying cold and naked on top of me. His body is awfully heavy. Awfully limp.
Julian shouldn’t be here. But he is.
Julian shouldn’t be dead. But he is.
Julian’s back looks like a black hole. It smells of charred flesh.
I push him off me as carefully as I can, swallowing my tears, feeling sore and finding why just a moment later. The ragged mattress and sheets are dirty with sweat and semen and saliva and who knows what else, and I realize with a shock that this time our lovemaking was not only a trick of the brain.
That’s when I notice her.
The Mother is staring thoughtfully at me from one corner, as still as one of those statues of themselves that they so love. When she speaks, there’s no emotion. Her black lips hardly move.
‘Julian said, “Michel, Michel, don’t”. Julian wanted to say, “Michel, Michel, don’t let them find us”. The Mothers found Julian and Michel. Julian was punished. Michel is to be punished.’
She says no more.
And suddenly, there’s only pain, paIN, PAIN.
Then, blackness.
There is nothing left but to wait for the blessed madness to come. It was Julian’s mistake to want me so badly so as to visit my hut and love me in my sleep, and it is of sleep that I’ll be deprived until I can bear it no more and I become a shadow of myself and die. Yet I cannot blame him. Because the Mothers knew.
Indeed, it was probably under the Mothers’ influence that Julian came to me tonight.
Outside, others like us will keep on digging out the jewels that are the nourishment to the Mothers, and maybe some will believe there’s a way to elude their vigilance and their rules.
They will be wrong.
The Mothers will play with them for a while, as they did with Julian and me, and when they finally strike, the blow will be much more painful, the punishment much worse.
For we are their little children, never to be allowed to grow up.