L.J. Blount
“Talk to me. You never speak to me, ever.”An unnerving silence filled the cool, damp room.
Only the liquid echo kept the room from being utterly still. He reached out for her, reaching deep into the abyss that drifted before him, nothing. A figure, a woman’s hovered silently, a fingertip away.
“She comes always. Each and every time she comes to me. But she never speaks; she only floats above me pouring the liquid from the bowl.
“The liquid burns and I weep. Like a child, I weep. The pain of the fluid burning through my skin, into my flesh, to the bone, it is a pain even Jesus himself could not bear. Still, I live, I continue.
“It is a horrible feeling, the liquid from the bowl. It is warm at first, soothing then quickly it burns. My skin welts, erupts then breaches as the liquid eats away at my flesh. This is when I weep, for the pain is unfathomable, arcane, and unyielding.
“I often wonder why, why she comes to me as she does. Why my death always fades when she appears. And why she unleashes the pain from the bowl, the torment that flows from it.
“I wonder…
“I ask her…
“But she never answers.”
“Why? Why? Do you come here, why do you do these things too me? I only wish to die, yet, you never allow me.”
The woman hovered higher above him. The bowl she cradled ‘swished’ of the liquid. Some peaked over the edge of the bowl, while yet some flowed slowly down its side.
“Talk to me,” he cried.
She stared at him; unmoved and uninterested in the writhing man who agonized over the pain she brought. She watched, but she was silent. She never spoke, ever…
“It all began some time ago, exactly when I really can’t recall. My youth is a blur, but then, what do you care.
“But it came, she came with the bowl in hand, and that’s when it started.
“The torment it causes me, the grief is unthinkable.
“The damage the liquid does, the holes in my flesh quickly heal once the pouring over my soul has completed itself. It echo’s though my agonizing, resonating within me as it sizzles through me. It is a sound that is quite uninviting.
“She comes, as far as I can gather to torment me. This seems rather silly, since she only appears whenever I attempt to end my miserable life.
“You see I am confined, not like you might think, imprisoned or committed. Rather, I am trapped within my own private hell, here within the walls of my home. I can never venture out during the day, for the heat will destroy me. I would melt much like a vampire would from the sun, though I am not a vampire.
“The night, you can go out then, surely. That’s what you’re thinking I know, but I can’t. I fear there is no real night here, the heat is forever burning and the light forever at hand. I dare not leave. Thus, I am confined. So, my life is those things my father has left me. I am forever feeding off his seemingly endless generosity.
“Father died over two years ago and mother, well, she was never alive. He cared for my “oddities” and me for the better part of my life. Now that he’s gone, his memory does for me what he did.
“Well, really that is unimportant. I have had my fill of life and want it to end. I hold scars across the globe of my body from razors, burns, and penetrations. All of which have healed from the burning, pouring liquid.
“She saves me each time.
"Drugs, hanging, electrocution, poison, I have tried them all. I feel the pain; I wallow at the doorstep of death. Then, she brings a new pain, a replacement pain that is far greater than any man made agony. It is brought on by her, by the angel.
“Yes, an angel, but not for any other reason than she wears wings. She is angelic, there is no question.”
“No! Please not again. I want to die, won’t you let me?” He held up a hand trying to shield the liquid as it rained down from the bowl.
She, the angel looked down at him, her azure, pupiless eyes stared emotionless over the brim of the bowl. The liquid glowed in them as they saw through him, peering into his tormented soul. She said nothing. Tipping the bowl her eyes intensified for a moment then softened. The liquid flowed slowly through the air before raining down on him like boiling oil.
He cried and writhed beneath the burning liquid as it coated his bare skin. The pain far greater than that of dying, far greater than any pain he had inflicted upon himself. It was more than he could bear; yet, he would not die.
The smell of burning, cooking flesh filled the nostrils of the angel as she watched on, detached from the pain.
The pain…
“For the sake of God, a God who has forsaken me I cry. For my tears are never answered, or are they? Is the angel his messenger? How could she be? Angels
shouldn’t inflict pain they should soothe pain. Bring comfort to those who suffer. Shouldn’t they?“Well, she doesn’t, that I promise you. The angel though, she is quite lovely. Long lines beneath her gown are barely discernable, but I gather them to be quite pleasing.
“I mean to say that I have desires for her, desires of a sexual nature. Alas, I can never touch her, for she never floats within my grasp. Not that I would, with her I mean. Still, the desire burns in me, curiosity perhaps?
“It is my fantasy, to make love with her as the liquid bores through me. She delivers such pain that I can only imagine the ecstasy of her flesh could be nothing short of Godly.
“It is a fantasy, much like death…
“No. Mustn’t, she will return. But… But… I cannot control my urges.”
Liquid flows freely from the fingertips. Dropping into a dead echo, a liquid echo much like water in a basin. The sound is near deafening. He slumps back into the wall, sliding slowing to the ground. Blood pools beneath him, the pain is bliss as life flows from his veins.
Then as death unveils itself, a light illuminates from the depths of the darkness, it is she, and she is an angel. In her hand, she carries a bowl, a plain, unattractive ceramic bowl.
Above him, she floats her pupiless eyes stare over the brim of the bowl. He reaches for heaven, calls on God to take him. The liquid, the crimson liquid pours from over the brim, splashing down on him like a thousand burning ambers.
“Why?” He calls, extending his hand in grief.
It is the same always, she comes this way.
But wait, could there be a difference, a difference that in fact has always been? Something he had never noted before. Behind the rising cries of his torment, between the narrow slits of his writhing face he sees her lips move. Through the crimson liquid that washes his eyes, he sees her, the angel. A whisper through the echo of the liquid as it moves though his flesh.
She speaks…
“What? What is it,” he asks, swallowing down hard on his anguish.
The angel lowers the bowl; she speaks quietly as she does this.
He waits, holds his breath and his pain for a moment, and listens.
“Blood of Christ.” She speaks.
“Blood of Christ…”
“Blood of Christ?
“It is clear to me now, for her words have enlightened me.
Scriptures…
“This is my hell, my eternal torment. Here I will kill myself time and time again, only to have this beautiful angel resurrect me. Resurrect me so that I may perish again; resurrect me in a maelstrom of pain, torment, and yet more pain…
“I understand now, liquid echo, the Blood of Christ…
“I understand…
“The pain…
“Liquid Echo, Blood of Christ…
“Eternity…”
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