the way a shotgun explodes a tree's Journal

Tuesday, August 5, 2003

2:14PM

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Thursday, March 27, 2003

8:55PM - hush, michone

There is wind and the sound of water. She can feel the fever at her throat, in her fingertips. Between light, the sex red glare of sun around leaves that throb like hearts, something pale and warm on her cheek… eyes green and wet, roll round, slowly, seeing, taking, shutting.

Michone had expected to awaken to death, or not to awaken at all. Instead, this burn around her throat, the crush when she takes in air, softly, a tiny hiss across her lips. She raises her eyes without moving her neck, finds the branch that lays broken, too delicate for her weight, and almost smiles.

It is the truth of things that caves in. Not that she would be found out for her lies, given name: liar. It is that she is too close to opening, some demon flower, blossoming into her true self, for all to see. The sick black knot of her heart, her spirit, bent and grey, all the disgusting weak things that compose her, exhibited; smeared over her face like blood; unmistakable.

The lies continuous in her own ears, what she believes of her self, would be shattered as well, costume torn to the naked ribs, and those unfastened as well. The murder of her conceived character… dear god, she will go mad. Enough to walk to the edge of the wood and sit in the tree – rope tied to its arm, the loop rough on her clavicle – and drain herself of the possibilities; wallow in the promise that this is the secret shut. With her, dies the knowledge: key and rotted treasure.

Six hours, until the sun streamed white over the horizon… fog and pale glaze, Michone shivering, and glad for it. Pity deep enough to be grateful for cold, tint of misery, last touch of “figures” to push her forward.

Fuck. Such cowardice. Because it is nothing as clean as evil, no, just the pathetic strokes of survival for the petty: thief, abuser, tormentor of the frail, without the magnificence, the absolute, of wickedness… no, she hadn’t the strength for it. Would always bend or break, submitting to good, not out of full desire, but her lack of conviction to fight… vacillating between insipid righteousness and vague immorality, never committing. For these things, for the outward turning, her soul halved and flayed, she walked out, insignificant gesture, and hung herself.

Would it be redundant to try again? She barked a laugh, sat up, clutched her elbows and swallowed. Goddamn it hurt to breathe. The rope was free of the branch, the far knot sliding nicely over the break and coiled calmly next to her hip. Michone ran her hand along the braid of hemp, under her hair, back around, got up without any catalyst of thought and began to walk back to her house. The white siding seemed blue this early, edges clean & precise against the dark straggles of branches bisecting the view between Michone and her home.

She tripped over the noose, gagging herself.

“Fuck you, Michone! Fucking idiot!” and wrestled with the noose, cutting into the burns on her throat, tangling it in her hair, waving elbows idiotically until it came free. She flung it back into the woods, with less dramatic distance than she had expected, and stomped up the porch. Her hand slid over the slender handle of the back door and pulled downward, without result.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” She grappled with the handle violently then sunk to the floor of the porch and sobbed. Why the fuck didn’t I use a gun? she moaned to herself, and wept.

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