(A break from my novel. I miss this.)
My first memory is of crying alone in a sea of corpses.
My tears had long gone dry. Like the blood that caked over their flesh, making dark rivers over the rotting landscape. Their faces—what remained of them—held a shadow of dread. Every single one of them. The murdered and the murderers.
My parents lay before me. Their eyes were vacant as they stared into the stars, under which the vultures were circling the clouds.
I was alone. Crying. Until my sobs matched another’s.
You were as broken as I was, naked and lost in the sea of corpses. We were the only two who did not drown. The only two who wished we had. I crawled to you. My hands were glowing. It was as if I held the sun in my palms. Your legs were twisted the other way. I folded them together, making a criss-cross of bed where I would lay.
I remember how you held me, so gentle, the way a fog kisses the ground. I lay there in your arms, curled up like a foetus. You curled over me like summer.
I bit into your thigh. You didn’t flinch. Perhaps you were too broken to react. Or perhaps I was too hungry to care. I drank you in, your sweetness swirling over the walls of my mouth. You melded with the glow emanating from my body. We must have been beautiful—a shimmering red island in a sea of death.
I closed my eyes. Feeling you feeling me.
In light and blood.