Apocalypse of Jude

Mae hugs herself on the periphery of the dance floor, watching him bristle away, before starting to stalk towards the exit, ego haughty with pride drowning the pain. She spies Caul waiting for her yet again at the end of another failed initiation of love with Gary. She tries to stalk fast past him, but his hand clamps down on her shoulder like death. She reacts quickly, spinning around, venom rising through her spitting eyes.

“Quit waiting on me. I have nothing to give you.”

The cthronic undertow in her face is something Caul is unprepared for. He defends himself with an awkward smile and shrugs his shoulders to shed himself of his long-harboured resentment towards her from taking him over.

“As long as you haunt him, I’ll be there waiting for you. I’m dead. But it wasn’t me who did this.”

Her shoulders give way, releasing the pent-up tenseness of her soul.

“You have no right to wait for me like that.”

“I have every right. Your marriage to him nullified nothing. And the mourning you feel…”
Here Caul hestiates, not even sure if he wants to push this path anymore. “…It’s not for him. It’s for me.”

Her hand slaps his face before she turns to stalk away. His cheek stinging, Caul watches her leave, letting his depression at their yet again failed discourse clutch and sink into his soul. He retreats back into the hard, foursome beat and throws himself for the umpteenth time that night passionately into the dance, allowing the music to slowly empty his head of its acid scenes, and induce a desperately sought rhythmic calmness needed to enter the realm of his dead spirit. His movements are fluid and deliberate, but as the music drops its beat, his body loses its rhythmic certainty and he comes spinning to the surface again, where the beat is pounding itself into half-naked dancing white bodies. He winces in disgust as they unknowingly mimic forgotten rituals that stimulate nature’s reproductive energies to bring life to their souls. And he realises the best they have ever been able to do is to rattle their bones with a sense of life; that this is what these dancers satisfy themselves with from year to year.

Wasteland Mix: Fragment 60