Apocalypse of Jude

The phone hangs uselessly in Mae’s hand, the dead tone pervading the silence. She puts it back on the receiver and gulps the smoky red wine, looking at nothing, her desire for wildness suddenly rising thickly through her, and a black bowl of darkness being poured out upon her. She stoops in her folly to its incessant pressure, and rises to draw the curtains, closing out the late opaque western sky. In the kitchen she pours herself more of the earth’s vine, closes the still wide-open gate and door, and then draws back into her bedroom, putting on music that slowly, stealthily begins to breathe its brooding atmosphere. Smoothing back her hair, she paces the floor, her blood clamouring for that selfsame gluttonous freedom and ekstasis found in savage brutality she felt that night with Jude.

She drops her covering of clothing and steps out of her inner garments in anticipation as the music builds its pounding ambiance. Her body reacts with deep automatism, as she brings her body unclad in dancing to it, unearthing rhythms long buried inside her unconscious.

At first, as the wildness surges through her, she lets it surge over her, disappearing her own self into a deeper place where Dionysus who calls to her lies waiting to frenzy her wildness. In the dark ambiance her hands run again through her hair, loosening it, but then grab her head, shaking it first softly, then with sudden terrible violence as she tries to stop the internal visions of how she would tear flesh from the body of Caul, when their consort was done. The desire overpowers her and she goes into it. She would kill him. Kill him. Rip him limb from limb just to satisfy. Just to satisfy.

Yet her moment of ekstasis is brief, and in her fall back to the mundane she flings herself on her bed, her chest rising heavily, heat condensing on her skin as her mind returns to its natural continuum. Abhorred by her own act and tormented by the desire that she thirsts, Mae cries out her remorse by tossing her body first left then right, hands over her face. She stifles an anguished scream hurtling from her soul covered in pains and sores, but she does not repent of her deep-rooted gluttony for human flesh. Rather she bites her own finger, seeking salvation from her own blood.

Wasteland Mix: Fragment 72