Apocalypse of Jude

Mae loosens the straps of her dress and lets it fall, revealing her angular nakedness. She starts to circle the living room in an entrancing ritual she now understands as the attempt to find the dead Dionysian spirit. Using the rhythm of her feet to absorb her agitated consciousness, a calmness slowly begins to suspend her, allowing her body’s rhythms to assimilate her into the trance-like state. But then she stops, frigid and scared at the malignant seeming darkness that each time she circles, promises to reach out and destroy her if she penetrates its veil. Instead, within moments of this darkness upsetting her induced calm, an increasingly insistent temptation seeps into her blood.

Trying to flee this temptation, she runs through to her bedroom, where she flings her body onto her bed, sprawling loosely across it, her limp hair streaming her face. But the desire within is pulsating its need in faster and faster blips, transforming her quickly back into a state of agitation.

/dont want to do it/ /oh please i dont want to/ /just let me alone/ /i dont want to/

She is up on her legs, pacing and then stopping, beginning to pace and stopping again, throwing her hands into her hair and trawling it back. The blood inside of her is growing increasingly hungry. Then she stops, looks coldly at her naked reflection, and with determination, moves from out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

As she crouches inside the refrigerator door, the light illuminates her body against the dark that surrounds her, while her hands work at retrieving food. She begins feeding with a single-minded determination that obliterates the existence of anything else, until the epiphany of her seeking convulses her, leaving her falling suddenly away into the void of its goneness.

As full consciousness returns to her, she fills with remorse and guilty rage. She is on her feet, storming in her mind.

“Every time I let that happen. Every time I give in.”

A guttural sound utters from her throat, shaking her body with consuming frustration.

“I hate myself.”

She crumples to the cold kitchen floor, her voice moaning and wetness welling around her eyes.

“Why, why, why?”

Her body now begins its practised reaction to the intake, and is bloating itself. The turgidity soon overwhelms her and signals are being sent for the release of this waste.

“Stop, stop, stop.”

But her body is shaking violently, both in anticipation of the purge, and with the shock of emotional imbalance in her system. She is running through her house and is lurched over the toilet where the waste is coming up.

Her face is blotched with tears, and what is left of mascara around her eyes is running, staining the face.

/what do you want mae/

She meets her mirror-bottled reflection with a scoured coldness.

/i want to die/

Wasteland Mix: Fragment 3