Separate by Alan Wright

Author:Alan Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Koehler Books
Published: 2023-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

27

My knife in their hips. Twisting grinds the blade edge, crunches collagen and ligament. Pecadors. Traitors, blasphemers, malefactors, sirens, all wail and leak and die. My knife’s purpose. It finds the spot in one stick. Lodged in sinew. It moves when they wriggle in their chains. They want to shake it out. They try. It stays. It never slips, never slides until I pluck it out. When I pluck, it never catches, never chips. It draws out clean. All their blood, and the blade is clean. The handle is sticky. The blade is clean. My knife is lost.

It is not here. Someone keeps it. I hunt. People move. People mix. They take and carry and drop. One has it. One has my cotèl. I will find him and name him. My knife is not his. I am his judge.

I cannot lift it. I will find it. I will lift it. There is a way. Others touch. Others move. Others, like me and not. Corrupt. Crazed. Sinners all. I watch and they do what I cannot. There is a way. I will learn. All sinners will end. Not being, they will not sin. By my knife.

Others congregate. There is wrongness, pain estranh, where they collect. Corrupt and careless, they answer summoners. I go between alone. Safer. More control. Safe to test. Now is a time to test. There is a way. I go between, alone, far from others. I go between to . . .

Un ostal, in an empty room. Letters like mine, not mine, on walls. One pecador lives. Nearby, I sense him. Likenesses of more on walls. No crucifix. No faith. A gift, a chance. Providence. I will read him and test him. Divine hand led. I am thankful. From him may I learn. There is a way.

He sleeps, the pecador. Older than I and foolish. Uncovered in bed. Sweating and dreaming impiously. Patchy skin. Evil. I hear his heart’s aberrant cackles. Feel them. He will feel my lesson. My knife instructs best. No knife. There are other ways. Until I lift, there are other ways. Others have shown.

No voice, no words. With fire of purpose, he will fear, understand, and die. By my hand, by His will. Wiser now, I will not fail Him here. In two parts he sleeps, unbelieving. Pecador. Time for him to know. Time to separate.

Bowels are slow. Bowels are agony. With my hand, I begin. His life inside him fights. My fist halts his flow. He clenches and curls. A baby. He hurts. He turns. He wakes. I greet him. He cannot endure. In misery he squirms, as those I chained. As those, he is held. Coward. His grime sears me. I withstand. I will win. I have no flesh. Only searing. My fire will outburn his. I do not fear. I will not lose again. Never.

He is desperate. He faces me. Pecador or innocent, desperation overtakes. His essence resists. Shoves back. Harder, my fist penetrates. A baby, he shrieks. Cloudy tears. He is sickening.

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