The True Depths of Evil
Being a work of
Written In Whole or In by part by
Michael Owen Reeve
He hated her for giving birth to him; a gift, which he often thought, was not given profitably. That was too kind. She had freed him from a claustrophobically small prison which had been all the more uncomfortable since he had been forced to share it with his brother, only to be put him in a much larger one.
Even as he reflects on these things, the twin moons of Dava sweep the night sky; their serpentine eyes gaze upon the world in a ceaseless search for light. They are the embodiment of shadow, creatures so hideous that they blend in perfectly with the night. They furnish no light of their own, but are ruthless thieves of it. They exist only to taint the beauty of God’s Flower. To corrupt and covet her warmth and luster selfishly, rather than shine upon the world in tribute to her. His foolish brother happily walks in the light of day. Blacky prefers the night.
He and his brother were born to the Goddess of Harvest during an equinox. They had both been reminded of this fact throughout their young lives, yet Raven Feather (for such is the name which he’d given himself) could remember that day as vividly as any other moment of his life. They hadn’t been born separately, as all other, ordinary twins were. No, they came into the world at the exact same instant, in each other’s arms. The first sight of his life had been that idiot’s face. That face, so like his own. It had seemed that he had been looking into a mirror at his own reflection. So infuriated was he that his infants hands had found themselves firmly clamp around his idiotic brother’s throat, so accustomed had he been to murder, even on the hour of his birth. It was then that his brother had awakened, his eyes betraying surprise, then mortal terror. He brought his own face within an inch from the others and cursed him while he could only gag breathlessly. He watched as the life drained out of the eyes of that pale face. His brother only cried and loosely embraced him, wanting him to stop, yet unwilling to let go all the same. The act would have been so deliciously fulfilled if their mother had not separated them at that moment. She then held each child to either breast so that they would not need to share. The idiot drank of her hungrily, yet Raven would have none of her. He would not drink her milk; he only wished he were dead; anything would have been better than accepting nourishment from her. When she pressed him to try a taste of it, he had bitten at her with his teeth, making her bleed. It was only after this first taste of blood that he had deemed to suckle from her.
While her children fed from her, she raised her face to the heavens and sang in praise of the Sky Woman, praying for her to watch over her children. They both looked up at the same instant, witnessing the same event for the first time in their lives. It was a sight that would never fail to enrapture his stupid brother, even a decade later. As they all stared at the sky, their mother named them. She called him Ebon, his brother Ivor. “It is through their union that Dusk and Dawn might finally see each other, eye to eye.” He could sense the love she and his mother felt for each other at this moment, their love for him. He could only hate them both in return. She thwarted him in his search for vengeance, so he could only take solace in the knowledge that, thanks to his efforts, his brother would forever have the complexion of a walking corpse.
Ever since then, each has pledged their hearts to opposite forces. Even as the darkness usurped the blasted light’s rule, Blacky embraced it. Embraced it in the way his mother had pretended to embrace him. Even as the serpents crushed the life out of the Sky Woman, his own mother attempted to crush him! Did she somehow sense, even at birth, the evil that lurked in his heart? She crooned, kissed, and laughed, mocking his hatred of her with her false love. Consequently, it is only during the biannual equinox (the First and Last day of the Dwarven Calendar) that they can walk the earth together.
While he broods in his dark thoughts, the twin moons of Dava traverse the darkness. Other people can only see the eyes of the Serpents, but he can see more. The Serpents glide and sliver along the sky, crisscrossing and running parallel of each other, enthralled in their search for the light. He respects their determination, but questions their goal. Why seek the blinding light of day, when they could simply rescind it and hunt in the night like him?
Why Did He?
His malignant heart was rife with a hatred of all things. Everything within his sight, he hated. Every sound in the night, every nuance of life and un-life, the incessantly chirping crickets, the silence of stones, were all things which his ambiguous hatred consumed of him. He had once seen his own face, in the glimmering steel of a knife he had intended to steal from a butcher, and hated himself at first sight. He had not known what it was that he had perceived in that brief second before he had struck at it in rage, before he had cut himself so grievously that he bled. He had drank of his blood that first time, instinctively suckling from it as a newborn child would of another source —- only, his initial motive had not been merely an act of gaining nourishment, but a reflexive action. Afterwards, he hated the butcher for possessing such an object to bring harm to him. He hated pain even more than all things, even more than he’d hated himself a moment ago. He’d taken the knife, carried it with him into the home of the butcher which had brought him such pain, and had given it back to him in a way much more intimate than the butcher would have ever wanted. He had given it back to him —- right through the bastard’s heart.
There had been a time when his life had not been so simple, when he had agonized for many hours, many days, every waking moment. And every one in which he wasn’t awake at all; his misfortune had plagued him in his dreams, as well. He had so desired not to be in such chaos, had wanted to settle for one and only emotion. Something he could count on.
A friend which would never leave him, no matter where he went. A friend he could never leave behind, even if he thought that he no longer need it, because deep in his heart, he would always need it. He so desperately wanted a friend. A guiding light: a dream.
THE PRINCESS MEETS HER DESTINY
Walking past the silent pews, his cloak manifest as a living shadow, his steps carried him ever closer to his destiny. In the distance, the cacophony of the approaching mob drifted on the wind to his ear. This pleased him. Their cries for redemption were as insignificant to him as the chirps of crickets. Their complaints of his crimes did not concern him. He had enjoyed the killings. Anyone who chose to punish rather than reward the “murderer” of their loved ones was inherently a fool. Death should be celebrated, not mourned. Life was the true tragedy; to be released from life into death was a blessing. And he enjoyed his capacity to present this blessing.
He mostly enjoyed their screams. And he was a master at extracting such beautiful screams from his chosen; each meticulous incision was made with utmost care, each tiny cut brought a feeling of exquisite ecstasy from both he and his victims. He delighted in the fear that pain would bring, the way their faces simultaneously filled with life and being drained of it. Such proves that love taking far surpasses lovemaking.
Those were his thoughts as he walked. Those were always his thoughts. He knew, he believed. The only concept he could not comprehend was fear. He knew others had fear in them; it was his mission in life to release it from them. But he could not remember being afraid. He frowned slightly. They could never teach him fear. Even if he were to be caught and executed, they could never accomplish his task. They had not the imagination nor the genius with which he was sole owner. They could never properly torture him. If anything, the only thing that could cause him to be afraid was the certainty that he would never feel fear. He shook his head, negating this troubling thought before it could breed. Instead, he cast his thoughts back to his latest endeavor.
He’d seen her. She was walking down a street —- it mattered not which because all streets in this asylum were all equally polluted with lunatics —- and his eyes only saw her. She was peculiar, perhaps even unique. She stuck out of the crowd. When men and women saw her coming, they got out of their way. They didn’t stand their ground. The men didn’t grope for her; the women did not shove her. Upon seeing her, shock instantly came into the looker’s face and they shoved their hands behind their backs; even dropping or throwing away whatever they had held. She had a walk which made her seem better than everyone else, and their deference of her proved it. Yet she was not better than him. They could not see him but they were afraid of him. But she was different. She could be seen and was feared. He became jealous of her, suddenly wanted more than anything to make her especially afraid of him.
And then the truly extraordinary happened. She looked at him. She turned her head and he was suddenly staring deep into her emerald eyes across an empty space in the teaming masses. She was looking directly at him and she wasn’t afraid. She lifted her hand to her mouth and he could see her laughing at him beneath that raised hand. The other hand pointed at him and she turned, still laughing, toward the nearest peasant. It was a butcher. The butcher followed her gesture and he, too, could suddenly see him, too. He swallowed, his throat working tremulously, and he managed a small, sick smile. He didn’t think what she was pointing at was funny, either. But all the same, the butcher had just signed the death warrant for himself and his entire family. Not right now, but later. After he had finished with her, the butcher’s family would all sing in chorus. Too bad all anyone else would hear was “screaming like bloody murder.” A smile. That’s exactly what it would be.
She stopped laughing; the smile on her face became a vague frown of disgust at the butcher for not laughing along with her. She shoved him and even though he obviously was much stronger than she, he fell. He fell as a cow would if it were bludgeoned with a sledgehammer. Now that was a funny thing, a butcher pretending to be a slaughtered animal. She continued walking down the street, stopping once in awhile to take whatever she wished from the merchant’s booths. He once again slipped into invisibility. He easily drifted ahead and ducked into an alley which he knew she could not help but to pass. As she came into view, he grabbed her by the arm and threw her into the alley. The clumsy girl catapulted head first into a wall like an arrow into a butte. She was out before she could make a scream. Laughing, he took the opportunity to tear her clothes from her slender form; delighting in the fabric’s ripping as much as he would enjoy the ripping of her flesh.
Oh the things he did. They were all magnificent! The cunning! The genius! The ambition! First he bound her, hanging from her wrists from either wall. In his haste to waken her, he brushed his hand a tad too briskly against her face. So fragile was her imperfect skin that his caress left a mark and blackened her eye.
Her eyes flew open immediately and their eyes met. She had that look in her eyes. That look he knew and loved. A look of fear. From his pocket he extracted a small knife with a very fine blade —- something he incorrectly believed to be called a “scallop,” but his not knowing its proper name didn’t hamper his knowledge of how to use it —- and showed it to her. He saw her delight in her eyes; that tiny gleam of anticipation in her pupil. That tiny hint of long, to be free, to be free from inhibition. He started with a single, slow cut; across her left thigh. The screams sent shivers through both of their bodies. They both loved it.
The delicate incisions continued, in numerous parts of her anatomy. Each small cut bringing further beauty to her body. Here the kiss of metal upon a breast, the other, upon a cheek, upon a buttock, upon a chin, even to the root of her womb. She was panting, eyes tearful with the obscenity of her pleasure. The words upon her lips, “Please! Please!” and he endeavored to do so. For hours, his knife reveled in its love taking. It was cleansed in her blood. It drank as much as he drank.
Each scream brought them both more joy, more humor, more bliss. Oh the things he did to her. And then the blade sought to bury itself into the nexus of her sex, sheathing itself where other men’s lesser swords could only hope to find a home.
Then he salted her wounds and began to feed. He tore flesh from her body with his teeth. He stared into her eyes for a third time as he took a bite from her shoulder. This time she knew him, she died knowing who he was and he was much that gladder for having his face be the last thing she had seen in the world.
She was the first. The most succulent. A waif of a girl in a silken dress. She wasn’t really a princess, her father simply called her one. Hers was the wealthiest families of all the wealthy families. Her father lived like a king, called his daughter “Princess” and did his best to treat her like one. She always had the finest clothes, the most jewelry, and the softest, most beautiful skin. Princess may have been considered well-off, but she was far from innocent.
Many were the hard-worn and callused men that had been softened within the grasp of her own well-manicured hands or delicately painted lips and polished teeth.
Walking in a house he didn’t know, it was dark, yet he could see perfectly in the dimness. He was awake at night in a strange house. He could hear crickets. He couldn’t hear his own feet as he walked or his breath. He moved in the darkness with the grace of a cat. And as even as he thought it, here came one. He kicked it.
He shocked himself by doing this, but was shocked once again as his hands, as treacherous as his walking feet, reached for a knife from a cupboard in the dark. A pale shard of moon light from a window from which he’d entered this dark room reflected off the glimmering steel, blinding him for a moment. He hissed. When he looked again at the blade, he saw the reflection of a face
that wasn’t his own. Before he could remember whose face in that brief second
(it was his face)
if it wasn’t
his own, his other hand formed a convulsive fist and struck at it in rage. He held his injured hand in, drinking from his bleeding hand. He didn’t know where he was
and didn’t know who he was any more
(he did know)
and now he was bleeding. This horrified
him that he should live such a nightmare
(dream of ecstasy). The blood tasted foul
in his lips. The fear
sent shivers up his spine so that he was stiff from the waist down
(incredibly stiff in that regard)
and up the back of his neck. The cat, a smaller blob of darkness in the greater darkness with its luminous emerald eyes, the one he’d kicked by accident
hissed at him from the dark. He bent his own back up and hissed at it. The cat relented with a whimper and ran from what it took to be an even bigger cat. The cat ran down the hall and thudded gracelessly into a door in its haste. It raised its voice plaintively in the dark and a girl’s voice whispered to it from the other side of the door. “Quiet, you stupid thing. You almost killed yourself and woke up the house with your racket.”
He felt himself moving closer to the door and the girl’s voice, moving with quiet grace that even a cat would envy. As he neared, the cat’s screeches became louder and the girl’s voice came back closer as well and slightly angry, “I am beginning to wish you had! Quiet! Let you in must, but you won’t like what happens when I do!” With that, the door opened and then ran inside the room.
Before the door could close again, he pounced onto the girl —- she was wearing only a silk robe that flew open when he grabbed her shoulder —- and threw her into the room before closing the door. She fell into a sitting position on the bed, her robe torn from her body when she stepped on the trailing hem. Now all she wore was a portion of one sleeve up one arm. The rest of her was naked. She held a table leg in her hand which she had been using to puncture herself with in the dark of the night on her lonely maiden bed and now brandished its dripping length as a club.
She rose to her feet and struck at him with her “pleasure stick” (the table to which it belonged was now a three legged martyr to lust). He deflected the blow with a back sweep of one hand and punched her in the face with the other. Before she could shout, he kicked her brusquely in the stomach; a pain which was now something less pleasurable than the one she’d given herself.
He yanked her head back up by the hair and brought her face level with his own. She was no longer afraid or angry, the only shock was his own as she smiled and the leaned forward to kiss him as he grabbed her wrists with either hand. She kissed him, the soft meat of her tongue gliding along his teeth and mingling with his own. He tasted her and she tasted him, she was sour to him and him sweet to her. She pulled back a little to run her tongue up along his lips, one cheek, and the side of neck as well. “All I ask of thee is that mine elders do not hear. Use me as roughly as you want, but be silent with your pleasures,” she told him around another smile.
He bent forward, grabbed her ankles and then yanked them so that she fell back into the bed. He positioned each of her ankles on either of his shoulders and smelled the cave of her sex. It smelled uxoriously of warm blood. He breathed deeply of it, the scent of her. And she was still dripping.
He kissed it and his lips came back moist with blood. He licked this off greedily. There was a spot of blood on his nose. He got this as well, and he heard her moan at the sight of such a trick. He had never guessed such a miracle. He had known that girls bled. Had known because he had caused many to bleed. But he had never dreamed that they would bleed without even being cut. Cut. He opened his eyes and peered at the fork where her legs met. It certainly did appear that she’d been cut there. It was a deep gash, festooned with a curly bushel of coarse hair. How any man could love this, he asked himself. an answer was not forthcoming. It looked nothing so much more than lids of an eye, minus the eye. Or a tongue less mouth. Beneath the blood, he found that the labia were bruised. Mute evidence of her senseless need. He played his tongue out and tasted the circumference of the inner weavings of her thighs. It tickled beneath either knee, even overtop each buttocks and the base of her spine. He still didn’t know. The tongue ran up along her stomach and found each nipple The girl was chanting some strange words he could not begin to understand.
She was clearly enjoying whatever he was doing to her, but his questing tongue only sought to taste, to explore, to fulfill a curiosity. He brought his head to that tongueless mouth again and kissed it. She rocked backward and suddenly both her legs were scissored around his neck and her feet locked at the ankles. his head was trapped against that hateful place. He would have screamed, but the smell of blood was too tempting.
She was quick on her feet. This was a pleasurable surprise. She ran fast and hard in spite of the burden she carried. Or perhaps what lent her the most impediments for speed was the weight and the promise it brought with it. It seemed a foolish thing, to run so far and so fast for such a heavy promise. He only regretted that she made so much noise.
Her heavy tread roared on, feet pounding with such a force that he believed she didn’t simply want to cover ground but to have some destructive need to destroy it as she went. The tracks in the snow were craters, large ungainly holes more suited to meteorites than a woman’s feet. Along the center trail was a line of steaming urine. Leaning his face into the mess he smiled at the scent of her fear. It was delicious. From his grinning mouth his long, serpent’s tongue cascaded into the puddle and he drank her warm fear from the snow like a thirsty wolf. In the distance to the west he heard the melodious sympathy of her pounding feet, furiously beating heart, and her ever more ragged breathing.
Squatting face down in the snow, his eyes shut, he smelled her fear, heard her fear, drank her fear, squatting face down in the snow, he loved her fear. He smiled, his
thoughts singing with his love for her fear.
The happy circumstance of his discovery of her came to him his interior darkness and he swam in the recollection. He had no need to hurry. He would find her and thank her for running later.
He’d happened across a tent. The tent was lit from a fire on the inside. Through the fabric of the tent he could see two figures. One was lying on its back, legs splayed while the other was kneeling with its hands held together between the lying one’s spread legs as if in prayer. Even before her heard them speak he knew they both must be women. The evidence was unmistakable. He smelled blood, warm and fragrant. The smell of blood was coming from their legs. Their menstruations were ministering to his thirst.
The woman on her back was panting, dank with sweat and tears. The kneeling woman held a wash cloth in one hand and a man’s razor in the other. Her intent was clear as she was washing and shaving the lying woman’s pudendum in preparation for the birth.
"Watch where you put that damn thing, Jennifer," the woman on her back was complaining.
"A woman like you should learn that she should be more afraid of how blunt the thing a man holding is and less about how sharp what a woman is holding when it comes to her place. You’d be smarter to let a woman in there, knowing she couldn’t come in. Invite a man and he’d never want to leave her cozy hole."
"Well his blunt thing didn’t have chance of making me bleed like a stuck sow when he poked me with it," the other replied.
"You didn’t bleed when he stuck you?"
"Alright I did. So shove that damn thing in there if you’re so insistent in asking. Damn me if I wished asked so much. If he had, I might not have let him and you’d be getting your lovely little peek in a night a lot less cold than this."
Jennifer laughed at that and it was the last sound she’d make. He clubbed her from behind with a log from the fire and she fell forward into the woman on her back’s crotch. He took the wash cloth and shoved it into the prone woman’s mouth as he dragged Jennifer to her feet.
He cut her dress off of her with the razor and jammed a knife into her eye. The knife slid easily into her brain at that angle and he carved her eye socket wider with corkscrewing motions. The woman on the floor tried to take the gag from her mouth and he sliced her hand with the razor, severing a pair of fingers.
The knife and the razor weren’t necessary for his purposes. He’d murdered women in his time with an efficiency and quickness using his bare hands that such that would wish to believe he could kill one as if with a single touch. But his thirst for fear was sometimes more prevalent than his thirst for blood. As it was at this time. He drank her fear from his staring eyes. She lay still on the floor, turned about so that she was on her hands and feet. He could see and smell her fear, but also cunningness as she was about to pounce or bolt but indecisive over which alternative was her best. He smiled at both of her motives.
And, just as unnecessarily, he made his move. He carved Jennifer’s breast from her corpse and ate it. Then he cut out her tongue ate that as well, drinking the unnamed woman’s fear as he did. But this was a beginning to the festivities. He could feel the woman’s courage begin to die at the sight of his appetites. He savored it. He briefly considered what he could accomplish if he were to spend hours engrossed such a game but he dismissed it.
He had best finish with it and move on. He didn’t enjoy what he was doing to the corpse, his efforts of further perfecting what had once been Jennifer could only mar —- transforming his deathly art into a lively indulgence. The death he had given her was a singular gift; but a man who gives too many gifts is a pest. And worse still if his true prey should believe him to playing games.
The woman had finally chosen. She leapt to her feet, using the weight around her middle as a balance as she moved. He was knocked to the floor, laughing. He pretended to slash at her wife the knife and was pleased when she caught his wrist and took the knife from him. With a final kick at his laughing face, she ran out into the snow.
The knife did not serve her. In the end she’d dropped it as she ran and had not dared stop to retrieve it. Better still, she even managed to cut herself with it in her haste and bled steadily. It was the blood from the wound she’d given herself that he followed. The knife he didn’t pickup from the ground. He did not need it for what he had planned for her.
He sat in a furnace. He crouched in a gathering of flames so hot that they burned as they were a small pocket of hell upon the earth. He did not notice the fire, though. It did not burn him, nor did his face look as if he realized where he sat. He seemed as casual as if he’d been simply perched in the midst of a warm bath tub full of tepid water rather than in an inferno.
His hands clasped his knees and the wrists were slit with thunder bolts of incisions and blood poured freely into his lap. Once in a while, he would hold his flayed wrists to his lips and drink of his own blood. The blood flowed and was endless, an ocean of scarlet stuff that was boiled by the flames as it rested in his lap. The hairs all over his body were aflame as well, as was the hair on his head. But, instead of screams of pain, his lips only loosed giggles of satisfaction and maniacal bouts of laughter. In between giggles and laughter, he chanted the same fragment of words incessantly.
“Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen… Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen… Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen… Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen… Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen… Raven’s Feather from unwholesome fen…”
Cackling with laughter, seated casually in an inferno of flames that did not burn him, bleeding profusely from the wrists, genitals boiling in blood, he chanted.
He stared straight up towards the ceiling. Upon it, he’d drawn a five-pointed star —- a pentagram —- with his own blood, but it wasn’t long before he saw through the ceiling, though the pentagram stayed in his vision (reflecting the flames that did not burn him) and he could the night beyond and the moons above him in the dark.
When he found her, Mel-Annie was a young girl. She was playing with her doll. Her father was poor and so his daughter only had one doll to play with, but she had only one father, any way, so she loved both adamantly. It was hard not to love your one and only of something. She had no comparison, could either love what she had or hate what she didn’t. She chose to love her father and love the doll he gave her. But it wasn’t such a simple precept for her father.
He was one to hate what another man and had and which he’d unfairly been denied. A wife for instance. He couldn’t remember what had happened to his daughter’s mother, but she must have had a mother, and this woman must have been briefly his wife. The proof of his erstwhile wife was there in the yard with the ugly rag doll of hers.
Where the fuck had she found that damn thing, any way? It was filthy, attracted flies, and smelled something rank. Did the stupid little cunt wipe her ass with the fucking thing, was that why it smelled so fucking awful? Goddamn, how could a girl love something so much and use it wipe her ass with it? Had the girl’s mother given it to her?
He scowled at the thought. His head was swollen with pain. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking so hard. His head always hurt when he thought hard. He took a slow pull from the half-empty bottle of kerosene and tried to steady his headache. When it dissolved into the slightly diffuse gnawing of a toothache, he reconsidered his last idea. The girl’s mother?
The girl herself was happily talking to her shit rag. Ugh, she just kissed the damn thing. That’s just not right. He intended to shout at the girl, to tell her to stop kissing what she used to wipe shit off her bottom with, but the words came out in a barely audible mumble. The girl pretended to hear him, said, “I will, Poppa,” and then made the doll wave its little hand at him. Foul odor or not, that little kid sure loved that damn thing. The thought that she loved him, too, didn’t surface.
He wasn’t too interested in what or who his daughter might love. Right now, it was who the hell this child’s mother was. He tried to remember all the faces of the women he’d known in his life, but could only come back with a vague impression of the little face that was even now smiling at him. He tried to tell her to turn her head away, and this time the words came out obligingly enough. Again, she said, “I will, Poppa,” but this time turned her back to him.
He started feeling angry about this. Even though he just now told her not to look at him, he had already forgotten speaking to her. A daughter who turned her back on her father was an ungrateful child. He didn’t like having his child turn her back on him. The indignity of it.
Here he was sitting, the father of an ungrateful daughter. A man without a wife. Here he sat on his porch while his daughter watched him. It wasn’t something he was proud of. Some dim part of him felt that doing such a thing where his daughter could watch was unseemly.
But, on the face of it, how much worse could it be than kissing an old doll you used to wipe your ass with? And why did he have to any way?
Because the whore who’d given him such a curious child had left him. He didn’t know what he wanted to do more to the girl’s mother, fuck the damn whore or kill her. Or he could do both and save the time of deciding on it. Fair enough.
But her mother’s not here. That bitch! He leapt to his feet and immediately fell backward into his chair and they both crashed into the yard. He pushed himself up off the floor and spat dust from his nostrils.
The girl was giggling at him. She covered her mouth with her hands and tried to not to stare, but he knew she was giggling at him. Daddy fall down, heheh.
"Funny I not am, you bitch stupid!" he shouted at her.
He climbed to his feet, fuming. The girl held her doll tighter to her chest and clenched her face tight together in anticipation. She expected him to beat her. She’d be lucky if it were only that.
Considering he could not screw her mother… considering he could not screw her mother… (fucking head was hurting again).
In fury, he punched himself in the face and bit his lip.
Considering he could not screw her mother… what was keeping him from screwing her?
He stopped. “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?!?” he shouted at his own confused thoughts.
This frightened Mel-Annie horribly. A shouting-daddy was also a hitting-daddy. She was as fast as running deer, running so quickly that she seemed to hover above the ground; faster than a horse, as gracefully as a bird in flight. If she wasn’t so badly scared, she would have found it a beautiful experience. But there was no beauty in running from the hitting-daddy. Noey wooey, Joanie! She was even too scared to find the thought amusing. She knew better than to laugh around her father; most of the time any way. She must have laughed this time. The proof of such a thing was screaming a wide variety of profane and violent things at her at this very minute. Mel-Annie ran and her father didn’t follow her.
He was angry. Goddamn motherfucking right he was mad. He was mad because that was exactly what he couldn’t do. He had no wife, no mistress, just this stupid little whore who was at the moment running from her own father as if from a leper.
Even when he was angry, he knew better than to follow his daughter when she ran from him. She’d run from him enough times for even him to realize the futility in such a thing. He didn’t feel like making a fool out of himself (laughably, he didn’t realize that he’d just had done several foolish things by now).
He wasn’t fucking a leper. Uh… well… maybe he wouldn’t to that sort of thing —- sex with a leper —- if the occasion did arise. (How he could arise to it would be a different story.) But he himself was not a leper. (He also wasn’t a competent father, but of course he wouldn’t understand that, either.)
So, with as much dignity as he could muster (KABLAM! a sudden, violent fart exploded from his rectum and deposited a fresh load of shit into his drawers) he carefully slid out of his coveralls and threw the mess disgustedly onto the floor. Let Mrs. I-Love-Kissing-My-Ass-Rag pick that up and clean it.
He looked in either direction, saw nothing about the same deserted shithole he always saw (somewhere out there, a rabbit or coyote is having itself one hell of a laugh) and made his winding, inebriated way inside of the cabin (only walked into a wall twice, so he must not be too drunk).
He sat there and waited. And imagined the very adult games he was about to teach that little brat when she finally came home. And she didn’t. And he didn’t.
As I said, “When he found her, Mel-Annie was a young girl.” She came loping out of the underbrush, still as fast as jack rabbit when she collided with him. Well, to put a finer point of it, her head collided with his crotch and he fell to the floor in shock.
The young girl just yelled, “Daddy-a mad, mister! I’m sorry!” and continued on her way. He stood, brushed himself off, swallowing the pain. He admired her for that; having wounded him at unawares and surprise. Few things surprised the one named Raven’s Feather. But this girl on their first meeting had. So it wasn’t the daughter who he visited his wrath upon, but the father.
It had been the man’s thoughts, buzzing away in Raven’s head which lead him to this small house in the clearing. The father had leapt from the shadows, placing both hands upon Raven’s shoulders as soon as the young man had stepped in the door. Clearly the randy coward had thought it to be his daughter to step through the door.
It was for these sins that Raven’s quick hands found themselves behind the man’s ears and thrown him into the corner. Well, such was his surprise at being surprised by the galoot that Raven had actually torn the man’s foul head from his evil fouler body and hiked it like a football. Surprise because he hadn’t known he possesed the strength to do such a thing, even when in the grips of shock.
So it was that Mel-Annie’s father’s lessons hadn’t been taught. But the young girl would learn much from this particulair man and a mutual hatred would for another would flower in her heart. His hatred became hers and hers his.