is a thing. To celebrate, here's an excerpt from the upcoming second book of Psalms of the Apocalypse (only very sparingly edited, so I apologize for any grammar/spelling issues):
Mother steps toward me, running her long talon-like nails through my hair. “Lumi,” she says soothingly, “come with me.” Her voice is sweet, but I know that she’s not making a request, she’s giving a command. I look at Father and shoot daggers at his face, then follow Mother out of the room. Mother’s stride is confident and feminine in a way that makes me feel like an ugly little boy. I’m taller than Mother, but she feels bigger than life. Her commanding presence fills any space that she’s in. “Come, Lumi,” she chides. I skip to catch up to her. We walk together in silence, through the featureless halls. Mother takes my hand, squeezing it gently, the way a real mother would hold her daughter’s hand, the way I’d always imagined it would be to have a mom.
She pulls me into a small room with a single chair. There’s a window on the far wall opposite the door. It looks out on a small garden, about a dozen feet wide and maybe twenty feet deep. There’s a meandering pathway that cuts through the garden, and a small pond with a fountain in the middle of it, just below the window. I’ve never been in this room before. I’ve never seen this garden. I have this fantasy of running away with Daddy, off to some place far away from here; away from California, away from all the killing, away from Mother and Father and Kindred. Daddy and I would have a garden with herbs and vegetables and some small fruit trees. There would be a little meandering pathway, just like the one outside, and there would be a pond full of big gold, white, and black koi. Daddy and I will spend our mornings tending the garden. In the afternoons, we’ll eat fruit, cheese, and nuts, sitting beside the pond and chatting gayly. I’m lying with my head in Daddy’s lap, my feet in the cool clear water, the fish kissing my toes, Daddy’s strong hands stroking my face gently. When I look up through the canopy of the fruit trees that hang over us, into the dappled sunlight, I am free from the shackles of life, like I’ve died and gone to heaven just good girls are supposed to, even though I’m a very, very bad girl.
“Sit,” Mother instructs me, motioning to the chair. I can feel a scolding coming on. My body tenses with the anticipation of being made to feel little - something that I normally look forward to. Daddy is humming in my head, a tune that I don’t know.
Mother lets me stew for a few minutes while she looks out the window into the garden. The silence in the room is palpable. I can feel Daddy’s eyes on Mother as he kisses my neck and ears and it fills me with weird feelings. “How did you get back?” Mother asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
“What?” I say stupidly.
“How did you find your mark?” she fires back instantly.
“I…I…” my voice falters. My mind is blank.
“How did you get upstairs?” she asks.
I feel my cheeks flush. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“What did you do,” she says flatly. There’s no question there, only an accusation, her black eyes cold and hard like stone. The knives are out. I’m on my feet, my back against the wall, Daddy’s hands on my shoulders. Mother looks me up and down, her eyes a shade of fear that I’ve never seen on her before. I look down at my hands, at the hot blades ripping through the sleeves of my jumpsuit.
An electric rush sizzles through my body, familiar yet strange, like the memory of a dream. It feels so good, so fucking good. I embrace it, my legs turning into jelly, my head spinning. I’m in Banner’s arms and we’re falling through the air. His monstrous hands are pressed against my flesh. Blood spurts from innumerable wounds peppering his face and torso, his neck and arms, his legs and hands. I look into his face, brutal and focused, eyes like ice. I run my hand over the course, scratchy stubble that covers his chin. We’re falling down, down, down. My hair whips around him, caressing him like the tentacles of a pitch black octopus. I trace my fingers over his chest, across his torn shirt, where the plasma rounds have ripped through his body. A thick stream of hot crimson spills from the wound rhythmically, pouring down my fingers, over the back of my hand, and down my arm. The feeling of being covered in this ichor is an incredible rush. I want more. I want to be soaked in it. I want to swim in it. I want to drink him down. I want to drown in it. Without thinking, I push my finger against the rent flesh. A hot heat spreads down my arm, and I drive my finger into the wound. I’m hit hard with a sensation of rapid ascension, like climbing to the top of the earth in a single bound. I am the sun and the moon, the stars and the sky. I shudder involuntarily as I come. My face is buried in his bicep, my finger is buried as deep as I can force it into the gory wound on his chest.
I’m strapped down so that I can’t move, so that I can’t hurt anyone. The lights are a dim bluish hue, something low key and soothing. I’m not soothed. The silence in the room is held aloft by a low frequency hum that permeates every molecule of my consciousness. I try to purr along, but the mood is immediately broken by a vulgar hiss-click, followed by Father’s voice, metallic and tiny: “Stop moving, Lumi!” he commands. “You must stay absolutely still.”
I don’t remember how I got here. Mother was interrogating me one moment, and then the next moment, I’m here, in this fucking tube. I try to unscramble my mind, ticking off the events that led to me being here: I’m in bed. I’m walking down the hall with Mother. We’re talking… then nothing. I feel Daddy watching me curiously.
“Let them out,” Father’s tiny voice hisses. I’m used to this sort of treatment, to being made to perform regardless of how I feel. So even though I have no idea how I got here, I am able to dance to their tune. I close my eyes and let myself slide just below the placid surface of consciousness. A searing heat erupts in my forearms. I’m swimming in a churning pool of primal rage and raw instinct, my awareness floating outside of my own body. I watch myself fighting against the restraints, my body convulsing, my muscles straining. The knives are out, obscenely long and burning hot. I’m dancing on a razor edge, skipping toward oblivion when, suddenly, I’m back inside myself. My body goes completely still and I hear father’s voice crackling over the intercom frantically: “... going to break the restraints, Goddamit, sedate her!”
“I’m fine,” I sigh, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve got it under control.”
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