I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know how this could have happened. You sit there, staring at me, too afraid to touch…like I was…so….long ago…
If I had a mouth, I would scream: “Get out! Get out now while you can!” But you’re too entranced. Too mesmerised. Like I was. So long ago.
You see kid, we had a beautiful brass gramophone that gathered dust in the attic. I used to go up there and sit with it, staring at it for hours. I was your age, twelve years old, when I first gathered up the courage to touch it. I reached out in the dim light, fingers hovering an inch above the horn, when it made a sound.
At first I thought it was a rat, trapped inside. But when I leaned in close, I heard it. The pitter-patter of tiny hands and feet. Scurrying up the curve of the horn. Before I could look inside, she slid out, bit by bit, like liquid.
First, her head collapsed into itself, then her neck turned soft, and then it was her spine, torso, arms, hips, legs, feet, all running out of the horn like slime. And there she was.
Standing tall. Trembling and broken. Oh, she was so beautiful. A cracked painting. Chipped teeth. Small white scars. Criss-crossing, flecked across her face. A mane of dreads and haughty eyes. Dark naked skin. Midnight blue. Liquid limbs. A dancer. A marionette. A junkyard beauty queen.
The first time I met god, she didn’t say a single word. She just reached down, took my hand, and placed it on her cunt.
The first time I met god, I learned to be an adult.
The second time I met god, was when I was sixteen. I was ready for it this time. The house was too hot for winter and I knew that dry air, that impossibly dry arid air, was a sign of her coming. When she slid out of the gramophone, we were both naked.
She said one word to me that day.
So we fucked. And we loved.
The second time I met god, I learned to be a human.
It was another six years before she came to me again. For the last time.
But you see, by then I was mad. I was spitting mad. She appeared to me every night in my sour fever dreams. I couldn’t ejaculate without her touching me, fucking me. I was shrunken, skin and bones, half-insane and mad with rage. Why wasn’t she coming? Why didn’t she love me? Was I not good enough for her?
So when the house grew hot and dry, when she finally slid out of the horn, I was waiting. I destroyed the gramophone as soon as she dissolved. I threw a wrench into the brass and the wood, again and again and again until I was shaking. She just stood in silence, watching, as I destroyed her only way out.
I thought she would be pleased. I thought that I was all she needed.
I was right. In a way.
She said two words to me that day.
But it wasn’t. Not for me.
I pushed myself into her and lost my mind. For that brief moment, she was no longer god.
But as soon as I came, she pulled my lips open and climbed into my mouth. She slid down my throat and into my stomach.
That was the third time. The third and last time I met god.
And I realise now… I realise now that maybe that’s my punishment. Maybe this is how she is able to live for eternity. Consuming souls as she is consumed.
Because you see kid, the third and last time I met god, I learned to be a monster.
I swallowed my obsession in a fit of madness and now I wait. I wait for you to gather up the courage to touch me.
Because when you do, she will slide out of my mouth and that will be the beginning of my end.