re-ravagement of the beast part 3: correctens majistatis

sonja was looking at me quite kindly when i finished my recital, which made me nervous. I reflected once again on that strange quality of her eyes--it was either emptiness, or just a profound animal slickness--and then, again, i thought of the fact that it's impossible to know what doesn't lurk within oneself. A profound animal slickness, i thought, finding the idea somewhat appealing with the quixotic perspectival fluidity of the inebriate.

"You told the story," she said, "but you told it wrong."

"Oh i did," i said, as if stung.

She smiled slightly--a feral twitch of her mouth, as if her upper lip raised in a slight play-growl. I didn't remember the lighting of a fire in the fireplace, but i saw now that her teeth sparked slightly in the firelight, that her whole face took on a rosy elemental glow, and the healthy liquidity of her eyes.

It is difficult to slay a Beast, she said quite directly. Requiring a profound mastery in the arts of death. You killed him by attrition.
Which can be done, but not simply: a Beast, with senses sharp as thorns and acute as knives, can live on glances and tastes, on scents and essences, for longer than most any other thing. But not forever.

But not forever. Body, furred like a hearthrug,
stretched comma-like out on the white tile.
The thing is done, you thought, and suddenly it was like the skin of your mouth tore, or as if you had a membrane over your mouth, intact, and seeing the Beast's slight-furled body tore it--

the words pouring from that slit across your mouth were new,
almost flesh, they were so new--almost no more than sounds.
you dragged across the cold tile to him and because there was nothing stopping you now, you wanted the Beast, you begged for him. you took the cold body between your knees and

when he came back to life
you were in too deep
to let him go.