The axe is an extension of my arm. Heavy, like the weighted toe of my boot. Prey is far ahead of me now but I hear him trampling through the woods. I can smell the fear on the air, purging from his pores in the sweat of his escape.
Except he won’t escape.
Not this time.
Not ever.
Broken branches litter the path before me where he has fled. The axe head drags
along the ground, leaving a gouge in the dirt beneath the pine needles. I can smell their aroma on the air. It is trail anyone could follow. Though no one is around for hundreds of miles. It’s just he and I.
I taste blood in my mouth from where he hit me. My tongue runs along my upper lip, feeling the swollen and broken skin there. It’s all a power play, his striking me. Even my chasing him through the woods is a power play. A game.
Sometimes he gets away. Sometimes I catch him.
Now he is heading for the bluff and there is nothing beyond the bluff but a hundred foot drop. At the bottom are rocks and certain death. He won’t go over. He’ll wait for me there and we can play.
Two demons whose only pleasure is the pain we give each other.
There is a reason why God put us together on this Earth.
The wind is high and smells of ash. If the forest is burning we wouldn’t know until
it reached us. There is no television, no radio, nothing out here. For good reason. It’s just us and the love we share in the game we play.
Tonight it was my turn to play to the Butcher.
Hence the axe.
My tool of choice.
Smiling through my split lip, I reach the bluff. He stands silhouetted against the full
moon, a black shape on the edge. He is smiling too. I know it though I cannot see it. I lift the axe, place the handle against my right shoulder and approach him.
Now I see his expression. It’s all pleasure but there is fear behind his eyes. I adore it.
“If I fall, will you go with me?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He raises a hand, the missing finger of the right obvious against the pale night sky. I took that finger. As he took the two toes on my left foot. As he scarred my right elbow with a knife blade. As I slit the left side of his throat and stitched it again myself.
As we will damage each other again and again, throughout the entirety of our lives.
Each scar is a simple token of what we do with our fragile selves.
I heft the axe, showing him the blade, which glints in the moonlight. I shined it before I left the cabin. It has to be perfect whenever in use. Dusty it is, yes, from dragging it through the dirt, but its blade will sink wherever I place it. Flesh, sand or air doesn’t matter.
It will cleave true.
The wind now brings with it the smell of the salt from the water below. Dimly, I can hear the crashing of the waves on the rocks. His voice is loud above it. “Come get me!”
I rush forward, swinging the axe round. It catches his side, buries beautifully into the skin beneath his shirt. He doubles over the blade as it sweeps cleanly through him. I let go of the handle and the axe goes flying, spinning in the air, shining as it goes. I grab him as he falls, smiling all the while. His blood is warm on my hands and the coppery scent of it is clear.
“Told you that you wouldn’t escape,” I whisper to him as I kiss his lips. I taste his blood on them as it oozes up his throat.
“As if I wanted to,” he groans but there is pleasure in his voice.
Knowing he’d come straight to the bluff, as the game dictates, I rise and find the bag we stashed. I kneel beside him, lift his shirt and examine my handiwork.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Nice swing,” he responds.
“Thanks.” I kiss him again then gather my tools. I’m an expert by now and he will
recover. He has recovered so many times. I remove a bottle of water and pour it onto
the dirt at my feet. I pack the wound with the dark mud, bind him up then lift him to his feet.
Then I turn him to me and kiss him again, wiping his blood from his chin with my hand as I do so. He tastes like the ocean, like death, like love. When I lick my fingers, I can taste his life.
“What game do we play next?” he asks.
“Don’t you want to be the Butcher?” I say.
“What’s better than an axe?”
I run my fingers along his spine, under his shirt. “Take a guess,” I say.
His lips are firm against mine. Then he takes my wrist in a grip that should not be
so tight and tosses me hard to the ground. My back screams in pain as it hits and the wind is knocked from my lungs. When I left my head, I see him limping away, laughing. “Come and get me, Butcher!” he calls out.
I recover and run after him, grabbing the flung axe as I do so. The game isn’t over. Yet.
Except he won’t escape.
Not this time.
Not ever.
Broken branches litter the path before me where he has fled. The axe head drags
along the ground, leaving a gouge in the dirt beneath the pine needles. I can smell their aroma on the air. It is trail anyone could follow. Though no one is around for hundreds of miles. It’s just he and I.
I taste blood in my mouth from where he hit me. My tongue runs along my upper lip, feeling the swollen and broken skin there. It’s all a power play, his striking me. Even my chasing him through the woods is a power play. A game.
Sometimes he gets away. Sometimes I catch him.
Now he is heading for the bluff and there is nothing beyond the bluff but a hundred foot drop. At the bottom are rocks and certain death. He won’t go over. He’ll wait for me there and we can play.
Two demons whose only pleasure is the pain we give each other.
There is a reason why God put us together on this Earth.
The wind is high and smells of ash. If the forest is burning we wouldn’t know until
it reached us. There is no television, no radio, nothing out here. For good reason. It’s just us and the love we share in the game we play.
Tonight it was my turn to play to the Butcher.
Hence the axe.
My tool of choice.
Smiling through my split lip, I reach the bluff. He stands silhouetted against the full
moon, a black shape on the edge. He is smiling too. I know it though I cannot see it. I lift the axe, place the handle against my right shoulder and approach him.
Now I see his expression. It’s all pleasure but there is fear behind his eyes. I adore it.
“If I fall, will you go with me?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He raises a hand, the missing finger of the right obvious against the pale night sky. I took that finger. As he took the two toes on my left foot. As he scarred my right elbow with a knife blade. As I slit the left side of his throat and stitched it again myself.
As we will damage each other again and again, throughout the entirety of our lives.
Each scar is a simple token of what we do with our fragile selves.
I heft the axe, showing him the blade, which glints in the moonlight. I shined it before I left the cabin. It has to be perfect whenever in use. Dusty it is, yes, from dragging it through the dirt, but its blade will sink wherever I place it. Flesh, sand or air doesn’t matter.
It will cleave true.
The wind now brings with it the smell of the salt from the water below. Dimly, I can hear the crashing of the waves on the rocks. His voice is loud above it. “Come get me!”
I rush forward, swinging the axe round. It catches his side, buries beautifully into the skin beneath his shirt. He doubles over the blade as it sweeps cleanly through him. I let go of the handle and the axe goes flying, spinning in the air, shining as it goes. I grab him as he falls, smiling all the while. His blood is warm on my hands and the coppery scent of it is clear.
“Told you that you wouldn’t escape,” I whisper to him as I kiss his lips. I taste his blood on them as it oozes up his throat.
“As if I wanted to,” he groans but there is pleasure in his voice.
Knowing he’d come straight to the bluff, as the game dictates, I rise and find the bag we stashed. I kneel beside him, lift his shirt and examine my handiwork.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Nice swing,” he responds.
“Thanks.” I kiss him again then gather my tools. I’m an expert by now and he will
recover. He has recovered so many times. I remove a bottle of water and pour it onto
the dirt at my feet. I pack the wound with the dark mud, bind him up then lift him to his feet.
Then I turn him to me and kiss him again, wiping his blood from his chin with my hand as I do so. He tastes like the ocean, like death, like love. When I lick my fingers, I can taste his life.
“What game do we play next?” he asks.
“Don’t you want to be the Butcher?” I say.
“What’s better than an axe?”
I run my fingers along his spine, under his shirt. “Take a guess,” I say.
His lips are firm against mine. Then he takes my wrist in a grip that should not be
so tight and tosses me hard to the ground. My back screams in pain as it hits and the wind is knocked from my lungs. When I left my head, I see him limping away, laughing. “Come and get me, Butcher!” he calls out.
I recover and run after him, grabbing the flung axe as I do so. The game isn’t over. Yet.
