affame_le_geant_all_that_dies_is_not_our_own fyn gula "i guess i would have been young enough to not see death as being entirely disastrous. the nature of my own personality is that i don't see death as a disastrous thing. it's just a door that opens, and somebody goes somewhere else." ~sinead o'connor praayli watched couge's body burn in the hungry flames of the fire, its excited tongues of orange and yellow radiance leaping, swirling, and dancing around the yielding fuel of his lifeless flesh, consuming it, debasing it second by second. she stared like an automaton, thinking how much more space a being occupied in life than it did in death; how much illusion of size is contained in gestures and movements in breathing, how much of our senses are averted by variation in voice and specific expressions of emotion. dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest. praayli never imagined it liked this. she always knew there was a danger in taking an active role in boffden and baeroun's revolution that will not be televised, but she never thought that violence would come to their quaint farm, hidden like a gem in one's grandmother's bosom, along the relatively unknown borderlands of the bianca strada. she envisioned a long life, firm and perpetual as pinetrees planted in the spaces that were once farmed. years, many of them, that would include summer picnics, fall hikes into the painted woods, winter ski trips, spring bulbs declaring ressurrection, children, grandchildren, and yes, even great-grandchildren. she always dreamed of bearing couge's little ones, counting the days until she was fertile, creating the perfect moment when couge would make love to her and she would allow his seed to penetrate, waiting, then the pregnancy test, positive!!!!!! clutching couge's hand as he listens with his ear to her tummy, hearing the heartbeat of new life where there was previously only desire and longing, following the swelling of her growing belly, exercising, eating well, abstaining from alcohol and smoking, childbirth classes, writing everything down, all the dreams she would have that it was a girl. and when the day finally came, that day that never seemed it could ever exist, when her water broke as she was on the fone with her best friend, couge gently leads her to the border collie pulled cart and off they go to swantowne hospital. what will her labour be like? will she need pain medication? who the fuck cares! get this baby out of me, now! there might be a problem. ceasearean section? no. suction? yes. the baby's head is crowning! oh, snip with scissors, an episiotomy, blood dripping to the white tile floor, got to make more room for the baby... doctor gets his grip, pulls... yes! she's out, she is created one body part at a time right before the eyes... but she's bruised. she has a mark from the suction cup but it will heal. they can place a little white cotton cap on her head and she'll look cute bearing her battle scar on her forehead underneath. it was a spectacle. i mean, a miracle! what's her apgar score? 7 out of 10? good. together, they would watch her take her very first breath and couge would remember it all his life. tiny lungs grasping for the initial breaths that would become an endless rhythm. he would cry and laugh at the same time as he watched this, and he would be at his child's side, then rush back to praayli and tell her of this never seen before beauty, and he would not be able to adequately describe the moment of his first child's birth to anyone. he would swear he must possess the tongues of angels. and praayli, moments and days and weeks later, would sing of the natural pleasures and fullfillments of breastfeeding, the intimate union of mother, father and child creating the ineffable bonds of family, of that first time returning to the farm, not as two, but three, of an addition to the clothes line, cloth diapers, of meals made in a blender, of piercing cries in the night, of first smiles, of couge rocking her to sleep when nothing else would work. they would be there, continuously impressionable, words on a blank page, first fotos in an album, all of that shit that new parents do, not because they have to, but because they are in love with what they created out of pure love..............and this just the first two weeks. praayli closed her eyes. it was a curtain she pulled down to hide the stinging light of reality. when she opened them there was only one thought that could erase her dream. she waited for the attendant next to her to unchain her from the shackle that bound her to thora. cayris made the intention of her death known simply by a nod of his head, but she would win. she would be the one who decided the moment of her passing. with a movement so quick that no one could say later they saw her do it, she grabbed for the knife at the black leather belt of spryli mayorka, secured it in her trembling right hand, and then thrust it into her own heart. when she first thought of her own death, she imagined shrieks and wails, hallucinations, even, but at that moment it had seemed clear that she was doing the right thing, that there ws a much quieter way, that was numb and painless, flat, so much so that sorrow would melt and death would be a relief. she slumped to the white snow, slowly turning to red. she was dead in seconds. 030224 what's it to you? 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