Page 127 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

I became Goya laughing at Pollock. “What do you know
of art, Sara? You simply eat your own. You really think that
warrants my admiration? You took a fragile darkness and
filled it with petty evils, nothing more. What would your cult
of well-wishers think if they could see you now? Would they
see a great and dark mother of the underworld, or merely the
breeder of freaks and fools? They worship a blind mother
who gathers them into filthy holes and sets them about the
task of appeasing the crawling worms of the earth with
offerings of stolen, rotten meat. I’m going to do you the
kindness of opening you up to the elder darkness, releasing
your stolen shadows to the bowels of the deep earth. Perhaps
if your offering proves precious enough, I’ll even redeem
myself to the shades I’ve wronged this day. In either case,
Miss Patience, I will hold your head high for all to see.”
My father was already in my hands as I flew at her. The
scream she issued was almost as much a violation of natural
law as her alien sight. His killing edge sank beyond her
flesh and into bone, splitting her sternum and unrolling the
sallow lengths of fat that curled beneath her unclean flesh.
A vile fluid that must have been blood washed over me, and
I resisted the urge to retch from the smell. The Queen of
Cannibals backhanded me into the air, dashing me against
the unrelenting limestone. I slid from the wall and fell
back to my feet, bleeding and doubled over. She lifted a
giant length of burning lumber and brought it down upon
my head. I crashed to the stone floor as she casually kicked
me into a large debris fire. I lay in a heap, burning, and she
paused to enjoy the sight. I certainly couldn’t begrudge her a
last look at me—a fallen artist beneath the prehistoric earth,
crumpled body steaming and bloodied flesh sizzling beneath
angry flames. I would have loved to see what it all looked
like, myself.
Miss Patience laughed, ignoring the sucking wound in
her chest. “You remind me of your last work, little wick, full
of fire and failure!”
130 | Mark Anzalone