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were accompanied by a deafening chorus—whether it was
laughter or screaming I couldn’t say, but it was glorious. You
stand the same miserable chance as they!
I rose to my feet upon the stained and shifting mattress,
shedding the last vestiges of bondage. The angel reared
back, spreading several pairs of strange wings impossibly
wide, their tips disappearing into the distance. The many
shackles and irons holding it fast clinked and rattled in
protest, making for a rolling dissonance like an army of
tormented ghosts tethered by the chains of past sins. “Why,
you careless little beasts! You’ll get your comeuppance for
that! I’ll have you praying for the safety of your beds!”
Oh please, big brother, my sisters begged, let us play with
the soft wet toys that lay behind those big funny eyes of his!
Please, we’ll make such a beautiful mess! You’ll love us for
it, we promise!
I was never one to refuse my sisters their fun and
fancy. “My sweetest sisters, I could love you no more than
absolutely, beautiful mess or no. Please, have your sport
with him.” They smiled like serrated blood moons as they
plunged into the bulbous eyes of the mad-maker, bursting
them like overripe fruits. The angel shrieked as blood poured
from them like a draining pig at slaughter.
While my sisters explored the cavities of madness
reposed behind the angel’s excavated eyes, I took up my
impatient father. What sisters you have, whelp! See how they
thrill in the blood and death? You could learn from their
wild abandon! All your cleverness is but foreplay afore the
agony! Now boy, feed me blood! Feed me death!
My father’s unchecked rage became my own, and I
bellowed with such fury, my throat bled from the strain. I
leapt over the stricken, restrained creatures of the endless
bed, my father held high like a killing sun, my rage hewn of
solid fire.
The insane angel was busy desperately digging my
sisters from the depths of its skull when my father crashed
314 | Mark Anzalone