Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XCII. Body of Christ

11
Scott
New Orleans, LA
October 31st, 2014
The Crossroads
Time: 10:00 AM
____________________________

Spanish lullabies.

It was the clarity that clouded his mind, and it was what he heard; all he could hear. Violent, ferocious lilʼ Spanish lullabies from Havana that seeped into Scottʼs ears and burned them alive. As rain began to trickle downwards, screaminʼ as the thrashinʼ slews of rain water fell down on him, the southernwolves howled with the fury of the wind. Carnivorous vines and dirt, decay, rot...it was all the same, all trussed up, the pillars of the his sanity fallinʼ in front of him. And all he heard were the soft susurrations, the sweet voice of the...

Spanish lullabies.

It crept onto his chest, and with every note, baby bones hit the floors; all penetrated by searing shots of lightning. Blood was slick against the dirt of the crossroads, against his face, against his trusted scythe – and the thistles, the weeds showed no mercy, Slaughtered woman surged against the floor; pregnant bellies splayed open, dead fetuses between their feet, and the bodies churned out entrails. The breeze was sharp, resplendent, and when the person – no, not person...thing – sang, his muscles screamed. The sky was rotting above the Crossroads, fire screeching down its spires as the rainʼs jagged breaths sliced into his skin, and spread to his flesh. Maiming, burning, settling its scores.

    Spanish lullabies.

    All he heard.

In Blakeʼs rusty pick-up, in all her sweet olʼ glory, rocked across the trees. Past thickets of shrubbery, and stocks of plants at least a mile high. Rustic dirt matched the skid marks under his tires, the rings of red around his eyes as he took another swig of whiskey, tore through another backroad he wasnʼt supposed to, damn near destroyed his liver when he could have approached this with a clear head. Jeering to the center of the road, swerving passed the onslaught of trees and old dirt roads.

When he got out, the booze throbbed in his head like a knife to his brain – but clarity was never more imminent. Never more powerful than it had been in that moment. Clutching a black box carved from dead manʼs oak, he tossed it on the floor and chugged the last of the Tennessee whiskey down. Craving Hennessey, thirsty for Cuban liquor. Tearing the box open, smashing it open from its hinges, he found holy oil in another empty whiskey bottle. Southern comfort at its finest.

Wordlessly, he poured the oil into a Solomonʼs circle. Angrily, violently, the demonic sigil dug its claws into the earth. Grabbing a switch-blade from his back pocket, Scott bowed – kneeling to the dirt, letting it soak up to his knees, and he moved. He plundered. He let the switch-blade slice up his left arm in one fluid motion. A vertical cut, like the ones you needed to truly kill yourself. As the blood crusted along his arms, he sprayed it along the oil. Never wincing, never flinching, never cringing. He tore a sleeve from the leather confines of his jacket, binding the wound instinctively, and as he pulled out another box – birchwood, an old jewelry box – he smeared blood on top of the surface, watching it spread along another Solomonʼs circle carved into the top.

The world span. Fire hit the oil from his cigarette lighter. The clouds exploded. Thunder and lightning crashed, the forest and city lights were consumed in darkness, and Scott sat in their fury. Demons cackled in the wind, their smoke erotic and tribal in its consumption, and every struck the either. Crackling and surging and cresting into the eardrums. The wind belted, the monsters howled, the world rattled in its war cry. Older than sin, longer than time.

Scott cursed.

"Oh, come on, you f*ckinʼ parasite!" Scott howled. "Iʼm here! Iʼm finally here!"