The Binding

Chapter Four

A week passed with days of monotony and nights of extreme sensory agony. A stack of books were piled on the table to my left. I had spent the day working and was about a third through a manuscript my boss had sent me a week before. Gods, Angels, and Witches: Battles of the Supernatural by Sally Ross. It seemed the universe did, in fact, have an ironic sense of humour. The margins were littered with notes to myself for possible translation choices and areas I needed to research further— for both personal and professional reasons.

I'd finished a chapter on the worship of the Egyptian goddess Isis across a vast number of civilizations. It discussed Isis and her sister Nephthys' iconic depictions with wings, a prototype to future angels, as well as their seductions of their brothers. Isis fused with the Greek goddesses Aphrodite and Demeter until her eventual evolution into the early Christian Madonna. Oh, I bet the Catholic Church just loved that.

My days were better than the nights. During the day, I was able to keep myself distracted with work. Distractions were my reprieve when they weren't torturing me. Earlier that morning, I had spent half my time trying desperately not to attack a barista in a small café. The smell of fresh coffee beans wafted around me when she started the grinder. The scent was heavenly, and my shoulders twitched, forcing me to grip my chair and lay my head on the table to keep myself from knocking her over and shoving my entire face in the bag. The mind-numbing frequency of these sudden impulses was debilitating.

By the time the sun had set, I was curled on the floor of my apartment, slowly going insane. At night there was nothing I could do to stop it. The impulses would have their way, and by nighttime, I couldn't keep them repressed any longer.

I wanted to build a fire, but I didn't have a fireplace, which was probably a blessing. I couldn't be trusted. Instead, I curled myself into a ball, sucking on ice with all the windows wide open. A serrated knife was lying next to my head. I had set it there an hour before, watching it, waiting.

How do we know when we are losing our minds? How can we know for sure? The notion that the insane never know that they are losing their minds is too easy. They know. Of course, they know.

Immortality, it had to be a fantasy. Was it a fantasy? Eyeing the knife, I wondered if I would heal? I pressed the sharpened edge with the pad of my thumb and stopped. The tip of the blade was easing into my forearm but hadn't pierced the skin.

I wouldn't heal. I knew I wouldn't. They told me I wouldn't, not yet. How long would it take before I'd know for sure? I needed proof, but I couldn't have it. What a sad twist of fate, being given immortality but only on the most basic level. I slid the knife across the floor away from me. I wasn't stupid or reckless enough to test my own mortality.

Someone was playing music nearby; it pounded through the walls like a thrumming salsa, the beat echoing under my skin. I groaned and rested my face on the cold hardwood floor. There was nothing more I could do. I wanted to touch everything, feel everything, taste everything all at once.

It was too much, dozens of desires attacking me at the same time. The cold floor felt sensational, but a breeze kept brushing across my back was making me shiver. Moaning, I pulled a blanket over my head, blocking out everything but the feel of my skin pressed against the hardwood.