SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

YEAR FOUR | Sit.18: The Insult & The Injury

BOREDOM

Tick, tock, tick, tock
the only sound I hear
how can one be so lonely when
another is so near?

a couple should be sanction,
but all I feel is dull regret
for being stuck with someone
whom I they just don't get

we busy selves with hefty task,
but yet the silence remains
and words that should be loving
end up nothing but refrain

It's not that I don't love this one,
or that they don't love me
it's that I think we're doomed to rot
in isolate reprieve

this place is foggy danger to us
everything's a threat
the wilderness cares not for love
it cares what it can get

and jealousy is ever worse
the claws that scar the deepest
for even if we made a friend
we'd anger for their secrets

I fear they will stop loving me
if I allow them freedom
yet freedom is the air I breath
and I must not impede them

is truly thus apocalyptic
if one or both doth stray?
if love we look for somewhere else
for just a couple days?

I used to think that was the end
of golden-ringed bond,
but now I hear call to escape,
and run where's not yet fond

"Compare thyself to prize of gold
and know that you are lesser",
this insult spoken not aloud
but felt by the depressor

if only we had neighbors
ones who cared for us in turn
to lighten load of burden's labors
communal fire to burn

but everyone is jealous still,
they hoard their loving warm,
and we hoard ours more in return,
and worsen lonely storm.

* * *

The leaves were starting to fly away. Yellow, red, orange, some already brown and spotted. When I was done milling wheat and feeding the animals, I took a break to watch the trees. Then, it was time to harvest squash. As far as vegetables go, they were one of my favourites – all you had to do was cut them into halves or quarters, scoop out their guts, and bake them for an hour. The little hand-carved sundial next to the kitchen window kept the time for us. You could even separate the seeds from the guts, and put them in a pile in the middle of the tray. When all was done, you had dinner and a snack. Those meals I helped make, of squash fried with onion, beans, and strings of herb... those made me feel warm, and safe. The smiles and compliments from my housemates, who were more than happy to try my cooking, made me feel skillful, and appreciated. For what it was worth, I hadn't worn my father's skull or my grandfather's cloak since I arrived – only my mother's boots. But there were other times that made me feel heckled, harassed, on-edge, weak, and completely alone.

I'd told the couple that I was 'mooning', which they took to mean bare-assing, and thought that was my "long overdue" acceptance of their invitation. When I clarified that I was on my after-blood cycle, I was hoping for some understanding – surely The Ranger at least could relate to the frenzy, shortness of breath, cramping, and self-betraying thoughts that occurred when one was in heat. A person could scarcely be held liable for what went on in their mind at those times, save for some incredible self-control, and help from friends through distraction... or satisfaction. The separation between mind and reality was the only safety I had to keep from letting myself into drastic, disparaging, or outright disgusting circumstances. The Artist and I had been merely three days apart, both for blood and heat; each wonderfully stressful week on opposite sides of a month, with only the remaining two weeks between them, in alternation: blood, rest, heat, rest. When the two of us went through this together, it was a storm of passion, compassion, and emotion, dashed by sudden crying over past traumas, and finally we'd arrive at some well-earned bliss. I could make us both tea, and we'd sit peaceful in quiet one minute, and be yelling at each other for very little the next. For all her faults, she supported the woman in me... if, perhaps, it was often at the expense of the man. While he was alive, The Author, on the other hand, knew nothing of what it was like for us - yet he still showed his care by keeping distance, talking us through, and sitting with us in his lap one at a time, his lanky arms wrapped around our bellies to keep the pain at bay. It was platonic affection, like The Eagle showed me, and it taught me when I was safe to relax – that I wouldn't be taken advantage of for my heightened state.
The Jack and The Ranger showed no such understanding. The Ranger had recently become infrequent, a sure sign of age, and soon infertility. My youth made her clingy at some times, and she'd hug me for minutes straight, hoping I'd rub off on her some final chance to conceive. It also made her jealous, and she'd feed my vegetable rations to her horse if I seemed I was enjoying the amorous crest of sensitivity just a little too much. I was given space and honey with which to wax, and I focused on my face being that honey was in sparse supply. When I felt beautiful and confident, The Artist would kiss my cheek and affirm it... but The Ranger would bump my shoulder and make me drop firewood, and pretend to be sorry for me. Between passive aggress and subtle abuse, I was starving for attention and for lunch, which I'd begun to skip entirely. But The Ranger was only a small part of my problems.
The Jack had been growing bored with his wife's age, she told me, and was less and less oft' paying her mind.
She said, in confidence while crying, "He just doesn't look at me the same way anymore. Not like he used to."
"He will, he should," I reassured her, and rubbed her back.
She asked, "Am I still beautiful? Am I hideous?"
I replied, "I can assure you with ease, age has left both of ye with but stature and wisdom. You're as beautiful as an Olympian, and just as champion."
She grew red in the face, and tried to kiss me.
I sadly had to put my hand between our lips, and said, "Sorry, but I'm still quite broken about my last love."
She pouted, "It's been a month! And what you just said was so... you spoke to me the way he used to."
I was so, so sorry to not be able to give her what she wanted – or needed – but giving in could only worsen her sense of control. I was not her horse, who could be broken and tamed with the split-whip and confidence. I could support her in words, but reserved touch for between the two of them. I needed it too, but I needed freedom more.
The Jack had no such intentions; not to make up with his wife, nor to give me freedom. The loneliness of being the only of his kind around made him gravitate to me, two of darker skin like leaves on the same branch to him. He dismayed his othering to me almost daily.
"I just can't BELIEVE there aren't more like us up here in Scotland! Can you BELIEVE that? We gotta take over this joint, you an' me. And my wife, of course."
"...Right," I replied. "Yeah, I'll call the whole tribe, you got a rhino horn I can make into a trumpet?"
He seemed astonished. "Would that work?"
I busted out laughing. "No, not at all."
He laughed, too, but it was a lot forced, an' I think he felt the joke was on 'im.
For that, he later kicked over the goat's trough, spilling the water all over the pen. It ran between their hooves, and soaked dirt into mud, while the goats brayed and trotted to the far edge to dry grass. I watched him do it, from around the corner, and when he saw me he yelled:
"HEEEY! NEED SOME HELP HERE! The goats got at this trough, AGAIN! Someone musta busted the leg on it, or somethin'!"
I sighed and got the barrel onto the cart so we could fill it up again. Only when he 'supported me' by keeping his hand on my back did I understand this was a desperate ploy, and soon enough his hand was on my waist, and then up my shirt.
I turned to him, pulled his hand away, and stopped the cart. "Your wife misses you. She wants you to see her like you used to, like there's petals in her hair and stars in her eyes. Can you do that?"
He groaned. "Look, baby, I know you got that thing between them legs and some hair on you, but this face of yours drives me wild, and ye ass in my workin' pants that I bought for you. An' when you smell like blood on those days, and like an animal on those other days... boy, girl, I don't care, I just wanna-" He tried to paw at me again.
"Cut it out," I yelped. I was at peak hysteria, and my demon demanded that I let him have me. It began listing off all his qualities as well as what he might do to me if I didn't give in... what I stood to lose. I stood stern.
He spouted off, "You're not much to look at, aight, but I'm a nice guy! I'm doin' you a favor, if you think about it. Not many people up north LIKE moors, even fewer like whatever you are. An' I don't see that red-head of yours comin' round to look for you-"
"Stop," I insisted.
He looked hurt. "I ain't into men, alright! But it's LONELY out here. I see you, lookin' at me. Your eyelashes flutter, I can tell it's for me, baby, just let me in an' I can help you-"
"Actually," I cried, "you can help yourself." Tears found my eyes quite against my own will, and I walked away from him, but he yelled after me.
"COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, OR I'M KICKING YOUR DISGUSTING ASS OUT!!" he threatened. "YOU WANNA SLEEP WITH THE BEARS, YOU'LL BLEND RIGHT IN!! I'M JUST TRYNA DO YOU A FAVOR, HONEY!!"
Embarrassed, I went back through the woods to the cabin, and sat on the edge of their unborn child's bed.