Triaminic Glycerol

[TW]

You blew dust in the eyes of the Deliverers of Divine Justice. And the air grew cold and frigid and they withdrew their last breath.

You took a step back. Turned to face the bigger man. The One Who Waited. He was 5'3, a shroud around his head, robes the colour of ash swirling just beneath the inside of the floor.

He, just like you, is in the Now, чи зараз. So now he takes a step back, leaving a metre between the two of you. His brow furrows as yours straightens. He asks what you most desire. You reply:

"Freedom from Freedom,
the Knowledge of what
I truly want."

The One Who Waits draws a small table out of the smooth, cool ground, raising his hand like so, testing the waters, getting an idea of it. The table now rests at about the height as his knees. Atop, a decanter of oil. He beckons you to come closer. You close the metre between you, get close to the decanter, regard the lipid, swirling ever so subtly. You turn to the One Who Waits.

He raises his hand, breaks the seal on the decanter. Red opaque wax becomes brittle on clear crystal. Flecks of it fall upon you like dandruff.

Carefully, carefully, the One Who Waits lifts the decanter. The colour of jaundice, gold as the sun, catching the light, refracting back to you. You take it from him, respire the scent of it, of it all. Of him, of the situation. You hope it will all have been worth it. Once again, you will Take a Step Back. And then another, all the way back until the One Who Will Wait will be nothing but a mote of dust suspended in a beam of light within a dream.

You will sit on your bed. Shoes on the table, hat perilously near your mattress. The decanter, opening exposed to the environment of your room, will sit on your bedside table. You will drink it. But not yet. Wait a bit. Look around.

2 years of work, an oak tree in a B&M pot, an Ikea bookcase filled with kid's books you feel bad about throwing away. A rocking chair, a large gaping crack in the wall, 36 piles of clothes you never bothered to put in the wash. A ham radio, headphones inc. 5 decks of cards, a desk covered in scars.

A bed, bedsheet upside down to conceal the childish design, because the last time you went shopping for bedsheets was your first. You will sit on the bed, leant forward a little, something invisible quietly choking you.

And you, as slowly and delicately as the flowers that bloom, will reach out for the bedside table and grab what you know is on there.

You will find two thing, one in either hand:

Lake City Quiet Pills, the nifty aluminium box brushes itself against your fingertips. Your favourite mint.

And the decanter.

9mm long, outer sugar shell buzzing with electrons. You'll think to take a mint. As it hits the roof of your mouth, you'll tilt your head to quench your thirst on lemony jubilance and slick oleaginity.

Dripping from your lips, pouring on the floor, hands shaking with glee, the glee of Freedom from Freedom.

You'll decide to spread some on both wrists, lubricating what will be transfixed.

Gaze desperately at the sky, blind and burn,
retinal irritation is an afterthought now.

Wipe your hands on your face, but that oil never leaves.

Lie on the floor, regard the pattern on the ceiling.

And then you Know.