Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.

[tezcatl-ipoca.livejournal.com]

Friday, 19 September

The horror's ended. I felt it: a slow drain of something downwards into the land of something. A saturation. It went through me - it went through everything - and I think it was something I used to know. I felt it settle into soil and stone and thought: Oh. Please. That. I want that.

I curled up around the wanting for a while. Part of me was still in the horror. It was the oldest nightmare, of course. I think I can still smell rotting flesh, like it's caught in my nose. I try to snort it out, but it won't go.

But it's not in the hallway any more when I go out, or on the stairs, or anywhere in the building. People shut their doors when I go past: do they know it was my dream that occupied the house? The body stinks of sweat. When I'm out of town I stop and swim in the river as if it can wash more than the smell away. After that I think of going back, but I don't. I feel like I've been so afraid, during the horror, that I don't have any fear left.

I follow the pull and the memory together to what was home, once.

[Open to Genny]