in which GOD remains
Valtiel/Heather. For korinacaffeine.
She's strapped spread eagle a hospital bed.
It's been a bad day, to say the least, and this circumstance or position really doesn't make things better. And she hopes to god that the pangs she's having in her uterus are not her period coming, because that is just one more thing she doesn't need. She's bled too much already and had the rotting blood of others shed on her way more than necessary (and necessary consists of never at all) to feel okay at being subject to this shit. It bleeds if she struggles against the restraints, and she's had enough of that, enough of pain. So she's slack against the dirty, moldy sheets, wondering when the fire went out and almost praying that she's not adding blood to the already disgusting sheets. It sickens her, all of it, especially the amount of resistance she's put forth in the effort to break free - which is to say, none at all. She throws up a few times because of it.
The pains grow with the hours and her boredom.
Heather hopes none of the nurses come by.
She dreams of him driving a car through the snow. Cheryl was on his lap turning the wheel and they were slip sliding slip slip sliding over the slippery ice and frosted guardrail and frozen cliff and chilly air. But it was okay because they were laughing, holding each other in warmth with a smile as the car broke the ice of Toluca Lake, sink sank sunking down to the deep. In the other car sinking beside them, James waved hello, and even though they didn't know him, Cheryl and her daddy waved back.
They had a race to the bottom.
James won when someone started to tow them out.
Something's staring at her when she awakes.
She doesn't know what he's called, so in her mind she labels him as a Thing That Cranks And Hangs, which is probably the best label she's come up with for anyone so far. At least it's not Scum-Of-The-Earth Dirtbag #3, The Why-Does-That-Thing-Look-Phallic Monster, or Bitch Who Needs To Die. And Thing That Cranks And Hangs is happily cranking the valve before her round round right round baby right round in a dizzying fervor that makes her throw up again. He stops cranking for a second to wipe vomit from her lips with a dirty glove, which at first makes her scream but then she quiets and trembles at how tender his touch was. Afterward he resumes his cranking until he can crank no more.
Then he stops.
And the water comes out.
Heather didn't know she was pregnant.
When It came out, a bleeding, horrific mess, Thing That Cranks And Hangs was Its welcomer to the Otherworld. He scoops It into his arms, cradling It, humming to It, rocking It, yet most of all loving It. And when Thing That Cranks And Hangs gives her a semblance of a kiss on her dirty, sweaty, greasy forehead and a pat on her equally as disgusting hair, she breaks out in sobs because it's the only time since before daddy died that she's felt inexplicably safe and loved.
But she doesn't know how to tell Thing That Cranks And Hangs that GOD was stillborn and can't receive his world.
She continues to cry.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Thing That Cranks And Hangs grinds It into pulp, feeding It to her with a disgusting utensil while stroking her hair and wiping her tears. Heather doesn't think It tastes good and doesn't want to eat It, but he keeps stroking her head and making soft noises. She thinks she understands what's going on. She knows that she'll be forced to try on the Virgin Mary robe again because it was her fault that GOD died in her acid and confused womb.
She doesn't want It in her, but she's hungry as hell.
GOD returns with a slurp.
He's staring at her.
She dozes off, dreaming of her father giving her The Talk and Thing That Cranks And Hangs stares at her over daddy's shoulder.
He's still staring.
She knows what he wants.
She says yes.
And Thing That Cranks And Hangs is hung and driving into her, his messy skin greasy against hers as he fingers and thumbs and palms and squeezes her breasts which she thinks is sweet, really, since all he has is gloves and can't feel a damned thing but she can and it's nice, not painful like everything has been since she found Harry Mason dead dead dead, laying there as she lays in the hospital bed, restraints still locked because she knows she doesn't trust herself at all to not commit violence against their trinity, but she trusts herself to moan intermittently because Thing That Cranks And Hangs is cranking her valve, touching her even though it benefits him not, nailing, pounding, thrusting, drilling, and her back is arched against his chest and she feels something wet against her breasts, against her collarbone, against her neck, her ear, her cheeks, her lips, and she parts those to receive him as he received GOD, and oh god, oh GOD, she never thought something so ugly could be so sweet or so good
at making her come
and spurting his seed
to grow It all over again.
Heather awoke sometime in the everlasting darkness, body sore and curled up in the fetal position on a dirty hospital bed for reasons she couldn't quite remember as she laid in a comforting radio silence. She hardly wanted to leave, but it was time to return to anger, to return to static.
So she switched on the flashlight, saw herself surrounded by a multitude of nurse corpses hanged above, threw up three times, and walked out.
(Virgin Mary isn't such a virgin anymore, and maybe that's all the difference in the world.)