i.

bacchic worship begins on your knees.

ritual dictates days in ambrosial haze;

this could feel like god if you let it

sink into your skin

cradle your face

look at you, wondrous thing.

they call you good and you could almost believe it.

do you call it god if obedience comes so easily? is it obedience when no alternative exists?

soft traces of your body in rest and desperate grips in heat could convince you;

soft confessions of the self in bedroom secrecy almost do.

ii.

holiness ends with the hands.

exaltation martyrs you right there and then;

this feels just as radiant as you

admire the sun-glazed eyes

watch as they widen in panic

believing you're as good as they call you.

almost.

could you stare into the face of god long enough for it to be love? how long can love last

before you turn away?

they kiss you goodbye like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you keep staring until they disappear.

from the splintered earth the vapor, seeping,

possessed the shrieking oracle,

— spine near-broken.

my answer / imminent,

splits her mind — as it is apollo's intention — open

visions of a cleansing inferno.

[all i had ever wanted, god, was to know.]

from a prayer's end the echoes, haunting,

compelled her to speak,

— eyes worship-misted.

her plea / sudden,

demands of me — as it is another of god's tests — heaven

over autonomy.

[all i had ever wanted, mother, was to be.]

away in a taxi from the first touch, speeding,

crescendoed conflicting thoughts,

— voices psyche-rending.

god's response, timely,

comes in the form of a bus — as if it had always been there — burning.

an accepting calm —

[all i had ever needed.]

Everyone talks about how they're currently 'obsessed' with a new thing. Be it a show, movie, celebrity, band, or whatever. The word 'obsessed' has been watered down and misused, shoved into the media-friendly hole cut out by society and studio executives.

No one remembers, or at least talks about, how terrifying and all-consuming real obsession is.

Those who don't talk about it would prefer that people forget. They want people to forget what it feels like to dive headfirst into something that eats away at you at every passing moment, because they feel as if that type of symbiotic relationship is too terrible to acknowledge. Whenever they talk to someone who uses the word to describe their latest interest, they force a smile and a chuckle as flashes of their past actions in the name of their definition of 'obsession' briefly appear before being shoved back into the space in their mind they never talk about.

As a self-proclaimed reformed obsessive, Tris hadn't found himself in this situation for quite some time now. It took him a long time to claw out of the very deep pit he had dug for himself, and he never wanted to feel that way again. He prided himself on how far he had come since the last incident that made him realize how unhealthy it was for him.

"Right," he muttered to himself, "everyone relapses. Doesn't mean my progress was all for nothing. This is the first in years. I should be proud of myself."

The last of the cement that was holding the brick in place finally gave way, allowing him to remove it and awkwardly contort his body to slip through the hole. He just barely managed to stop his foot from slipping off the table he had forgotten was there. Once through, he hopped off the table and surveyed his surroundings.

Last he saw of this basement, it was still in use, but now everything was covered in dust, from the shelves lined up against the wall next to the stairs to the little work space. Even the stainless steel tables that used to be lined up were now stacked on top of each other against the corner to his far right. It looked like no one had been down there in ages.

It was perfect.

He quickly made his way up the stairs to make sure the door was locked before going back down and retrieving the bag he had left outside. As quietly as he could, he set up and wiped down one of the steel tables before emptying the bag of its contents. The objects clattered softly as they landed. Tris quickly surveyed the items before discarding the bag and picking up a little green box. Its surface glinted against the stray beam of moonlight that shone through the hole he had made, revealing faded inscriptions that ran across it. Tris never found a way to decipher them, but all he needed was for it to work so it never mattered to him.

He ran his finger across the inscriptions slowly, following the ridges and divots while focusing on what he wanted and hoped the box could give him. What he read on it said that it could, but he had encountered multiple fake artifacts claiming the same before he found this one. After he had traced over the last letter, he opened his eyes to see the box start blinking. He placed it on the table and hopped onto it, sitting cross-legged and trying to rein his excitement in.

Soon the blinking stopped, and the box glowed softly as a little hatch opened up at its top and started beaming a soft green light. The light flickered and glitched, before stabilizing. Tris waited a few minutes before a shape started forming in the light.

A low, gravelly voice sounded from somewhere on the box. "Who are you?"

"Tristram Cornélie. My friends call me Tris." He grinned.

The shape started becoming more clear, as if it were slowly approaching what Tris now assumed was a screen. "How did you get this artifact?"

He sheepishly grinned. "I, uh, dug through the trash behind the museum?"

"How do you even know this exists?"

"Listen, I didn't throw most of my life and all of my relationships away not to know something like this exists. Now, I told you my name. What's yours?"

It hesistated. Tris had waited too long and lost too much for an opportunity like this to be dissuaded by a little hesitation.

"I... I don't have a name."

His brows furrowed. Who doesn't have a name?

"Maybe if I could see you I could suggest a few nicknames? If you'd like."

The form on the screen shifted slightly before coming closer, revealing first a pale, sickly void where a nose should be, followed by the top of a lipless mouth and the start of what Tris figured were huge fangs. It seemed to realize that it was too close to the screen before stepping back, revealing milky-white eyes with the barest hint of irises and pupils. It seemed nervous.

"I think you look like a Sam. Is that okay?"

Despite the cataracts, Tris could detect a flicker of surprise in them. "O-okay."

Tris shifted his position, hugging his legs. "So, what are you?"

"I'm a Ghast."

"Aghast? At what?"

The corners of its mouth, stretched thin due to centuries of starvation, slightly rose. It shook its head. "No, I'm a Ghast. That's what I hear the humans call us, anyway."

He nodded. "Do you have any friends?"

Sam's head slightly lowered. "Not really. There used to be a lot of us, but we had to scatter because of the humans."

"It's okay, neither do I."

A beat of silence passed.

"So," Tris began, "do you want to be friends?"

Sam looked genuinely surprised, which made Tris feel a little bad for it, but at least they were both in this together.

"Okay."

Tris smiled.

#challenge #prose #obsession #tristramcornelie