I stare as Adam’s finger slides across the mouth of my wet, empty glass. I contemplate his hands that make mine look like a child’s in comparison. That is, of course, until I catch glimpse of something else: there’s a finger waving disapprovingly at me, and it’s the larger of two hands on my wristwatch. Perhaps that’s my conscience scolding me. I had played coy with Adam for some time now. I look back and the glass is filled again, and I drink of it. My watch, though still wrapped around my wrist it may be, disappears beneath the sleeve of my shirt. Adam tells me the music in the club will soon play at deafening levels. It doesn’t matter which of the 3 floors you’re on, it’s all metal music. They call it the “Krazy House.” A great place to get the wax knocked out of your ears. That should be their tagline.
“I thought you didn’t drink, Micah.” Adam said, leaning in close.
“I don’t.” I said as I set the glass down. It was empty again. He laughed.
“Well, that’s obvious.” He said, and flagged the bartender for another. “You’re not supposed to down them like that.” I watched his mouth. “Last one, pup,” he added.
I took it like a shot. I can’t believe I agreed to come to this place: ‘Liverpool’s biggest student night out!’ The music started playing louder. Look at them! I wanted to say to him, look at the enthralled thrashers banging their heads in reverence to the Black Queen. He leapt from the barstool—leaving me feeling rejected—and joined the masses. What the hell, why not?—it’s not exactly dancing, more like zombies flailing in a pit. Clearly no one here knows how to dance to heavy metal, if such a thing is even possible. I move with my left, then my right, in an attempt to march to the beat of the Black Queen, but I do not enlist to join the ranks of her army. I blame the alcohol for weighing on my bladder.
“I’ve gotta pee,” I shout. He follows behind.
I stumble into the men’s restroom and I am deafened by now muted sounds. It stinks. There’s some kind of commotion coming from one of the stalls. Never have I been so religious, but now I am compelled to kneel before the altar and offer a tithe from within. It feels like every last ounce of liquor comes rushing out of my throat, a sort of bile cocktail. It does not, however, appease the god whose gaping mouth summons me close enough to taste the piss and shit smell that permeates this hallowed hell. (Maybe it’s the sick talking for me here.) I linger at this fountain of filth as if praying until I am lifted to my feet by Adam.
I am forgiven by my Messiah who is warranted to trespass and possess my Temple with thieving paws that tickle my abdomen. His finger traces my neck and jaw and then slides across my lips. I can taste my vomit on his digit, but my mind is elsewhere. Perhaps intoxication (or lust) inclines me to wax poetic. His hands move down.
“Who is like G-d?” He whispered as his tongue lapped at the back of my ear.
His hands knead the dimples at the cleft above the lily-white mounds of my swayback, and my conviction is tested. His breath like the north wind upon the nape of my neck stirs heady in my nostrils. Oh, spirit, my spirit; inquisitive spirit, mine spirit with whom I now wrestle. I try to resist, but like the heretic, the good that I would I cannot do—for beholden unto me, my redeemer has risen and desires to fill me with the knowledge of him. My spirit as the kneeling camel asks for more, more to bear, and the silver cord around my waist is loosed (with purpose I hope of fulfilling the emptiness within), and my control is relinquished unto him.
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As with my other works, this piece is still being worked on. For the poem version of "Release," click here.
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