Pinhead ficlet - Mother
Thursday, 19 April 2007 06:02![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
immaThe power of creation was intoxicating, dizzying in its purity. He understood the urge women felt for reproduction, envied them their pains as they gave birth, laughed at their efforts with raising children into adults, knowing some of them would stand before him some day. And they would beg him for more, for sensations, for change...
Was he not the mother, the father and the midwife of their reconfiguration then? Was he not the one who drew a desperate soul out of the dreary pit of life and into a magnificent rebirth? With knives, hooks and chains, was he so different from the doctor pulling a reluctant baby into the world?
Did they not all scream in that hour, adult and baby both, blood staining their soft wrinkled skin, limbs flailing in an attempt to ward you off, to make sense, to touch and feel?
And did he not feel their pain, lived it, cherished and relished it? Bathed in its potent energy and vigour, as he bathed in their blood? Did he not care? Wipe away their tears? Soothe their fears?
He was Mother.
He was Father.
He was the only true way into the reconfiguration, and then into death when truth overwhelmed your senses and tore you apart, body and soul.
And when they cried out for their mother, she was there with them, loving and stroking their shivering frames, telling them it would be all right. Eyes dark as night, skin pale as ashes, breath as sweet as rotten fruit and vanilla... the mother of their death.
Was he not the mother, the father and the midwife of their reconfiguration then? Was he not the one who drew a desperate soul out of the dreary pit of life and into a magnificent rebirth? With knives, hooks and chains, was he so different from the doctor pulling a reluctant baby into the world?
Did they not all scream in that hour, adult and baby both, blood staining their soft wrinkled skin, limbs flailing in an attempt to ward you off, to make sense, to touch and feel?
And did he not feel their pain, lived it, cherished and relished it? Bathed in its potent energy and vigour, as he bathed in their blood? Did he not care? Wipe away their tears? Soothe their fears?
He was Mother.
He was Father.
He was the only true way into the reconfiguration, and then into death when truth overwhelmed your senses and tore you apart, body and soul.
And when they cried out for their mother, she was there with them, loving and stroking their shivering frames, telling them it would be all right. Eyes dark as night, skin pale as ashes, breath as sweet as rotten fruit and vanilla... the mother of their death.
