I sat naked and sprawled out in front of the mirror, flaccid penis in one hand, empty revolver in the other.
Lazily I lifted the revolver and took aim at my image. The hammer slammed down on the empty chamber firing would be shots at my face and chest. I modeled in front of the mirror, placing the gun under my chin, at my temple, in my mouth.
The fevers were coming back. It took tremendous effort to breathe. The whole room stank of sweat and the miasma of illness pervaded the room. It was hard to move, hard to keep my eyes open. I focused on the crucifix in the corner. In the flickering candlelight something had caught my attention. I struggled out of my chair and shuffled closer to the crucifix, staring upward into the corner where it hung. Jesus was missing.
I was spun around and Jesus shook me by the shoulders, screaming in my face, his crown of thorns pushing into my forehead, bloody spit flying off of his lips: “You fool, I died for your sins!”
I sat bolt upright in the soaked bed. The room was dark, silent except for my panting. My hands searched for the pitcher of water. I tried to drink, but my throat felt tight. I collapsed back into bed, but the sweat had cooled, making the bed insufferable. I shuffled to the door. I pressed my face hard against the wood. The bedsheet wrapped tightly around me I wandered into the hallway. When I again emerged from the haze and noticed my surroundings, I found myself in the chapel.
I slowly remembered where I was, and the events that had brought me to this Brazilian monastery. My thoughts turned to Nwargo. I hoped he was well. It was an odd thought since I had just seen him two days ago, sitting up in bed, complaining about how his eggs had been prepared. My head slumped forward against the pew.
A gentle hand awoke me. My eyes refused to focus. I couldn’t stop shivering. Cold. My teeth chattered and I shook so violently, I thought my bones would snap.
Sunlight filtering through the small, high window of my cell woke me. Your letter, Ranger, was next to a fresh pitcher of water.
I agree that it is unlike Sarge to act in such a manner as to betray his comrades. To contemplate his betrayal causes a black hole of despair with no hope of escaping. I cannot think of it. He cannot have betrayed us. If he has betrayed us, then there is no Canada worth fighting for, and I should die. Still, I cannot place any trust in him for the moment. Going to Cairo as he suggested would have been foolhardy. Caution dictated calling upon a few favors and hiding Nwargo and myself here in Brazil while he recovers.
The peace of the monastery is seductive. I will do my best to enjoy it before the fevers come again.
-Cpl
Showing posts with label lack of carnal pleasure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lack of carnal pleasure. Show all posts
13 March 2007
20 February 2007
Ranger - The Reindeer
Sarge,
It is cold. The last few weeks the weather has been as low as -31 below. Bitter, though not entirely unexpected here. When I am out for prolonged periods, I check my heart rate and systolic pressure, thinking of Corporal and our cold-weather training. Winter is a time of death.
The cabin near Rogers Pass is quiet at this time of year. It does not appear anyone has been here in some time. It was amusing to find the map of the London Underground still here, your knife holding it to the back of the cabin door. I had entirely forgotten that night, your absurd scheming and laughter. How long has it been since we lived our own lives.
I have been able to check in briefly with Calrissian. I was uncertain about what was happening in Ottawa, and frankly, I believe he is as well. He advised me to disappear for a while, and that he would be in contact. I could not bear the though of deserting my post and so I will wait for death here, or on whatever assignment I receive next. As for now, there is something to be said for bow-hunting caribou rather than facing another human being through a rifle sight.
I hear the sounds of howitzers in the background, clearing the mountain paths.
And before I forget. Toynbee. I was able to make it to Vancouver and the downtown eastside. He was there, though it was some time ago. I checked in at his favourite hotel where I learned about a recent murder. Unfortunately, one of many there. The murder was reported in the local news, but a few key pieces of evidence were omitted. Presumably, the police needed to hold a few details back to identify the murderer, but I can imagine the army was not entirely pleased with what was found. After a few friendly drinks, and some time with a hostess (I eschewed her brand of hospitality, and unfortunately our conversation was not as interesting as I would have wished), a witness confided in me that the corpse was found with a devil’s brigade patch reading “Das Dicke Ende kommt noch.” Toynbee was always an excellent student of history, if not German.
In my present circumstance, I have no way of knowing whether the assassination was rogue or per orders. Only the wolves speak to me here.
I did learn one other thing from Ottawa, though it is now common knowledge. Segoline Royal’s comments in January were not well received, and belie the nature of the ties between the French government and Quebec’s sovereignty movement. I believe we may all be reunited in Bordeaux at some time in the near future.
Ranger
It is cold. The last few weeks the weather has been as low as -31 below. Bitter, though not entirely unexpected here. When I am out for prolonged periods, I check my heart rate and systolic pressure, thinking of Corporal and our cold-weather training. Winter is a time of death.
The cabin near Rogers Pass is quiet at this time of year. It does not appear anyone has been here in some time. It was amusing to find the map of the London Underground still here, your knife holding it to the back of the cabin door. I had entirely forgotten that night, your absurd scheming and laughter. How long has it been since we lived our own lives.
I have been able to check in briefly with Calrissian. I was uncertain about what was happening in Ottawa, and frankly, I believe he is as well. He advised me to disappear for a while, and that he would be in contact. I could not bear the though of deserting my post and so I will wait for death here, or on whatever assignment I receive next. As for now, there is something to be said for bow-hunting caribou rather than facing another human being through a rifle sight.
I hear the sounds of howitzers in the background, clearing the mountain paths.
And before I forget. Toynbee. I was able to make it to Vancouver and the downtown eastside. He was there, though it was some time ago. I checked in at his favourite hotel where I learned about a recent murder. Unfortunately, one of many there. The murder was reported in the local news, but a few key pieces of evidence were omitted. Presumably, the police needed to hold a few details back to identify the murderer, but I can imagine the army was not entirely pleased with what was found. After a few friendly drinks, and some time with a hostess (I eschewed her brand of hospitality, and unfortunately our conversation was not as interesting as I would have wished), a witness confided in me that the corpse was found with a devil’s brigade patch reading “Das Dicke Ende kommt noch.” Toynbee was always an excellent student of history, if not German.
In my present circumstance, I have no way of knowing whether the assassination was rogue or per orders. Only the wolves speak to me here.
I did learn one other thing from Ottawa, though it is now common knowledge. Segoline Royal’s comments in January were not well received, and belie the nature of the ties between the French government and Quebec’s sovereignty movement. I believe we may all be reunited in Bordeaux at some time in the near future.
Ranger
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