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(Page 2 of 8) The Cuckoo pt 2 by Luke Allison "Before we ever truly learn to love?"
My hand brought up a wood match, striking it on the bedpost, and the aurous flare blinded me for a moment.
A rush of disgusting air puffed into my face. I thrust the match forward and caught a glimpse of a bloodshot eye, and an ulcerated, weeping sore where a nose and cheek should have been. Then something struck my chest and I fell backwards, my elbows bouncing off the wood with enough force to splinter it.
Pain made my head swim, and I vomited upwards, choking and spitting as whatever lay on top of me dug its fingers into my cheek and nostrils. For I moment I was completely stunned, ineffectual, confused, disgusted. I felt droplets of saliva spattering my filthy face, and my attacker began working its hand down my chest, walking those same fingers which had awoken me in a straight line towards my groin.
My head cleared, then, and I began to fight, thrashing, struggling, spitting vomit, snarling like a caged animal.
"Come back with me!" the thing atop me hissed. I felt its cancerous breath wash over my face, and the shape of its head began to lower toward my lips. From mere inches away, it screamed like some monstrous infant and began to speak in cooing tones. "There there, little flower, little mouse, little stone. Don't be frightened. Don't push, don't prod, don't fight." The face was directly in front of mine, yet all my eyes could make out was some patchy hair atop its head and a glistening wetness in its center.
Then it stood, abruptly, legs to either side of me, and I could see that it was naked but for a ragged pair of boots. Instantly, I pushed myself to my feet and ran towards the door, hearing a sound like a sniffling sob wafting from behind me as I wrenched it open and stumbled out into the dirt track.
From my left, I heard the squalling anguish of a woman. From my right came a boisterous howl of intoxication.
n the oily midnight, the mind plays tricks. A reaching hand is revealed by a flame's glow as a tree branch. A snuffling fiend turns out to be merely a gust through the chimney flume. A finger in the dark stroking a thigh is just a kindly mother assuring that all is well.
Then comes the wakeup.
I felt blind, helpless, caught up in the very arms which I had been taught to avoid since my first thought. Gramat's night opened wide and tasted me. I turned, arms throbbing, head spinning, and waited as the one who ravished the restful began to emerge like a slick red newborn through the doorway.
Every scrap of passion within my being said to run, yet my logic whispered that there would be no safety in the stretching night. Caught between a gibbering violator and the back alleys of my city, I was at a loss.
The figure in the doorway began to move forward, then, and my mind made up itself. Turning to the right, I ran.
Behind me, I heard another sobbing infantile scream, followed by the sound of bare feet hitting the hard-packed lane.
My long legs pumped spastically, muscles in my thighs and back already cramping with the sudden surge of motion.
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