Carpark Demon

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This being a story I wrote in collaboration with Frostilicus, sage artist and the wisdom behind babies in danger. all these illustrates are his.

this creature, this me, crouches against the side of the mountain under a pine tree and carefully sidesteps the avalanches. it is a shape all bent out of proportion by its jacket and hood, red against the white-out. it snorts snow into its cold raw nostrils and

the angels or apes of the sky are white and dark grey, I see them crouched inside the atmosphere, bitten by lightning and greedily sucking at the thin air. they throw deadly cloud bursts against the sharp mountain edges. how much they hate the real world. how much they hate the snow tides shaking back and forth, ebbing and flowing against the cold dry rocks. they hate the mountains. they hate them.

they don’t have time to notice me. they don’t have time to notice what I notice. they don’t have time before the god-king of the mountains leads his people up in angry war against the clouds. they don’t have time to do anything but shake loose a desperate blizzard or two before they are dragged to earth and chained in hot caves.

the war in the skies above sends fragments of mountain hurtling loose and boils up whirlpools of burning snow. the god-king snatches the angels out of the sky and pulls them to earth in his terrible fists. I hear the clouds shriek when the burning chains crunch closed around them. I see the bloody ropes of steam that leak from their sides and they don’t notice me. they don’t notice me. they don’t notice what I notice.

they don’t see the hikers and the day trippers lurching down the mountain paths and breaking their legs and arms against the hard edges. they don’t see the cars pull out of the rocky carpark with their windscreen wipers spasming and bearded faces leering against the foggy glass. they don’t see the ambulances and police cars whirling up the mountain smash face to face with the desperate tourists lurching down it. they don’t see the quiet figure crouched ready under a pine tree, high above the carpark. they don’t notice me.

I wave goodbye to the humans as they tumble loosely down the side of the mountain and I wait under the pine tree. they have never looked under the pine tree. all of them rattle their legs and arms over the mountain and they drink coffee and wrap scarves around their throats. they never looked under the pine tree. their eyeballs never filled with my red and their vision never distinguished my outline crouched under the pine tree. hot shards of rock cut my cheek and the snow whistles in terror under my feet. I shift my feet, bare feet treading gently in the soft frightened white.

at last one comes, quickly tracing down a ruined hiking path. it is a human it is a human being and it was hiking in nature’s sanctity before the mountains went to war against the clouds. it shuffles cautiously on to the tarmac of the deserted carpark. it glances cautiously up at the mayhem sweeping through the wind and the sky and then creeps one foot at a time pressing its toes down hard on the gravel to keep itself balanced as the mountains tip and sway.

when I see it clearly in the safety of the carpark I run gladly down the slopes towards it, grey and glossy in the foggy light from the thick swirling cloud-battles overhead. it catches sight of me, the sight of my laughing lips and my friendly hands bending open as I skip lightly down the rocks and slither gracefully over the patches of snow. I am the sweetest cherry of the mountain and it is afraid of me.

the noises coming from its mouth are long and hollow, suddenly breaking off and shifting, whorls of air current patterned by its curved and carving throat. the imprint of its windpipe hums like an oily drum. it sings to me and I run to it, smiling hopelessly smiling, my eyes sweet with electricity and it runs from me. it whirrs its body through the air and struggles away, its feet flapping on the road and hollow rasps of air choking through its system.

so I chase it through the snow with my nostrils sparked open and a red umbrella, a dirty devil red, a stinking cherry red, a red to match the dried blood red of my hair, the caveman red of my blinded eyes, the warped LED red of my fingernails where they cut into my palms and I drip down the slopes like the mountain’s period and concentrate on my target,

my carpark demon.

he is clumsy among the shaking rocks and he is terrified of the armageddon breaking loose from the sky above him. the god king screeches a triumph that quivers on the wind like a static charge and his barking troops rattle the metal they clutch to their black seared bodies. the great sky apes moan in anguish as the mountain warriors bite into their throats with cold stinking rust. my carpark demon is afraid and it is easy for me to jump from boulder to exploding boulder, my bare feet hot sticky with my blood, until I fall to my feet in front of him and touch his crotch with my hand. he falls to a stillness and his eyes shimmer and gloss with tears.

now I befriend him. now I take him home with me. now I feed him juicy sultanas in a room with a bright red carpet and red walls. now I lower the ceiling while he sleeps. now I name him and ask him to name me. my one possession. my true love. my object. my acquisition. my bit of the world that I brought in to me. my personality. my sex. my charm and my bad luck. my face my fangs. my leprosy. my individuality. my glue that ties my arms to my shoulders and holds my face to my skull. my afternoon tea and my bucket to vomit into. we sit close together in the evenings and I open his mouth for him when he wants to speak. this is not a one way relationship. he likes the way we are together. he likes the time I take to make him what I want him to be. he tells me over and over how happy he is. he repeats it with a clicking stuttering smile and his eyes sputter spastically. he is so proud that he can be what I want him to be! he is eager to surrender his past and develop in the identity I offer him! his joy ripples in his skin and squeezes his blood vessels tight, in ecstacy he writhes at my feet. after a few hours he jumps on to the internet and makes a web page inviting other creatures to come and live with us. oil splutters on the screen and burns our faces, but still we lean in together, our cheeks hot together, our jawbones pressing hard uncomfortable. the internet responds to our web page and many creatures lunge down into it. soon they scurry through the warm buzz of the modem and they squash in the room with us. bodies stumble out of the internet and splash desperately on the carpet, one after another or many at once. it is an emotional time and my face bloats with expressions, but there are too many to look at and no-one can see my face because there are so many faces and our faces lodge into other faces. we do all the things that friends do when they are together and we do those things. we never get bored of being friends and our friendship is the glue that slowly hardens where we press together. there is not enough electricity to light the room and we all hold hands in the dark. soon the air starts to snag and clog and each outward breath feeds the hot broth that we share in our lungs. there are so many of us here, we are choking in this tiny carpeted cave under the mountains. there are so many of us rasping in the awful air and choking on each other’s flesh and shaking with claustrophobia. there are so many of us. it is not lonely.

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