Father Above, Son Below

a story in the form of a poem about a regretful man and (possibly) his demons

Gaia provided the perfect spring night for a murder, I thought.

I would question my intentions if it wasn’t for the romantic that inhabited my head, I thought

I would go for an unyielding pain in my chest and come back for the same snake, I thought

I would succeed in beheading that romantic in my head, finally, I thought

for it had been eating away at my stability, and my sanity was at stake;

I thought I would go and ask the same old question again.

“Maybe the rain has changed her mind,” I said to myself that,

“all rainy days,” we’d say, “are ours.” We thought, rainy days called for shelter. 

We would take them into our home and make them ours.

We would sit by the fire and read the prophecies of our favorite poets.

We would immortalize the rain and remember the previous days.

I would give her away my children but in return I would receive none.

She would say it wasn’t her doing, that she hardly had control

but I know she prayed away her soul to remain oh so beautiful, I know,

I thought maybe another rain would clear her sight. I thought

I would go for the sake of the albatross hanging around my neck

and come back for an oh so godly snake. I thought I would go.

Gaia was by my side. It was a perfect night to commit a crime, as one would call, I suppose.

The path I traced turned into mud, and the night howled like an angry father.

The further I went, the closer I got to pray. 

“I will not tonight,” I said to myself, that “I will not pray for her.”

Soon after, she was right there. She said “Knew you would show up, aren’t you sinister?”

I nodded. She smirked, then said “Have you come because of the rain?

I knew you would show up.” 

I asked her “Will you haunt me?” She smirked, and a prayer came dangerously near my lip.

I would not pray for her. I would not. Nevermore 

she would get a prayer out of me, never again. 

“You expect I say yes to that, don’t you? You, sinister you. You won’t go without, 

now, will you?” she said calmly, expectantly, as if half asleep, “Want my word?

I knew you would show up, bless me.” she said.

She poked at my old albatross and let out a chuckle, said “He’s around here somewhere.”

Gestured somewhere around her, and twirled around, dazed, distracted but calm.

I pulled out my knife and told her I did not care where he was, he was near, always.

I told her we prayed to different gods. It was true, so true but she deemed me a liar,

a betrayer and a sinister with the same smirk on her painted, disrespectful lips.

I could not help but part my lips for a breath, and there slipped out a prayer.

“A good game, you play.” I said. My knife found its way into the side of her silky neck.

I asked “Will you haunt me?” The night roared like a father,

angry and heavy with an almighty sorrow.

She argued, “Come for a man who cannot keep his word,

who is mighty jealous, unforgiving, possessive; who attempts murder for a word?

Bless me, I will give you nothing! You thought I would give in, am I wrong?

Have you not miscalculated the strength in me, the faith in me, now?

Don’t you hear? Aren’t you insistent. Now, where does the snake lie? 

Bless me! You don’t know, do you? Ignorant you.”

I took my knife out of her neck. I prayed to the father above and the son below.

I wiped my knife on her shoulder. 

“My children,” in a moment of despair I asked, “where have you taken them?”

The romantic in my head, I thought, would give me a chance never again to look for them.

She gave no answer, only smirked.

I thought, maybe I knew the wrong god. “To whom do you preach?” I said,

“You should have given me my children.”

She said, “My prayers are my own business, now, am I wrong to assume?” 

I half-heartedly agreed. “Is he a stranger to me? Given your heart to a strange god, have you?” 

I asked again, “Won’t you haunt me? �"

Will you not tell me that?”

“I am not the snake, you know. You do know, don’t you?” her hands went a little limp.

“To whom I pray is my own business but you know, whose woman I am is legally bound,

and I assure you, you know, my promise is yours, sinister you. Don't you know?

You showed up.” The night was an angry eagle. A father cried like a dog.

I became dangerously angry because the romantic in my head, 

the uneven, distorted, damn romantic in my head

spoke a poem for the unyielding pain in my chest I had gone there for.

It had a painful sound, the poem; a pure, pleasant but a very painful sound.

It was like a whip landing on my bare back, ripping apart my sins in the worn out skin

of my back. I had barely said to myself “Gaia has my back,”

when I found myself praying to every god I knew and every god I knew not

when I saw her soaked with pomegranate juice.

My crooked Persephone let out a graceful whimper, and said

“Oh, mother! Leave this old murderer for he has stained my dress �"

but don’t you leave him yet, for he has taken your child from this earth, mother.”

The night was a prison warden, a judge, a reporter and a doctor. 

A shriek came from underneath our feet.

She said as if half asleep, “Now go, will you not? Father will come. Will you go?

It shall rain again.”

I turned to take my leave. The old albatross hung heavier around my neck.

“Will you haunt me?”

“Do I not always?”

Author's Note

feedback is appreciated!

Reviews

[G.A. Grim]

I am intrigued, and definitely would like to read more. Some parts could use more details. Perhaps a backstory. But nicely done.
- George

[redalia]

thank you for reading and for your comment! i think you're right about it needing a backstory. i might end up writing something like that, it's a fun alternate reality (or whatever you'd call it) to write about.