They spoke of tender things as the birds flew above them.
Long had they had worked on this and now that the work was nearly complete the space between them warmed once more. But it was a different kind of warmth; a warmth born of loss and sacrifice. A warmth born in the moment between conclusion of intent and a new world unknown. Between knowing and unknowing. They spoke through the birds, having cut their lips and removed them from their body. Their lips, their skin and most importantly, their blood.
They thought blood was enough because there was no one to tell them blood was never enough. Small cuts grew to larger cuts. The fur of the plush rabbit that had guided them turned from brown to maroon as it soaked up their blood. When they could cut each other no more she picked up the rabbit and, using her paring knife, cut a slit down its belly. Together they pulled out the fluffy entrails and soaked them with their blood. This they cast at the foot of their creation, the result of their work together. They knelt before it as if to pray.The birds went silent but continued to fly in a circle overhead.
The first gift he'd brought to her: apples. He dropped them as he presented them to her. She picked each one up, admiring the bruises. The splintered floor they fallen upon had torn patches of the apples’ skin. She piled the apples carefully on a cracked bone china plate covered with painted roses. She’d never seen or touched a rose. The apples covered the painted roses. They sat before the plate of apples for a time. Then she led him to the dirty mattress lying in the furthest corner of the room. On the floor next to it sat seven candles.
She lit two and crawled, clothed, beneath the frayed blanket covered with fading dinosaurs. He followed, nervous, and pulled the blanket gently over them both. They did not touch and eventually slept.
The second gift she brought to him: a paring knife with a broken handle. He accepted it, grateful, but was unsure what to do with it. She produced a paring knife of her own and held it in front of him so that he could see the handle was also broken. Lowering it, she reached out and took his hand—the first time she touched him—and led him to a small coffee table opposite the plate of apples and far from the mattress. In the middle of the coffee table sat a dented mixing bowl full of tomatoes. She picked one up and with her knife, carefully peeled the skin off, spilling not drop of tomato juice. He attempted to do the same but the skin tore and juice ran down his arm. She came up behind him and reached her hands around to guide his. She did this for two tomatoes. He did the rest by himself and, with the last tomato, succeeded in not spilling a drop of juice.
She lit four candles and allowed him to lie naked next to her beneath the dinosaur blanket. She wore ragged clothes that smelled of sugar and opium. He closed his eyes and focused until his breathing was steady in his chest. He did not touch her. It was a long time before he fell asleep.
The third gift he brought to her: A bundle of sticks tied together with a strip of oil-stained cloth torn from his jeans. She accepted the bundle in her outstretched arms. He built a fire in a concrete bowl next the cracked window which he propped open with seven unread books. She knelt in front of the fire and lay the sticks in the flame. Together they watched them burn until only ash remained and the fire went out. She reached into the warm ashes and rubbed her fingers together. She withdrew them and drew a sigil on his forehead and a matching one on hers. This was the fifth gift, and it was for both of them. The sigil warmed his skin and he knew it would remain there always.
She lit six of the seven candles and removed her clothing before slipping beneath the dinosaur blanket. He did the same. They did not touch, but after she fell asleep he reached over her and took her stained t-shirt from the floor and lay it atop his pillow. This time he fell asleep quickly.
When he awoke he felt the sigil’s shape as it wrapped a warm embrace around his head. She was not in bed. He dressed and searched the small apartment but she was gone. He could leave too but anywhere he might go would be empty without her. He would wait. If she did not come back, let him join the dust covering the floor. He sat, cross-legged, in front of the plate of bruised apples, the first gift. The bruises had grown darker. He stared at them, hungry, but he did not eat nor touch the apple. He sat like this for a long time but she did not come. His stomach growled and his body ached. He was thirsty. His head ached. He ignored all of this and did not move. Eventually, despite his concentration, sleep overtook him.
This time when he awoke he was naked and many birds were painted on his skin. This was the sixth gift. She was sitting next to him and, seeing that he was awake, reached over and touched one of the birds, a small crow on his belly. The crow took flight and circled over them. She touched another, a raven on his shoulder, and as he watched with wonder it also took flight. She lay her naked body next to his. As they made love, all of the birds on his skin took flight and flew above them, circular, creating a cocoon with their flight. He cried when he climaxed and she touched his tears with her finger, drawing them to her body. He could not see, in the dim light of the seven burning candles, if she cried too. She guided his hands until she climaxed. Moments later, she arose and opened the window. All of the birds flew out.
This was the seventh and final gift. Now they started their work.
The plush rabbit they found in an alleyway near the apartment the first time they went outside together. He was lying on his back on the wet pavement, a rain storm having just passed through. They crouched down next to him. She picked him up. He was covered in brown fur with a white streak across his back and his opaque plastic eyes held them both. They knew he was to come with them. Once back at the apartment, the rabbit sat on the dirty mattress and guided them through their work. When they went for supplies the rabbit told them what to get even as he remained in the apartment. In this way they gathered wood, wire, nails, canvas, paint and other things. All of it for the work.
Once they had all the supplies they began to build. They worked, naked, without resting. They did not eat and they did not touch each other. The air in the apartment grew cold. They framed the canvas and painted many doors until they painted one to the rabbit’s satisfaction. Then they built that door, first of wood and nails and wire, until the rabbit instructed them to wind their skin throughout the door and its frame.
This they did, using their paring knives. The knives, dulled further from the previous labors, tore their skin instead of slicing it clean. The pain was great but neither cried out. They collected the ragged pieces of skin and entwined them with the wire on the door and its frame. Their blood collected on the floor, their tender things exposed to each other. After this, the rabbit went silent. They sacrificed the rabbit and lay his blood-soaked remains in front of the door.
The birds flew back into the room and they knew they were done. The birds cried songs in a thousand different languages as they circled overhead. They knelt and spoke of tender things to each other through the birds.
When there were no more words to exchange, they linked arms. Organs and viscera falling to the floor, tender things covering the remains of the plush rabbit, they pushed open the door and stepped through. The birds, crying no more, followed.
Long had they had worked on this and now that the work was nearly complete the space between them warmed once more. But it was a different kind of warmth; a warmth born of loss and sacrifice. A warmth born in the moment between conclusion of intent and a new world unknown. Between knowing and unknowing. They spoke through the birds, having cut their lips and removed them from their body. Their lips, their skin and most importantly, their blood.
They thought blood was enough because there was no one to tell them blood was never enough. Small cuts grew to larger cuts. The fur of the plush rabbit that had guided them turned from brown to maroon as it soaked up their blood. When they could cut each other no more she picked up the rabbit and, using her paring knife, cut a slit down its belly. Together they pulled out the fluffy entrails and soaked them with their blood. This they cast at the foot of their creation, the result of their work together. They knelt before it as if to pray.The birds went silent but continued to fly in a circle overhead.
The first gift he'd brought to her: apples. He dropped them as he presented them to her. She picked each one up, admiring the bruises. The splintered floor they fallen upon had torn patches of the apples’ skin. She piled the apples carefully on a cracked bone china plate covered with painted roses. She’d never seen or touched a rose. The apples covered the painted roses. They sat before the plate of apples for a time. Then she led him to the dirty mattress lying in the furthest corner of the room. On the floor next to it sat seven candles.
She lit two and crawled, clothed, beneath the frayed blanket covered with fading dinosaurs. He followed, nervous, and pulled the blanket gently over them both. They did not touch and eventually slept.
The second gift she brought to him: a paring knife with a broken handle. He accepted it, grateful, but was unsure what to do with it. She produced a paring knife of her own and held it in front of him so that he could see the handle was also broken. Lowering it, she reached out and took his hand—the first time she touched him—and led him to a small coffee table opposite the plate of apples and far from the mattress. In the middle of the coffee table sat a dented mixing bowl full of tomatoes. She picked one up and with her knife, carefully peeled the skin off, spilling not drop of tomato juice. He attempted to do the same but the skin tore and juice ran down his arm. She came up behind him and reached her hands around to guide his. She did this for two tomatoes. He did the rest by himself and, with the last tomato, succeeded in not spilling a drop of juice.
She lit four candles and allowed him to lie naked next to her beneath the dinosaur blanket. She wore ragged clothes that smelled of sugar and opium. He closed his eyes and focused until his breathing was steady in his chest. He did not touch her. It was a long time before he fell asleep.
The third gift he brought to her: A bundle of sticks tied together with a strip of oil-stained cloth torn from his jeans. She accepted the bundle in her outstretched arms. He built a fire in a concrete bowl next the cracked window which he propped open with seven unread books. She knelt in front of the fire and lay the sticks in the flame. Together they watched them burn until only ash remained and the fire went out. She reached into the warm ashes and rubbed her fingers together. She withdrew them and drew a sigil on his forehead and a matching one on hers. This was the fifth gift, and it was for both of them. The sigil warmed his skin and he knew it would remain there always.
She lit six of the seven candles and removed her clothing before slipping beneath the dinosaur blanket. He did the same. They did not touch, but after she fell asleep he reached over her and took her stained t-shirt from the floor and lay it atop his pillow. This time he fell asleep quickly.
When he awoke he felt the sigil’s shape as it wrapped a warm embrace around his head. She was not in bed. He dressed and searched the small apartment but she was gone. He could leave too but anywhere he might go would be empty without her. He would wait. If she did not come back, let him join the dust covering the floor. He sat, cross-legged, in front of the plate of bruised apples, the first gift. The bruises had grown darker. He stared at them, hungry, but he did not eat nor touch the apple. He sat like this for a long time but she did not come. His stomach growled and his body ached. He was thirsty. His head ached. He ignored all of this and did not move. Eventually, despite his concentration, sleep overtook him.
This time when he awoke he was naked and many birds were painted on his skin. This was the sixth gift. She was sitting next to him and, seeing that he was awake, reached over and touched one of the birds, a small crow on his belly. The crow took flight and circled over them. She touched another, a raven on his shoulder, and as he watched with wonder it also took flight. She lay her naked body next to his. As they made love, all of the birds on his skin took flight and flew above them, circular, creating a cocoon with their flight. He cried when he climaxed and she touched his tears with her finger, drawing them to her body. He could not see, in the dim light of the seven burning candles, if she cried too. She guided his hands until she climaxed. Moments later, she arose and opened the window. All of the birds flew out.
This was the seventh and final gift. Now they started their work.
The plush rabbit they found in an alleyway near the apartment the first time they went outside together. He was lying on his back on the wet pavement, a rain storm having just passed through. They crouched down next to him. She picked him up. He was covered in brown fur with a white streak across his back and his opaque plastic eyes held them both. They knew he was to come with them. Once back at the apartment, the rabbit sat on the dirty mattress and guided them through their work. When they went for supplies the rabbit told them what to get even as he remained in the apartment. In this way they gathered wood, wire, nails, canvas, paint and other things. All of it for the work.
Once they had all the supplies they began to build. They worked, naked, without resting. They did not eat and they did not touch each other. The air in the apartment grew cold. They framed the canvas and painted many doors until they painted one to the rabbit’s satisfaction. Then they built that door, first of wood and nails and wire, until the rabbit instructed them to wind their skin throughout the door and its frame.
This they did, using their paring knives. The knives, dulled further from the previous labors, tore their skin instead of slicing it clean. The pain was great but neither cried out. They collected the ragged pieces of skin and entwined them with the wire on the door and its frame. Their blood collected on the floor, their tender things exposed to each other. After this, the rabbit went silent. They sacrificed the rabbit and lay his blood-soaked remains in front of the door.
The birds flew back into the room and they knew they were done. The birds cried songs in a thousand different languages as they circled overhead. They knelt and spoke of tender things to each other through the birds.
When there were no more words to exchange, they linked arms. Organs and viscera falling to the floor, tender things covering the remains of the plush rabbit, they pushed open the door and stepped through. The birds, crying no more, followed.
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