PART 11: The Man Who Had Everything and The Woman With No Art
The Man Who Had Everything lay very still, as the woman gently removed his soiled clothing. When she moved, lifted him to ease off his shirt, a great pain took hold of him. and he screamed like a frightened child. Somewhere inside, something vital was broken, and he cried. Tears ran down his face, clear liquid spewed out from his nostrils, and dripped into his opened mouth.
She hushed him, with the gentle tones of a mother. She stripped off his pants and his underwear, and wiped him clean of his piss as tenderly as she might an infant. He watched her as if from a great distance.
Soon he lay as naked and as blameless as a baby. She stood over him, stretched out her hands over his supine form, and again that breeze lifted at hair, but this time that same air teased at his flesh.
A ripple of change moved through him, as though he was as mutable as water, as if in his body some odd tide rose and fell at her command.
She, The Woman With No Art was a Moon, and he felt the fierce pull of her will in every particle of himself, in every part of his anatomy.
She was changing him.
"What are you doing? What do you do to me?"
"I am healing you. Or rather, fixing you," she smiled, "You were not ill, you were broken."
"YOU broke me!" The Man Who Had Everything was horrified to hear the petulant tones coming out of his mouth. A lifetime of bad habits could apparently not be healed by a few minutes of terror. Healed, or was it fixed?What ever she was doing, he was becoming more than he had been before. An exultant power rose in him and threatened to overflow in a triumphant shout.
He heard her joyous laughter "Wake, Michael, be glad, or mad as the will takes you. One thing you will never be again is the man you were before. You belong to me. Now you are mine, my very own."
Manuela Cardiga
She hushed him, with the gentle tones of a mother. She stripped off his pants and his underwear, and wiped him clean of his piss as tenderly as she might an infant. He watched her as if from a great distance.
Soon he lay as naked and as blameless as a baby. She stood over him, stretched out her hands over his supine form, and again that breeze lifted at hair, but this time that same air teased at his flesh.
A ripple of change moved through him, as though he was as mutable as water, as if in his body some odd tide rose and fell at her command.
She, The Woman With No Art was a Moon, and he felt the fierce pull of her will in every particle of himself, in every part of his anatomy.
She was changing him.
"What are you doing? What do you do to me?"
"I am healing you. Or rather, fixing you," she smiled, "You were not ill, you were broken."
"YOU broke me!" The Man Who Had Everything was horrified to hear the petulant tones coming out of his mouth. A lifetime of bad habits could apparently not be healed by a few minutes of terror. Healed, or was it fixed?What ever she was doing, he was becoming more than he had been before. An exultant power rose in him and threatened to overflow in a triumphant shout.
He heard her joyous laughter "Wake, Michael, be glad, or mad as the will takes you. One thing you will never be again is the man you were before. You belong to me. Now you are mine, my very own."
Manuela Cardiga
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