The last supper

Published 8:25 am Wednesday, July 28, 2010

He knew it was risky. All the while, he knew. But therein was its attraction. Perhaps it was the peril, the danger, the intoxication of escaping once again, making ordinary activities drab and mundane in comparison.

To get caught would have dire consequences and alter the course of his life. It would impact not only himself, but all those close to him.

But it didn’t matter. Not now.

It started simple enough. Just “playing around the edges” he liked to think of it. Toying with what he could quit at anytime. Looking around, remembering friends who had succumbed, he comforted himself with thoughts of “their” weakness and his strength; “their” lack of control and his self-control. “He” was cut from a different cloth, cast from another mold, designed with better prints.

As with most things of this sort, his descent started natural enough. It was a legitimate desire, possessed not only by him, but all that he knew. Furthermore, who was he to deny himself? To stroll through life without tasting her offerings and drinking her wines? To disregard the banquet?

Looking back, he could not quite place his finger on that time when the reins passed from his hands to another; when he went from controlling to being controlled. It crept into his thoughts, like smoke drifting through caverns, claiming ground and building fortresses to defend its new territories.

All he knew was it was now life itself to him and existence apart from it was unimaginable. The spaces between its indulgences were simply respites to plan another. It intoxicated like nothing else.

And so, the day started, not unlike any other, with desire gaining its foothold.

From afar, he spotted his prey as his veins swelled with adrenalin. There. There was the spot he craved, just below the hairline exposing clean, soft flesh.

He landed, as he had landed a thousand times before, and commenced his routine. Thrusting his mandible into his victim, he found that red liquid around, which his entire life now revolved. He savored it. He reveled in it. He lusted for it. Knowing the danger fueled his passion to continue. “Almost done,” he whispered to himself.

But this time, the telltale shadow that had always in the past betrayed the incoming enemy was somehow quicker. The hand seemed to come from a different direction, thwarting his usual escape route.

Spreading his wings, he lifted off the fleshy runway, the blood dripping as he rose.

A callused index finger interrupted his flight, pinning him back again to the place he once craved. He felt a “crack” along his back as darkness enveloped him. Then he felt nothing at all.

“Damn horsefly,” muttered Roger, rubbing his neck as he watched the creature, like a disabled helicopter, twirling to the ground.