Mother of Creation
Authored by Nina Tveden
He sat inside me.
Poised on his haunches, blood slicked and purring softly, long tapered fingers curled gently against his sleeping face. Lips slack with rest, and eyes closed with contentment.
He had just fed, and now rest was necessary for another night.
I felt him coiled in me, not quite in womb but more in my belly, close enough to my heart that he could close his fist around it and squeeze when necessary to ensure that I did exactly what I was told. I’m a good girl and I do what I am told.
The mess that was left was carnage, and with the sounds of sirens and blast of cold Canadian winter caressing my wet cheeks and chin, I had to move fast. His body was easier to lift now that he was in smaller pieces, and the overly large man who was once so proud, so full of himself with bloated ego and a sense of charm was nothing more than a ripped and severed flesh bag.
I smiled to myself in delight as I rolled the upper half of his bloated carcass over to the wedge between the brick wall and the inhumanly cold dumpster. This will be my workspace for the next 2 minutes, for the next part. Once wedged in place, blue checkered button up shirt now burgundy with his own life painted all over it, I was able to brace my foot on his chest, hearing the squish of saturated blood in cotton blend as it gushed out, the fabric unable to support such a large amount of liquid.
Blood stained my white canvas shoe, and I felt a twinge of anger for a slight moment before the tap tap of his fingernail on my mind broke through my thoughts.
“Hurry up, you’re taking far to long.” He hissed.
I nodded, brought back to the task at hand and with a swift movement removed the small hack saw I had brought with me from the backpack propped against the wall.
With a deep breath and all my strength, I braced my foot against the squishy cotton button up and began to saw through the cords and sinew of throat and neck.
Breathing heavily I hauled the last bits of the flesh bag I had carved up and placed into garbage bags into the metal dumpster 5 blocks away from the original scene. He told me to spread it out, make it less lumps of meat in one area.
Meat he called it. As any butcher would do, all animals are just that meat for the carnivorous folk to descend upon and devour. Cowering in corners, nostrils flared smelling the approach of their predator, eyes wild in fear unblinking with pupils dilated waiting, waiting, waiting….
As was this one. He had been asking for it though, he had deserved everything he got, and more. I found my cheeks wet with ill timed tears as I get behind the wheel of my little car and drove to the final destination as plotted out and planned by Him for weeks.
The road winding, and the darkness eating our tail lights as we wove the corners and glided the hills, silence as music made my head hurt these days.
“You’re doing it again,” he hissed, the coil loosening ever so slightly within my belly.
“No, I’m not.” I replied, hands clenched to the steering wheel, white knuckled. The soft chuckle like a cat’s purr,
“Now, now…we are almost done, we are so close you’ve done amazing my pet.” He soothed.
My stomach hurt, and I knew that he was starting to stretch himself out, starting to prepare for his arrival. Every night the same routine, his hands gravitating towards new parts of my body, his legs pushing against my womb just tasting all the organs and flesh that encased him. His strength growing daily and his ability to speak to me had progressed rapidly. Only 2 months had he been nurtured within me, grown and fed off my body and as it became more and more apparent each day my soul.
He was a deep dark part of me, he was the birth of something dark and unnatural that had been lying dormant in me my whole life. I had felt him as a child, when my family would ignore me, my siblings beat me, or torture me in some way. As I sit in that dark closet cramped and cold and crying, I could feel him stirring within me, the seed that was planted but not ready to come to fruition.
I would speak to him, to “it” whatever it was, whatever I felt in me that was coddling me and petting my insides like a child to a puppy. Murmuring softly and shushing me, lulling my child’s wounds and heart breaks into a satiated state. His voice had broken through my sobs in that closet, soft and low with a gentle tone of fatherly affection. At the time I felt it was finally someone, something to be there for me to want my little self to not feel so alone, and nurture me into a fully formed whole human being.
Part of that was right.
He needed me to grow, to become something that was ready to hold the full force of his nature. A vessel for him and so he could see the World through my eyes, and participate in interactions through my hands and my body. Smiles, and seduction, laughter and shyness all the wonderful pieces that were available to him.
As I grew, he grew and with growth comes hunger. Everyone knows you must feed your body to grow, and that is exactly what began to happen.
He was voracious, and my anger, my sadness my rejection became his fuel and his metabolism. He demanded that those who created these sensations these feelings were brought to him to serve out their punishment. Fifth grade saw Hudson Birza terrified and traumatized by the effects of pulling my hair, throwing rocks at me and calling me a “stupid bitch.”
That afternoon when school got out, we were ready for him as he rounded the corner behind the portable classrooms next to the shade of the tree’s and the rarely used gravel path. I had kept a pencil in my pocket from class and when I approached him, he with that smile on his face of a small boy who thought he was being funny I raised my arm high above my head and brought that pencil down on his cheek, puncturing right through the flesh, and impaling him. Bright red blood spurted everywhere, covering my pink tshirt, and some of my neck.
He screamed and screamed as the pencil stuck out of his face, and I felt the familiar comforting squeeze of that hand curled around my heart. While he flustered around arms waving radically in a panic, I just stood there finally catching him by the tshirt collar and staring into the whites of his eyes I heard a voice not of my own say, “Should you dare to recreate this story to anyone, I will come to your home, climb into your window while all are asleep and slowly devour your soul piece by piece. I will lick the insides of your heart so clean your cunt of a mother could use it as an ashtray.”
His whimpers became barely audible as I released his collar and continued my walk home. Feeling lighter and happier than I had in weeks, months…. The emotions the feelings that others placed on me I found could be released and dispelled if I only allowed “it” to do what it did best.
I often thought about Hudson Birza, and how he managed to create a story to explain the pencil sticking out of his face, and the 4 stiches that followed extraction and dental work for years. He always avoided me in the halls, and in high school he would go the opposite direction as me if he ever saw me coming. Nobody was ever the wiser, and he kept his mouth shut.
Now as I drove the windy road into the murky darkness the comforting sensation of him was with me, and his excitement was palatable, almost sexual in nature. Arousing my body, making me jittery and alive to all the sensations of the night. With the window rolled down, there was smells and sounds that permeated the night, and the wind cascading over my bare arms and cooling my flesh of my face and neck. Drying the blood splatter that were adorning my collarbone and shoulder, my war paint my prize. It was almost done, almost ready and I could not wait for the last piece of the puzzle.
I pulled into the gates, previously left unshackled but closed by yours truly from a few nights ago and slowly creeped forward along the gravel, being careful to stay on the overgrown path. This was an old cemetery, vintage and historic, standing since the settling of the community of Murrayville. The older section was littered with the original families who started here in the 1800’s and their sons fallen in World War 1 and 2 buried at the epitaph, and their daughters deceased in childbirth lay next to their children, waiting for the arrival of their spouses, who finally were laid to rest some many years later.
There next to the old section I pulled over and got out of the car, opening the back and taking out the last piece, the small garbage bag that contained my prize. There was walking to be done, and I needed to get started, so without delay I took off at a rampant pace, excited to see what all this hard work would bring me.
By the edge of the grounds, there was a rickety wooden bench, or what looked like the remainders of a bench, and I stood on it, blood stained canvas shoes on tiptoe to sling my leg over it, hoisting myself up to straddle it like a horse, and I flung my bag onto the ground on the other side.
Hopping down I retrieved my trash bag and kept moving, through brush and thicket through blackberry bush and stinging nettle, down a slightly steep incline and over roots of fallen busted rotted trees. The smell was dank and moldy, Earth reclaiming Earth and all being set to rights. My shoes were squishing in the wet mud, and I was getting sucked into boggy territory but I kept going, hearing him inside me humming happily as I got nearer and nearer, my body on fire with excitement. I could sense that he was fully awake and beginning to wiggle in anticipation, his limbs stretching out and the feet flexing against my pubic bone.
The clearing that I finally came to was on the banks of a small ravine, it was basically a giant hardened clay patch that when it rained or winter snow fell became a slick roiling river of ashy grey mineral rich clay run off into the ravine stream. This was where I had been instructed to start the “Creation” as it was named, and where the building had begun.
To the untrained eye of this area the steep clay bed seems unsteady and like it could eat someone alive should they misstep. Sucking them down into the abyss like quicksand, so many people never ventured down this way. The cemetery is not a vastly visited place on a good day, so no one is inspired much to hope a fence and continue down a trechearous bramble path to find my small ravine stream.
By the light of the moon, when the clouds shifted you could see stuck in the clay a large pole, thick enough to wrap your whole hand around and sturdy enough that when the wind picked up it could not be turned over easily.
This pole was what held together the beginning build of an almost finished product, the crudely attached arms and legs, of varying sizes and shapes, genders and skin colors. The torso was in rough shape, the bottom where the pole impaled the thorax was beginning to rot and the long trails of intestine were drooping out the bottom, starting to sag towards the roughly sewn trunk. You could see where the wildlife had started to dismember my poor flesh scarecrow and he was missing pieces of from his legs, rough bite marks adorning the ankles, shins and thighs.
“Hello lovely,” I murmured softly, dropping the trash bag next to his misshapen legs. He towered above me from legs to trunk to torso, the smell of rotting decomposing flesh strong in the night air, and turning my head from left to right I could see and hear the wildlife that was poised ready to come in. Sadly tonight there would be no feast, as tonight the last piece was to be set in place, and the creation would be complete.
Complete and ready to take on its new host.
The squirming became an insistent hammering to my ribs, and I cried out in momentary shock at the tremor that shook my whole body. He was stretching and growing, uncurling from his fetal position and testing the strength of his limbs within his confined space.
“Complete is now,” he hissed, hammering at my chest, a small child in excitement.
Bending down, I retrieved the trash bag and opening it put my hands inside to grasp the slick wet hair in my fingers and like a conquering Queen of a Viking clan pulled the severed head of my ex boyfriend out and held him up eye level with me.
His soft brown hair now clotted with blood, and the eyes rolled back and half open were stained with dried tears from when he begged for me to have mercy. I had laughed, laughed in his face as I had stabbed him over and over and over again his flabby body taking each thrust with ease, like cutting into chilled lard.
I had not wanted to damage his face, for the head was the exact purpose of his butchering and it needed to be perfectly intact. When he had ended things with me, I could not comprehend the feelings that I felt, but He did. He went wild with hunger and excitement and the steady cries from him, the demand to let him feed on this man who created such anger, such delicious rage was overpowering and I had to feed him.
I had to.
The feeling of utter calm and satiated happiness was like no other sensation I had ever felt, and when I placed my foot on his head to begin sawing his neck off, I actually was smiling during the task.
Now with his severed head in my hand and the night air surrounding me, with the full sensation of Him growing and stretching, I was able to breathe deeply and feel the finality of it all.
“Place the head upon the body, gently my friend, gently.” He whispered.
Approaching the fleshcrow I raised my final piece to the stake and with a heavy hand placed the head solidly upon the lump of meat that was someone else’s neck once upon a time.
The thumping that had begun in my chest, had now become a steady drum beat slow and rhythmic building in my ears. The World went quiet, not even the wind in the tree’s nor a rustle in the bushes was to be heard, only the steady beating of drums, that began to pierce my head, and cause stiffness in my limbs and chest. My legs went weak, I was beginning to sink to the ground, and it was louder and louder still causing me to suddenly question if it was my own heart that I was hearing or the drums of Hell?
The ground was cold and wet, the clay I could grab in my fist as I writhed on the ground, as he was a raging storm inside me now. His excited hisses and squeals competed with the drums and all I could do to keep my thoughts to myself was cover my ears with my hands. Little did I know the pain would be far worse, the rebirth would be beyond anything I could imagine, and I felt it bubbling up in my chest, my eyes wide with fear, the whites bulging from my face as I realized he was going to come out of my mouth.
He was crawling up my esophagus.
I could feel his hands pinching and grasping at the sphincters of my esophagus, using them as leverage as he slunk his way up, his excitement pulsating through him and with his excitement came my fear, as the pain became immense, and pulled myself to all fours, beginning to wretch in huge dramatic waves. My whole body convulsing and spasming as with one final wretch I felt two hands grab either side of my lips and my mouth was wrenched wide my jaw cracking as it broke, and hanging limp and unhinged.
What emerged was opaque and covered in what could only be described as a type of amniotic fluid. A small man, wrinkled and weak lay in the clay only about 2 pounds at best and no longer than a few centimeters like an incredibly malformed baby.
The parasite crawled slowly with great effort toward the creation, toward the Host and its small body moved with great purpose. Hungrily aware of how vulnerable it was outside of me, and yet to be in its home. As he made his way to the fleshcrow it lay to rest at its feet, sniffing it almost like a dog before it took one hand, with long nails and began to dig its way into the sole of the foot.
The sounds of ripping flesh, combined with sucking and popping noises made my eyes water with nausea and I turned my face away pressing my cheek to the cool clay bed beneath me. Even with my eyes closed I could hear him murmuring his delights as he wiggled his way up the body of the flesh suit he would soon wear. Finally there was a silence, and I dared to look toward it, only to find that the fleshcrow was still there, still looked the same and He was nowhere in sight. Through all of it, then there was nothing, all was silent and nothing moved.
The pause made me incredibly sleepy, and with the adrenaline completely gone from my body I found that sleep came over me in a giant wave, and I lay back on the clay and leaves closing my eyes, and wondering if this was all a dream as sleep came fast and carried me away.
The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the heavily wooded ravine, and the whistle of birds and rustle of wind were my alarm clock. The sun created a wash of burnt orange through my closed eyelids, and I hesitated to breathe.
My throat burned as I swallowed thickly, blood still fragrant in my nose and lingered on my tongue metallic and brassy. The memories of Him crawling out of my mouth made me shudder and I convulsed heavily bringing up bile, retching once again into the ravine. Shooting pain radiated throughout my face and neck, my jaw was broken, I knew it. It hung slack, and heavy with the act of perversion I had birthed only a few hours ago. I held it gingerly as I stood and assessed the new dawn.
I was cold, caked in clay and wet from the morning dew all which made it incredibly stiff to get up, and my knees cracked with the effort. I swayed as I stood, and I forced myself to look, to witness the creation that I had a hand in producing.
He was gone.
Where once stood a fleshcrow on a wooden stake now was just a wooden stake. The slightest trail of blood that snaked its way across the grey creek bed into the bushes and then disappeared up the side of the ravine was visible. The idea that at some point in the night, this bag of rotting meat had managed to get off that pole, He would have had to slide his body off the pole and remove the impale himself and maneuver his way up the ravine side back to the cemetery was a nightmare in itself.
The process of getting myself out of the ravine was a slow one, as I gathered myself sore and dirty and trudged up the small pathway, scratched and bleeding. I finally trekked to the fence line and swung my leg over, jumping down as before only this time landing on the cemetery side of things. My car thank god was still there.
Along this whole journey I looked for the fleshcrow, but there was no trace, and I could not see where he could go and hide, and when he would be back.
For I knew that he would be back. We were once one in the same, he born from my pain my misery and my psychotic rage. I had built that flesh suit for him with my own hands and atrocities that I had performed myself. He and I would always be connected, he my closest piece of myself, and I in a sick way his mother, his Olympia to my Alexander.
I sat down heavily in my car, slumping over the steering wheel, closing my eyes and fumbling with the ignition, hearing it stutter to life. Lifting my head, and smoothing my dirt caked hair away from my face, there was a hand placed upon my shoulder, dank, dirty and reeking of rotting flesh.
Before I could scream, the rotting hand of death covered my mouth, and I was encased with the smell of rotting meat, gagging on the pieces of flesh that were falling off in shavings into my open mouth.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he hissed. “We have much work to do.”
My tears streamed down my face, as the familiar face of my past nuzzled my neck, and the snake like tongue darted out to lick my face.
“We shall always be together now, and I have so many plans for us. My love, my darling, my life.” His joy was cloying and thick, and my tears came faster and hotter as I knew that I had unleashed a Hell of my own making.Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in