My eyes, heavy with crust from an unwanted sleep, open up to the sky. A deep red glow from above permeates everything, and it feels like anger on the rise. "My heart is up there in that sky,"
I think. Caustic trails of smoke glide through the air and hang with impertinence and I can't shake the thought of not being able to breathe. I
inhale as I must. The poison air feels like slithering worms that chew chasms from my lungs to the rest of my body. Each breath sends me into a fit of throat spasms and coughing.
A tremendous field stretches before me as far as I can see. I have
heard of this place. On several occasions I had been told it was wrought from pure terror. I had wondered when I would be sent here. The unchecked expanse of the field demolishes
my spirit. My eyes even yearn for blindness so this crushing blow can be blotted
from my view. It is at times like these when I wonder if, perhaps, I’m unlucky,
having been blessed with the ability to see so clearly the true wretchedness of
things. The field resembles the terrain of a desert, offering mostly gentle
slopes with an occasional short cliff. And despite the gradual landscape, the
field is a severe host of unparalleled and continuous pain. It teems with sheets
of torn metal, some large and mangled, standing like grotesque trees and others
the size of slivers, waiting with barbs to tear my skin and anchor into my flesh. For every piece of
metal there is also a piece of glass. Piles of it litter the ground in every direction while larger pieces - clear, curved and jagged - jut into the sky as wicked
spires.
I have no shoes, so I begin to run barefoot. I have no choice. I
have been forced here because of my willingness to trust the untrustworthy,
because of my willingness to put myself in harm's way for those who eventually don't deserve such sacrifice. And, what's more, if my gait slows, then something more horrific than glass and metal will cut me. I recall the many warnings, that grave and serious
voice of the child. She told me about the Blood Thieves. They will come after
me. They know I'm weak. They want my blood. They want to push my body to the
edge of life over and over again, to feed them forever. I scan the horizon in
all directions. I don’t see them . . . yet.
Through the field I run carefully as I can, but my effort still fails to avoid the lacerations and tears. Some gouges are deep. On the worst wounds my
skin recedes like a slug stabbed with a sharp stick, exposing the fat and muscle
beneath. At each cut, my skin falls slack and begins to flap in the rushing wind.
These flaps of skin become thousands of wretched personal flags . . . banners
of terror, of seething anger, of epic disappointment . . . and of sadness that,
with the most fiendish malevolence, could detract the happiest of smiles. My blood
pours and pours onto the field, painting the glass and metal with dark red.
I hear the first of the shrieks. From afar, they sound like woeful birds of prey, hungry and desperate. Their hunt is in full stride. Their malignant cries are accompanied by the sound of glass shattering and metal warbling as thunder as the field's debris gives way to their frenzied march. I steal a shaky glance toward their incessant noise and I see the first of them mount the crest of a glittering hill. They spot me and the volume of their shrieks pierce the air and smoke, causing the nearest sheets of glass to fly apart. I can see the drool and froth shimmer from their corners of their mouths. I pick up the pace.
I'm now running from a century of Blood Thieves, malefactors frantic to drink of the nutrition I leave behind on slabs of glass and clamoring for the chance .
. . the chance to pick at my severed veins and point them into their selfish, greedy mouths. They are relentless and indiscriminate. I can hear them
screaming and groaning as they grow nearer. Soon, I will see the full breadth of their disfigured
bodies, their ugly faces. They are the epitome of humans taking, taking, and
taking – all around, the most wretched of human parasites. I'm in their territory and
all I can think about is getting to the end of this field, where their strength
wanes and mine doubles.
But even the outermost borders of this awful field will not stop
the stronger ones. They will follow me home and visit me from time to time as
uninvited guests. Blood Thieves are always uninvited. They will enter my home by force and, sometimes - in my weaker moments - with my consent. They'll pull out their blood kits and stick me
with crusty needles attached to tubes, and I'll watch my nutrition flow and gurgle unto them. I'll
be able to kick them out eventually, but none of this will be possible unless I
can make it home, unless I can remember what I am worth.
I keep running. I trip and suffer the misfortune of being embraced
by a thorny, metallic tree. The Blood Thieves arrive at my heels and begin
shrieking . . . oh, the hideous shrieking, the screams of my forthcoming
downfall. They surround me with steaming hot wire brushes and employ them
ferociously, rubbing salt into my wounds to add flavor . . . and pain. I pass out briefly and then regain consciousness to the sound of ravenous chewing and evil
snickering.
And then, I realize there is something inside of me that they can't
possibly eat away. It is a pure, unchecked will bred from my past, a perseverance sourced from titans, a knowledge of the generous love I am apt to share. I tap into this
reservoir, a hidden chamber of my heart. There, I find a resilience that many forget to cultivate, especially as they overlook taking care of
themselves.
