It felt like sacrilege to think of her this way, even then, with her severed tongue in his mouth. His girl. He didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t. But he couldn’t take the burning anymore. Every nerve in his body was inflamed, flickering flickering. In the heat, he’d grown senseless. He would be standing in the corridor, an object in his hands. Where was it that he was going with this? What room? What was it that he was even holding? He’d go back to the kitchen and start again. Yes, I’ll retrace my steps. Where was it that I was going with this? He’d say aloud. The thing he was holding. He couldn’t make out its shape, its corners, its texture. He’d been holding it for so long he couldn’t feel it anymore. But my hands hurt. But his hands hurt. And he couldn’t feel the thing he was holding. He couldn’t make out what it was. His fingertips ablaze. Be a candle, he thought. Be a candle, she had said to him. She said it over and over, instructive, preacherlike. Be a candle. Let it happen. They were in the park. Under the oak tree. Look at that. There was a little boy coming down the path on a red bike with stabilisers. The stabilisers fought hard to keep up with the wheels. How they made an awful sound, tumbling, rolling, clunking and slamming on the stony path. She didn’t like the sound either, his girl. She grimaced, tightening her grip on his arm. It hurt. She held it so hard he thought he would lose it. Oh well. I have another one. She loosened her hold as the little boy disappeared around some corner, he wasn’t sure which one. The sound of the stabilisers weakened to a gentle rattle rattle. She kissed him on the left side of his face, his girl, and stood up. Brushing the leaves and the ants from her skirt, she followed the sound - rattle rattle - until she disappeared around some corner too. He rubbed his cheek. The kiss left a sharp sting. He was certain that it had left a mark too. And so it had. Every day thereafter, he would gaze at it whenever he passed his own reflection. In the bathroom mirror, he would spend three-quarters of an hour inspecting it before bathing. It was hypnotic, you see. And beautiful. It had brought a vibrant quality to his otherwise insipid countenance. There it was, on his cheek. It was grey and blue in the middle, coarse and rough like coal, but arresting and charming like a human eye. Deep, serpentiform lines of violet and crimson danced carefully around the nucleus, winding and winding. He knew what it was. A storm. He was the first person in the whole world with a storm upon his cheek. What a gift he had been given. Sometimes he would feel it stir on his face. It would tickle. He would laugh. It would begin to rain outside. He would feel the burning a little less. God bless the little storm on the left of his cheek. He wouldn’t dare touch it, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, no. He wouldn’t dare. That would be very bad, something in his heart echoed. So when his girl observed him lovingly without ever uttering a word about his storm, or when she raised her sweet hand to touch his face and reached only for his right cheek, he was ever so happy. She gave it to him and only he knew of it. It rained every day and everything burned a little less and his girl loved him dear.
One dark night, the rain stopped, and he awoke with his eyes already opened. How odd. It was alright, he supposed, perhaps the clouds grew tiresome. They had been weeping for a fortnight now. The storm still stirred on his skin, ever so slightly. He rolled on his side to go back to sleep, facing his girl. Her soft breath reaching his arm. All was calm. A few short minutes passed. He began dreaming. A gallery. The room seemed endless, white walls stretched across an empty plane. He searched for an endpoint, a crevice, to no avail. They were alone too. Not another soul roamed the space. They both stood, him and his girl, in front of a rather peculiar painting. Or two. A diptych. Was it telling a story? He found that he didn’t care, neither did his girl, and so his eyes quickly fell away from the first scene. He was struck by the other panel. The painting depicted a man strung across a table, being flayed. A handful of other men were getting to work on him. The skin of his left leg coming off first, being peeled like you would a tangerine. Flesh exposed. He was transfixed by its barbarity. He stood there for some time, his mind willing the small people in the scene to move, to put a stop to such evil. There had been a sound too, its origins outside of the room. His girl didn’t seem to hear it, and he wasn’t sure when it started. It wasn’t so bad. Until it got louder. Rattle rattle. His skin began to hiss, a few scorching needles prickled him from underneath. How horrible. That burning again. The needles multiplied. Rattle rattle. And suddenly it was no longer a rattle, but a barrage of clanks, violently ricocheting around the endless room. No, the sound had to be coming from outside. But it was so loud. How horrible. My cheek’s wet, he thought. Laden with moisture. Cold, sticky. The air had become bone-dry. The space too had shrunk. There’s that back wall. Closing in.
He awoke. He was in his own room again, on his bed, rolled over on his side. He felt a weight pressing down on him. Some outside force, some fiend. I daren’t move, he thought. It felt as light as a small child. It could so easily be moved with the swing of his arm, and yet he could not bring himself to lift a limb. I daren’t move. Wet on his cheek. He felt his storm being stifled. So he lay, wholly struck with fright, feigning sleep.
It was her. His girl. On top of him. Her ravenous tongue extracting his storm from his cheek, peeling away what she had once given him. With each gravely swipe, he retreated into the burrows of his burning paralysis. Her mouth’s dew did nothing to extinguish the flame that ravaged him. It simply took, and took, until no storm remained on his cheek. Be a candle. Melt beneath me. Even as the sun climbed above the horizon at dawn, he waited, still and steady and afraid. The beast resumed its deep slumber. They would lie there like this for the better part of three days.
And a grueling three days pass. Motionless and grief-stricken, he had observed the beast as it hibernated. The rise and fall of its curved chest. Night into day. Day into night. His beloved storm remained enclosed behind its lips. His heart ached for his storm. His body ached for respite from the heat. He could no longer endure it. He had laid for those three long days, bereft of his storm, waiting for the fear to subside. No more. I’m sorry, he said, rising, reaching for the beast. I’m sorry, he said, as he clambered on top of its torso. The beast who was his girl could not be roused from its sleep, because his storm awaited him behind its lips, keeping it at bay. It’s either her or me. It’s either her or me.
Oh, but he had loved her! He cast his mind back to that day at the park. Under the oak tree. His girl. His girl and her lightning kiss. As he propped its mouth wide open with his thumbs he thought of how she came back that day with the red bike, smiling. No little boy. No stabilisers. He outstretched its tongue on his fingers. He’d asked her where the kid went. She toyed with the bell on the red bike. He bowed his head, his mouth meeting the beast’s. Ding. He took the limp belt of flesh between his teeth and clamped down hard, gnawing and tugging. A well of rich fluid cascaded from the puncture he created, fashioning a dark ring around his mouth, the excess trickling down his chin. All at once he felt replenished and absolved of the sweltering temperature that had been consuming him. He felt cool. His skin and body and soul anew. He repeated the action; gnawing and tugging, falling into a perfect rhythm, gnawing and tugging, until the organ tore completely free. It felt like sacrilege. But it only took a few gulps to go down. He could feel it brewing in his chest, restoring his broken heart.