Arrow Rock Literary Journal

There’s a thickness in my throat, a shallowness in my breathing as my lungs contract. My chest is heavy, like it’s been filled with sludge, and my shirt is stuck to my skin with blood and sweat. Lifting my head is futile; I’ve been here for too long. I’m too tired. My neck aches under the weight of it, but I don’t dare to move. I’m too tired, and They are probably watching. They always seem to be there, even in the silence. I’m not sure who They are, They’ve never told me. I only know what I’ve heard, and what I’ve seen.

Prayers by candlelight. Ancient incantations spoken in tongues. Sacrifices of the flesh, of meat and of bone and of blood. Whispers of the old gods, hushed and reverent. A body without a soul.

I remember not how I got here, nor when. With every passing minute, I must remind myself of my name, lest I forget. After all, I’ve seen those who’ve gone before me, confused and devoid of memory, emptied as vessels for the gods.

I have never seen a god, but I have seen a corpse.

The place where I am kept is dark, damp. The swamp surrounding this place brings in a humidity that is nigh unbearable. The room is entirely made of wood, wet slats filling slowly with ugly, black spots of mold in the corners. The wood is rough under my feet and knees, both aching from the position I’ve found myself trapped in. Loose splinters poke up into my legs, threatening to draw blood. They have tied me up such that I am forced to kneel, arms suspended above me with a fraying rope. It has left deep, red welts in my wrists, chafing with every twitch and pull. It stings something foul, every loose fiber digging into my skin like a needle. I try not to move too much.

Another minute has passed, and once again, I remind myself of my name. Foster. My name is Foster. I am male; I am twenty-five years old. I remind myself of my sister, of my brother. Their names. Bethany, John. John’s nose is always in his books; Bethany’s shoes are always missing. A small smile finds its way to my lips.

I know who I am. I do not know how I got here.

Doing my best to ignore the strain in my neck, I lift my head just enough to see the door in front of me. Just like the rest of the room, it is wooden, wet-looking, and spotted with mold. I could probably kick through it without much effort, but the hope of escape left me long ago. The strength I once possessed has been sucked out of me with every day I go without water. Without food. I can feel my ribs against my skin without my hands. I shake with every breath I take, unyielding tremors like my body is a host to its own earthquake. I sit in a pool of my own piss and shit, humiliating what little there is left of me to humiliate.

I watch a cockroach scuttle across the floor, worming its way through a hole in the wall that is much too small for its already small body. It squirms as it uses all the strength it has to push its way to the other side. It leaves one of its little legs behind, in an even smaller drop of what I assume is its blood.

Visions of the sacrificial altar flash in my mind, making me shiver. Like a frightened animal, my body begs to run. But I refuse to move. I have tried, to no avail. I have squirmed and writhed against the ropes for hours on end, I have screamed and begged and pleaded for release. They never listen. The others had all done the same before they met their end, and I would surely be no different.

My prison darkens as day turns to night. The sun could squeeze itself through the cracks in the wood, but the moon is not so strong. There are no candles in this room, so when the night comes, I am plunged into impenetrable darkness. At first, it had frightened me, but I’ve been worn down now, stifled into a sort of indifference that befits my situation. Who am I to hope for light?

The lock on the door clicks, the squeal from the hinges like a scream. Wet footsteps draw closer and I remain still. I know this routine. They release the ropes from the wall, my arms falling to my sides with a heavy thud. They tie them again behind my back and force me to my feet, leading me to the door. My legs shake as I walk, nearly buckling under the weight of my moving body. They hold me by the rope at my wrists and keep walking. My bare feet meet the muddy ground of the wetlands, sludge squelching between my toes with every step. My eyes adjust to the outside, the moon their only light as they move down the well-traveled path. They are dressed in brown cloaks, clean aside from the bottoms, which drag along the ground staining the hems with dirt. From beneath their hoods an alligator’s snout protrudes. I have never seen Their true faces; I’m not sure They have any.

I am always put in the same place. A small patch of dirt with a metal rod wedged in it, just south of the altar. I always have a clear view. My feet walk the familiar way to my place, falling in time with my captors. I try not to think of the life I will watch end tonight. There is a rhythmic chanting in the air, tongues that I am familiar with and yet incapable of understanding.

I sputter as I’m pulled back, unable to move any further towards my place. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound escapes. I can’t breathe. That primal urge to run returns, and this time I make no attempts to quell it. I writhe against the bindings, using whatever strength I have left to pull against the hands still gripping at my wrists. They do not relent, They barely even waver, only slightly, as if They were caught off guard by my resistance. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat and I try to swallow it down. The ugly taste in my mouth stains my tongue.

No. No, not me. Not me.

The chanting does not cease, not even for a moment, as I am laid down on the cold stone altar. I’ve never had this view before. I can’t see the blood splatters on this unholy table, I can’t even see Them forming a circle around me.

I can only see the sky, full of stars so high above the trees.

It is unmoving, a peaceful background to the rising volume of chants closing in around me.

I scream to it.

I beg and plead, desperate for anyone who might listen. If there are ears behind those masks I am sure They can hear me, wailing at the top of my voice without pause. In the moments leading up to my death, I had hoped for a bit more dignity. It seems, however, that I will leave just like the nameless others before me. Kicking. Screaming.

Please listen. Please. Not me, please not me.

My name is Foster. I am male; I am twenty-five years old. My sister, my brother. Bethany, John.

I will soon be a corpse on a table. A meaningless attempt to revive what has been lost to the earth for eons.

Please.

I can only implore for a swift death. That at least was bestowed upon the others, why shouldn’t it be granted to me? Instead agitated hands hold down my wrists, thrusting something sharp into my palms. This mirrors at my feet and I screech, the sound echoing into the empty air around me. The sound of my blood dripping to the ground penetrates my ears, too loudly for such a quiet sound. My head pounds in tandem with my heart and I can only gasp for breath.

Stop. Stop.

The smoke filling my lungs burns. I yearn to claw at my chest and release it but every movement of my hands sends a white heat through my nerves. One last time I cry, a raspy, grating sound of an animal being torn apart by its predator.

And all at once, it ends.

The sky above is no longer visible. The sounds of squelching feet in swamp earth I do not hear.

Death has come, I think. I am at peace. A voice, hushed and steady whispers to me. Slowly, and in tongues that I am familiar with and yet incapable of understanding. It is comforting. Slowly, gently that voice becomes my own. My lips allow the words to escape into the empty, silent air. My body, gone numb from pain, pops at the joints. They bend awkwardly at my sides as my torso begins to lengthen. I can hear my ribs cracking, sharp and quick like a twig snapping under a careless step. Iridescent scales spread across flesh like a balm, easing the biting pinpricks of pain still present. My mouth still in motion spreads wide and fills with teeth, new and sharp and articulate.

I feel whole.

I laugh, howl into the air. I roll, my hands ripping from their stakes, into the mud below. It is deeper than I remember, my body submerging itself in the muck as I flail back and forth. My chants can be heard still, my long snout pushing my nostrils up to the surface. My eyes still see even in the darkness, they flit back and forth.

The earth falls away from me. The air is thick with the sourness of vomit and blood in tandem with one another. They bring me to my feet. They cloak me in brown. They are so familiar.

I do not know who I am. Only who They are.

They are me.

A branch snaps in the distance. All eyes look to it. A human girl stands there, torch in hand, shoeless and petrified.

“Foster?” she whispers.

They smile.

---

Holly Burchett is an undergraduate student at Lindenwood University majoring in Creative Writing with minors in both Theatre and Art History. She has been previously published in Collinsville High School’s 2021 edition of “Kahok Ink” with her poem “The Waltz”. Holly finds great joy in bringing a story to life, whether that be in prose, poetry, or on the stage.