The Black Rope
Mar. 21st, 2017 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sadoeuphemistThe Black Rope is braided together from your hair, your dead skin cells, every scab and clot and bit of detritus that has sloughed off your body, every matted wad harvested from a shower drain combed out and braided together into a dead black cord. It is slightly thinner than your wrist and hangs suspended from the sky, dancing in the wind, one end disappearing into the distance. You can grasp it easily, loop it around your arms, and it supports your weight. The Black Rope is greased with your oils and sebum, made shiny and pliant so that it coils and bends with ease. It feels familiar against your skin.
It has been made especially for you, over the course of a lifetime.
The Black Rope sheds hairs as you touch it, black lines that mark out paths on your skin. They hide in the furrows of your palms, they cling to your sweat, impossible to peel off. You dig into your skin with your fingernails and the black lines merely writhe across your flesh like snakes. You are marked. The blades will come and trace along the lines, trace along your destiny, slitting you open according to the meridians of your body, following the paths of your veins. You cling to the Black Rope regardless. It is the only thing you have left of your life.
The Black Rope stinks of shit, of sweat, of unwashed hair. It coils like entrails. It is real, visceral, in a way that nothing else is. The Black Rope is warm. There is some decomposition in its tightly woven core, some process of decay that gives off heat. The Black Rope cradles you, comforts you. Knotted, it serves as a harness. Pulled taut, it serves as an anchor. You feel its imprints in your flesh, the thin black hairs pressed deep into the welts, embedded in the inflamed skin.
The sky looms infinite and grey above you. You grip the Black Rope, and you begin to climb.
It has been made especially for you, over the course of a lifetime.
The Black Rope sheds hairs as you touch it, black lines that mark out paths on your skin. They hide in the furrows of your palms, they cling to your sweat, impossible to peel off. You dig into your skin with your fingernails and the black lines merely writhe across your flesh like snakes. You are marked. The blades will come and trace along the lines, trace along your destiny, slitting you open according to the meridians of your body, following the paths of your veins. You cling to the Black Rope regardless. It is the only thing you have left of your life.
The Black Rope stinks of shit, of sweat, of unwashed hair. It coils like entrails. It is real, visceral, in a way that nothing else is. The Black Rope is warm. There is some decomposition in its tightly woven core, some process of decay that gives off heat. The Black Rope cradles you, comforts you. Knotted, it serves as a harness. Pulled taut, it serves as an anchor. You feel its imprints in your flesh, the thin black hairs pressed deep into the welts, embedded in the inflamed skin.
The sky looms infinite and grey above you. You grip the Black Rope, and you begin to climb.
