hold me down [any]

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He has his claw wrapped around her throat.
When he squeezes, he can feel her pulse under his thumb quicken.
And when he releases, it makes no difference. She squirms, but she does not settle.

And that is all be wanted. To stay with her beyond his moment.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, shifting his weight back and away from his sore leg, surveying her. Each length of ungainly leg, each bleed from red to green on her skin, stirring up the silt in his gut – wanting to reveal something to him, but still it remains locked up, or somewhere North. He feels a strange surge of pride. In his protégé and her wonderful pliability. In his work in molding her – bending and hammering to fashion something of his own making.
The true trade of a god.

“That’s yours forever.” But it is poison. Or he hopes it is – it means more to him than to her, and there is ownership in that.
If it will not be venomous to her, he knows it will be for her mother. “Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. You cannot change it now. Understand?” When she finds that wretched cow, and she asks her where her daughter has been…

With him.

His grin grows, and he faintly remembers an eerie, yellowish sneer… ear to ear… imagines it mirrored on his own lips.

He fades away once more, gone. Somewhere. And that will be what he leaves her with.
The idea of somewhere. Or anywhere. Or right there.
“You can go now. Find your mother quickly, Elve.”


Pollock,
The gift-giver.