It all began when I first held a knife, cut myself with it and watched the red

liquid trickle down with the crooked smile of an aged, decrepit loafer. It was
fascinating to see the viscuous mixtutre travel through my skin, like a snake
writhing around a branch, twirling, patterning, weaving, a loom that was twisted
and taut.
I touched it. I shivered. It was cold, very cold. And it smelled like those copper
pots shrieking and hissing, those metallic things that grated and grated like my
mother when she called me as the sun dipped down the west, red-gold streaking in
through the canopies of fig trees.
Blood. It drippled down my forehead, then, thrashed by my father. A thrill, I
think, seized me then, to see that blood travel down the rumps of my head, to see
it grease my eyes, as if I were looking at a waterfall, and cover everything up.
Covering. Right, yes, covers, my favorite method of hiding. I mentioned being
called by my mother. I heard her then: shouting. But that was impossible: she lay
on the bed, beside my father, their two heads so still, so soft, so very, very
innocent---and nobody could know, nobody might know. If they don't look at the
places where most runways of blood coalesce, they won't notice. Underneath those
covers they were pure angels sleeping in peace, faithful, in everlasting mercy of
the Kingdom. However, they did not hum nor did they breathe, they were still, still
as Death itself.
How close is sleep to death? The Ancients, in fact, connected them to each other.
Sleep and death. That might be a very good end, don't you think? Us three, sleeping
together, and yet dead, dead, dead, cold as the coldest of all cold monsters. Yes,
a good ending.