20170921

Chains

The beast is chained in my father's, now my, basement. The basement hasn't changed much since I was a child, still unfinished with concrete floors and exposed  pipes. The soundproofing along the ceiling, that is new, mind. As are the chains.

The beast, with its skin that tastes of sour milk, should disgust me. Repulse me. Not excite me.

As I kneel before it, its hands on my shoulders, I pray that this is not the reason my father had it chained up here.