The Ritual

Behind a pair of glasses his glazed eyes speak words like ‘processing’ and ‘organization.’ I am sure, at one point, he begins to repeat himself. But as I stand he speaks still, staring at the chair I leave, and the record spinning around his kidneys skips a note. “Processing,” he says. “Process-process-process-progress-process-progress-progress.” The heel of my black boot crashes into the broken record, breaking it. Fluorescent lights flicker. Something oily and primal grips my ankle and laughs and laughs and bends my back to its will, saying, “Sex and wine and candles and chants. Now! Chant!” Its fingertips have lit like waxy wicks, spinning hypnotically in cold light. In my next breath my knees are pressed into the stone of an altar, I feel the strains of ritual humming in the pit of my stomach, I breathe the stench of rusted metal and cruel laughter.