Heat Lightning

Sacrificing entire families is not (always) glorious. This weird connection of the shy boy that's still part of me with the passionate reptile in my veins appears like torture now and then. Of course, we are of the same spirit, both artists, both poets in their special way, but earth and fire, and sometimes the Dragon scares the sh*t out of me. He uses to forget that I am human, that supernatural things simply frighten me. Fact, I'm more sensitive than most, but I'm still earthbound, still rational, still full of concern, doubt and mortality. I trust him, but I have to stay alive. I have to deal with emotions. I have to stay mentally sane. At least as far as possible.

I remember this night in August last year... Sturgeon Moon, Barley Moon: a night full of humid electricity, heat lightning bathing the rooms in radiant flicker, the disk of la Luna cold and vibrating, a merciless round heart, speaking of all Summers end.
I heard them whimper. The children wept. Covered in sticky crimson I ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I stepped inside and hid in a corner, cramped to a ball on the creamy tiled floor, the water falling down on me, each droplet a tiny pinprick sensation. Blood swirled around me. Cheated of his dance the Dragon roared and called me a coward. I covered my ears with my hands, and I closed my eyes, yet I still saw the blood, and I still heard the thunder and the children weeping. As the water turned frigid  I started to shiver. I wished to be a million miles away. Away from this house. I wished to be home. Storm gushed up. The neon lights flickered again. Drumming of heavy rain mingled with the splash of the shower.
"Stop it", I gasped. Down the hall three pairs of silver-shard-eyes stared at their parents draped on the bed. Two girls and a boy, the youngest about four, leaned against an abstract painting in all shades of red. They whimpered like puppies. Though I knew they were dead.

I always shoot the children first...