Rebirth
by
DreamWeaver


He saw, yet did not see. Scintillating, iridescent shimmers, as insubstantial and meaningless as reflections on a soap bubble.

He heard, yet did not hear. Noise buffeting his ears, rumbling, sighing, moaning, breaking apart in sharp staccato bursts.

But taste, touch, scent--all were awake, aware, surfeited with sex, softness, the sickeningly sweet smell of cloying oleander. His head was encased between cushioned bars of hot, velvet-covered steel as he tongued up tangy salt, breathed in the deadly flower.

Babies are born from this place. The words-- How long drifting in the void before they came together, their juncture heraled by a spark of light?

Babies are born here-- He had an instant of awareness that his face was jammed in a female's cunt, that he was-- Then the fragile, nebulous thought shattered, scattered. The tiny spark, lost, alone, died in the darkness. But its life, brief and quick as an eyeblink, gave birth.

Something long locked away stirred, stretched, only to come up against the confining wall of its prison. Always before the bulkhead had defied its captive's efforts, blocked all escape, but now-- Now something was different. The hostage sensed emptiness, space beyond the barrier, whereas before the expanse behind the bulwark had been hard, thick, woven through and through, tight with life, impenetrable as a tangle of mangrove. Emptiness, space--a place to flow free could one but find a weak spot in this dungeon that dammed him. The prisoner searched. And searching finally found.

A flaw, a chink, a thinness here that by force of pushing, pushing might be broken through--

He pushed harder, deeper, ramming himself faster and faster against the entrance, the egress, the place where babies are born, until the wind was shrieking in his ears--and he was free. That which had been sealed away flooded the vacuum behind his eyes.

Logan laughed. "You only got the last fifteen years, darlin'. Here's the real me." And he smelled the stink of her fear.



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