Underneath the Hangin’ Tree

I knew we were forever on that late January night when you carved our initials into the stained bark, in the dark at the base of the Hangin’ Tree. It sealed a pact and a promise that I gave freely as you came to me dressed in the flesh of the one I adored, at the time. An almost man, then and it was then that I surrendered; I gave you my soul and the gift of my virginity under the full moon.  I surrendered time and time again, over and over, my blood  was and will forever be yours. I tasted your years in each mouthful and you fed me, bled for me.  You made me yours and promised that you’d never leave me, never let me go.  That was before.
This is now.
It’s been forever and somehow, for some reason I find myself here again, under the same Hangin’ Tree. Decades have passed since you promised you’d never leave me, that you’d never go go, but you did.  You lied and you left and I am here again, after having fled from this horrid small town I grew up in and that I had hoped would be so much dust in the wind but exists still.  Much to my chagrin and pleasure.
The pleasure comes in the form of a delicious virginal boy; the scruff of a beard dirties his cheeks and chin, nearly the same color as the dirt that covers his knees and the heels of his hands.  I let him take me, under the Hangin’ Tree where you had before so long ago.  I let him spend his youthful exuberance on my versed flesh and cringed when his nimble fingers tore at the expensive fabric of my dress. He fumbled at my breasts with inexperienced glee and filled me with his loathsome seed that scalded my insides. 

He smelled like my garden, back home in town; a riot of fragrances that lingers still on my neck and between my long legs.  It disgusts me.  When he was through, he fell on his side with his face smeary with pleasure.  I let his breath slow and his eyes nearly close before I took his life. My teeth punctured the tender flesh of his throat much like his erection had my cave.   
The savory taste of his fear was almost as intoxicating as the scent of his misguided lust.
What is it they say? Boys will be boys, and indeed, ’tis true but contrariwise, so will girls.  
One wonders what is to be. Do you see? See how he lays there. How he resembles the fragile human creatures with bodies as frail as the winter dawn and not nearly as warm?
An innocent cherub waiting for the paradise that will never be his, wearing a face that yet will be the ruin of many hearts and existences.
Under the tree, after burning your name and mine from its ancient bark, I wait for his amber eyes to reopen and the hunger that we all yield to rage with that need to feed.  Unlike you, I keep my promises, and I will never leave his side. How could I, after he has given me the gift of his soul and his innocence?
Soon, death will come to that terrible little town and we shall fill it not with dust but with the blood of ages and the ageless.
Ah, the Angel awakens.
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Melanie Mccurdie (6)
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