of crushed porcelain
rising up from mental ashes · 06/21

One night's rest surpassing the staple of four hours, ran it’s course the moment revived by the heat. Temperatures arose, each notch feeding on the worst of himself until the grand reminder, a signifier of ordered cleansing, broke him out of comforts only provided by the tenderness of a wife cradling new life. His eyes raised in panic. Reviving him to flee from the bed for the bathroom. He saw unkemptness through one ocular. Tampering with the layers and kept rooms of where placed concerns rest. As the fire bird would only make appearances seldom to his stress, this night in particular threw him for the worst. Its presence punched through the core of himself and a sudden urge to inhale all the last cigarettes, overcame as much as the bout of horror caused by coercion of another kind.

Hands trembled catching the outer rim of the sink. Gripping in frustration from the blatant memory occupying space of his brain that ran on a tight wheel. Momentum gathered, unstoppable, unwavering, while faced to undo what a revisiting terror caused. By those same hands, gripping the porcelain, they too held on the handle of a well intoxicating sword. As if he were there once again, seen in the blurry reflection, the cost of nearly killing the woman in the other room rose higher at images being sorted through. Nathan's hands were shaking to grasp on to control and reality while damaging another sink in the process. Molding would crumble within his palm the tighter he held on. Adding dollar signs to more repairs.

There was the line of thinking. Pushing onward in focusing on house repairs. Deviating from the outline of flames that once surrounded him. That was the strongest tool of coercion he’s ever had on his shoulder. The devil and so called angels upon broad shoulders had been no match for the fire bird, which would mark close to a year from being poached by the damn thing. Cosmic entities and the guy in his entire fabric of life, were the worst combos ever as it jilted the sensibilities of man and influenced the drug induced ego of both or what God like complex he always fought to keep in check. He was figting in the mirror. Fighting to withstand a silly night terror, one of many that paid him a visit.

He struggled in not looking into the past again, avoiding to feel the shake of power that compounded with his own. The exchange in front of the mirror was a long stand off between a not so distant past and what his future would resemble. What the future of the household appeared right in the mirror. As the darkness of the bathroom was thought to be a better cover from a glaring light shown on his coerced short comings, the bands of paranoia grew increasingly tighter. He felt rage and a sense of gloom all filed along to throw off a simple awakening. Playing upon fears that struck not only himself down but the woman in the other room. Nate was of knowing she would be awake soon.

To rush at his side and pester him with questions. About the state of turmoil his mind suddenly took a descent in. Now it was manifesting worse than after the fragment found a different host and he was left to escape, only for the cursed thing to find it hijacking another body and trying to cleanse his of any existence. The grand scheme of karmatic doing was a trail leading right to him. And he felt it right there as his chest was tightening, causing the running wave of hyperventilating while those same exact fears of not only himself causing the worst to show its face in the mirror, but to enter their home, into their lives uninvited with intentions of destruction from within.

This is how he lost his family once. Not his but Slade’s. A red dead reminder that anyone could be gotten and without thought but he tried to think himself out of moving erratically against it. Avoiding compromised times was at an all time high when keeping a hand on the pulse of a changed world marked by moments of chaos to lulls from month to month, was challenging. Now that he had one more innocent to watch over, one who wouldn’t be privy to this world months from now, drove his anxiety through the roof. He looked up from his head being dropped down between shoulders for what felt like slowed time.

The curse was right in the eye. Seeing it for what it had been. For what it could become. For where it found or created fissures between the fabric of a relationship until there had been any, fearing less chance of reconciliation. He had to work out the kinks, try to place the pickings of the past right back into its rightful compartments and yet where he stood. Where he nearly damaged the porcelain, said it couldn’t be done. Not in the moment and possibly not ever.