Beauty of The Bloodied Bluffs
Tags: Death, Murder, Short Story, Macabre

We share a shadow as we tour alongside the reeds whose tanned arms sway in the wind’s melody. The trails lead us through reddened woods to the Erie bluffs that bear a softened version of a cliff’s jagged edges, swallowed by trees and the falling leaves of autumn. Down below, a band of grey dominates where the murky water slaps against the slate in a monochromatic union of the states of matter that is interrupted only by the fading red leaves spotting the shoreline. The same intrinsic vigor that compels me to favor the dead of night leads me to the edge of the bluffs where the trail ends. If I were to approach the outermost inches of the edge and float above the speckled grey landing strip below, she would surely match my tightened smirk. Or, I ponder, she would shed her smile in consideration of a solemn thought. As I turn to face her — floating above the strip a few feet away from her — I send my smirk to my warm center and tell her to push me. Right then, her posture straightens and her eyelids expand to meet their orbits. The girl who shares my favor of darkness, fancies monsters both fictitious and human, and battles the demons that dwell within, looks in fear at my faceless command. She is either unsure of my true identity or is surer than ever.

I leave the bluff’s edge where I found it and rejoin the scent of her aura. We soak up the rest of the solace the wooded land has to offer and return to the reeds. The reeds carry us deeper into the reserve and we grace them with our silent emotions.

“What are you thinking?” she asks without letting the wind pause.

“About medical school admissions,” I tell her.

She candidly tells me that she is thinking of sex, priming me for a later conversation and revealing her intentions. I offer a chuckle and our silence then greets the reeds once again. Many footsteps later, we reach the end of our path and begin to turn around, stopping halfway to face each other. She looks up at me and moves toward me, getting close enough to see the gold in my eyes. She opens her mouth — not to comment on the gold — but to reveal more of her intentions.

“I want you more right now than I ever have,” she says with a full breath.

I refrain from stepping closer to her and instead peer back into her eyes wondering what she’ll say next. She makes the step that I did not and presses her cheek against mine. I can hear her mouth open when she points it up to my right ear and whispers “this is when I get you,” as she runs her right hand up my thigh. By the time her hand reaches my crotch, it’s almost as rigid as the slate bluffs. She masters the timing with precision when she simultaneously grabs a handful and presses her soft lips against mine.

“I’ve felt this before,” I think. Not from her but from other women. She has just enough experience to have mastered the timing of pleasureful release but not enough to impart uniqueness. In any case, I knew what I was going to do from the moment she pressed her cheek against mine. I gently push her away from me and stare intensely into her eyes, letting my eyebrows speak for me. Then I move toward her slowly and whisper into her right ear “you have me.” I return to the kiss we started and pull her hips against my thighs where they naturally line up. I pull her upward to savor the impulsive bliss of holding her body and to give her the higher ground. She makes her way down to my neck and I feel my pants growing even tighter. Tilting my head back ever so slightly, I gleam forward with my squinted eyes. There, about fifty feet away, a deer stands seemingly caught in the act. But really, it is us who are caught in the act. As we continue to move and disseminate beautiful noises, the deer stands still, moving its tail side to side, staring directly at us.

In this very moment, I wonder if the deer can experience beauty in any way shape or form. Can the urge to survive really be the only basis for its survival? Deer have been known to choose wild hallucinogenic mushrooms over their non-entheogen counterparts. Psilocybin, known to be non-addictive and lacking the ability to induce compulsive behavior, should have no agenda for attracting the deer. If that is true, there must be some delectable aspect of the beauteous psychedelic visuals that tether the hearts of deer, assuming that we are right of these beasts being incapable of enlightenment and introspection. I wish this deer could recognize the beauty of what it’s currently watching. Albeit entirely primal at its core, this sexual merger of souls never fails to convey beauty.

Looking away from the deer, I fall forward with my hips aligned atop hers, gluing her to the ground with my weight. She pauses, perhaps considering the unsanitary quality of this endeavor or how far she is willing to go, but does not consider my true reason for grounding us. Unless of course, she is not only surer than ever of my nature but is also more accurate than ever.

When I finally stand up, I notice the deer in the same position. Still twitching its tail. Still staring in my direction. It was not fazed by what it had just witnessed nor did it lose interest. I make my way back to the bluffs momentarily. As I return back to the reeds beyond the woods — whose color I now share — on my way back to my car, I note the deer’s absence. Briefly, I wonder if the deer, out of pure curiosity or in search of closure, may have tracked her scent beyond the bluffs. Then, I recall that deer cycle through REM sleep not unlike many other mammals and many scientists argue that REM sleep is the only necessary condition for the ability to dream. As I drive away — peering back through my rearview mirror — I can’t help but hope that I may dominate the deer’s dreams for a fortnight to come — or, conceivably, its nightmares.