Executioner’s Son

By Georgia Bowan

I know what I like, I know what I seek after in the dark, on all fours and blinded by the hurt inflicted. Do remember the look on my face?

I forgive you for your misdemeanours, for the sharpened cork screw in the jugular, in the liver and the side. Why? I believe a brain like yours is labyrinthian, should be studied and explored by the suits.

I admit that. Despite my words, deep down, I admire you, even now. Even despite the gruelling expedition you put me through (and the grinding down of my formative years), admiration takes ahold once more.

Just as it did in the beginning, just as it did before.

You really riled me up, inside and out like a flesh sock puppet, you know that? Really gritted down your teeth into me. I was a virgin then, and still the way you looked at me was the worst any man has.

But, I respected your craft and ethic though, still do. The nerves in the tips of your fingers and your ability to access the memories so repressed by their creator. I admire I admire I admire.

Come face to face with me, look at me naked. Come face to face with me, I am naked and you are having to look at me, again.

You are my witness of the torture, in some minuscule degree. You can’t recall it anymore, but you made me heave. Only internally, luckily for you, nothing comes up on the surface to prove your indiscretions (no scars or open wounds to be prodded).

See you in the park, see you in the pub, see you in the shower drain, bubbling up like menstrual blood. See your mothers eyes when we met, she was so rosy cheeked. See you shrinking downwards when they called me a whore, when they said they’d like to kill and rape the dumb whore. See you in the next room, in the next life, in a dream. Sit on my chest, reoccurring, suffocating.

Still forgive you, though. You’re truly a one of a kind. The executioner’s son, a real cunted fool with a labyrinthian mind.

I haven’t forgotten.