the drowning ones

I cannot identify, the something or someone, watching the son at the bar
i enter its point of view, unfamiliar with the body i inhabit
there are orders not to be seen
so i turn the other way while glancing back at him
he leans against the table top, tension taut
i see blood, pooling on his chest, a legitimate gateway into his fears
one understands now why he feels shaken, afraid, paranoid
he’s been to the meat packing district
in the dead of night, long after the slaughterhouses have shut
he’s with an accomplice, whose face i do not see
they are filling a plastic tub with water
with puppies or kittens or both, buried under empty bottles of car oil
He’s in the tub with the struggling animals, holding them down beneath the bottles
as the water fills
it’s his job. to drown them.
he doesn’t like it, but it must be done.
kill the familiars.
he tries not to think of the animals breathing in water, lungs flooding, suffering in the thrash grip of death
he grits his teeth as he feels their struggling slow down
after believing they are dead, he gets out of the tub, pulls out the bodies one by one
but they are still alive
coughing, eyes half closed, hearts failing, body twisting, convulsing
refusing to die
panic grips him. he watches one of the puppies die
but it returns to life, perpetually trapped in between
‘that which cannot be killed.’
He drinks shot after shot now, blood spreading on his chest, his gut in knots
the family of the familiars are coming for him
ladies of the night society, hungry to inflict pain
they remember his scent, his weight, his fear
they wait near the bar, watching him
as I, watch through them.
they are waiting for the witching hour
they let him stew and sweat
filling his mind with visions of his own, terrifying death
filling his heart with the sensations of men, drowning without end
#nightsociety #irvingpaulpereira

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