Control

A cold wind blows across the desert. The crimson sand stirs and whirls. The flat unbroken horizon stretches as far as the eye can see. The air touches my skin like a trillion little lazer points that bounce back and stretch out from me to eternity. The grey clouds cover the sky like it is a shameful child whose brilliance can not help but seep through the cracks in the shabby quilt which blankets it. The sand chafes against my bloodied knees and I breathe a stale breath, clenching my stomach like string tied taught around a finger. I grasp the whip once more and snap it across my back. In the distance, a black unicorn, with thundering hooves gallops across the desert.

I lay the last stone in place and sit down in the darkness. The white stones are stacked in a circle around me. Above, a large flat rock seals the top. A small square window lets in the moonless night. I begin to count. Every breath, every movement. When the sun rises I stand when the sun sets I sit. I breath in and out. My stomach begins to growl. Time passes. Hunger passes, hunger comes, hunger goes. I decay. I soil myself. My hair creeps across my hollow cheeks like moss on a rock. It spills over my eyes like a waterfall over a cliff face. The sun, the moon, and the stars spin around me, above me, creatures are born and die. I can no longer stand. My eyes are red and swollen. My lips cracked like dry mud. There is no more sound. Absolute silence.

Silhouetted against the orange and pink sky, a monk stands at a cliff’s edge and stares out across the valley. His red eyes are care worn for one so young. His albino skin glows faintly from the red sun. He has set traps all over the valley and lingers at the precipice at the bottom of which, unbeknownst to him, the tiger he seeks slips through the forest like oil in water. In the morning, the white monk will crawl down the stone steps to the red desert where he will flog himself for that is what he does.

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