The Web (mentions of self-harm)

Another one hundred and ten-degree day beats me down. The sun grills my skin as I lean into the guts of another breaking jet. Out of the corner of my eye, a flash: a disgusting monster. Its massive jaws take up two-thirds of its body. It hurts like hell, but it has no venom. Its extra legs make it a liar.While the camel spider isn’t a "true" spider, but I hate it just the same. My boot is hovering over the creature, ready for some small revenge, when I hear, "Sergeant!"

My Gunny stood by the only tent with relief from the sun. He wasn't yelling out of anger or frustration; there was a hollowness in his voice that made my stomach drop. I jogged over, the shade and cool air doing nothing to ease the sudden spike of anxiety.

"What happened, Gunny? Who fucked up?" I tried to joke, trying to lighten the heavy tension in the air.

"You should sit down," he said, a mix of pity and discomfort in his voice. "The Red Cross called. You need to pack your gear. You leave at 1500 to head home... Your wife is missing."

Those words rang in my mind, melting into a high-pitched tinnitus and drowned out the hum of the AC unit.

"I’ll give you a few minutes," Gunny added, "but the plane leaves in half an hour with or without you. I’m sorry."

The flight back was a void of endless time. I watched the desert sands I’d called home for months dissolve into a deep, vast blue ocean. Between the garbage reception at camp and fourteen-hour days with no sleep, it had been nearly impossible to talk to anyone who wasn't standing right in front of me. I hate that it feels like an excuse. I last spoke to her two days ago. Now, I was replaying every word, rereading every text, and rotting in the regret of ever leaving.

The landing and the drive home were a blur, but the silence—that was suffocating. Even the air felt like it was missing her. I knew the officer was just doing his job, but the thought of walking through our home with a cop instead of my wife felt like I was being ripped apart with every step up the driveway. At the door, he interrupted my pity party.

"Whenever you are ready, I need you to walk me through the home. Point out anything that's changed... or anything that's missing."

We crossed the threshold of a new crime scene in my old home. I’d been expecting a different house—she usually moved furniture or started art projects while I was away—but the living room was a time capsule. Everything was exactly where I’d left it months ago. I pointed out a faint dusting of white powder on the couch, mixed with strands of thick, short black hair that didn't belong to her. Her laptop sat nearby, ajar and still tethered to the wall like an abandoned thought. Then I saw it: a nest of dirty clothes on the floor, forming a trail that led us toward the kitchen.

The smell of rotting, expired food hit me like a brick. It clotted the air, the stench and the ghost of my wife’s presence both trying to drown me at once.

"Do you see something? If not, we can move on."

The officer’s coldness shocked me out of my daze. This was just another day to him. We moved through the office, the guest room, and the bathroom; they were untouched, frozen. It was like the house was teasing me, pretending everything was fine until the very last second.

Now, there was only one door left. Our room.

I opened the door and a new wave crushed me. New blackout curtains—heavy and cold. It was so unlike her. My heart sank, nearly ripping me apart as the isolation baked into these walls settled into my bones. There was the blanket; I could see the shape where she’d cocooned herself, rotting in that bed. Our bed.

The dam finally broke. Guilt and sorrow hit me with a force that took my knees out, slamming me to the floor. I had failed. I hadn't protected her. Unable to stop her.

Tears turned the world into a thick, gray fog. As my vision narrowed, the darkness started to feel warm, inviting—a comfort I didn't deserve. But then, through the haze, I saw a pulsing light. It was rhythmic. Warm. And it was looking at me.

From the darkness under the bed, the eyes of my wife looked back.

The darkness overtook me then, pulling me into the depths—away from her. When I came to, the officer’s face was a fuzzy moon looming over me. Instinct took over. I shoved him back, my adrenaline spiking into a jagged "fight or flight" haze.

"She’s under the bed!" I desperately uttered, still clawing my way out of the depths, my lungs burning for the oxygen the darkness had stolen.

My vision cleared, revealing a swarm of new faces—more police, a paramedic leaning over my chest.

"We searched the house again," the officer said, his voice steady and clinical. "It was just you and me in the home."

I struggled to find my feet. I had to get up. I had to get to her. But before I could stand, the strap of an oxygen mask yanked me back. I clawed at the plastic leech feeding me pure air, but the officer didn't move.

"In cases like this," he continued, his eyes full of a professional, hollow pity, "the evidence doesn't always give the answers we’d hope for."

"That’s not true. I saw her. Let me look!" I pleaded. Her eyes had been a lighthouse breaking through this hurricane. It was real. I saw her.

"Son," the officer continued, "I just don't want you to get your hopes up. Quite frankly, it looks like she left of her own free will, she—"

"NO!" I interrupted. "She would never do that. Just leave. You have to keep looking."

The condescension  in his eyes made me sick. I wasn't crazy. I knew my wife would never just leave without talking to anyone—without talking to me.

"I’ll give you a call with any updates," he said, handing me a slip of paper. "We’re sending a sample of the substances on the couch to the lab. Take my card; call me if anything changes. Try to get some real sleep."

He patted my shoulder and drove away. Alone again.

As my mind cleared, I saw the truth: the police won't look for her. Not like I will. A new mission was born from grief, determination, and anger. I was going to find her or die trying.

I marched back into the house. The memory of her glowing eyes called me back to the bedroom. I dropped to the floor, but there was nothing under the bed besides some dust and cat hair...

Fuck. Where are the cats?

I frantically fumbled my phone, pushing through dozens of missed calls and hundreds of unopened texts. My wife is agoraphobic. Years ago, she was assaulted and followed home; in that moment of terror, she called me. Her safe space. Her husband. I've never gotten over the guilt of that time—how I wasn't there to protect her.

Every ring of the phone echoed that hopelessness. Finally, the line clicked.

"Look who finally decided to call," her mother’s voice was brittle and cold. "The cops already spoke with me. My daughter isn't here, so why are you calling?"

The immediate hostility was unsurprising, but devastating. "I didn't think she was, but I wanted—"

"How would you know?" she spat. "Did you do something to her, or are you just trying to keep her from her family?"

Another gut punch.

"You know that is not what I was trying to say," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "And you know I would never do anything to hurt her. I—"

“You what?!”

The words were venomous, a direct hit designed to keep me reeling. I didn't answer immediately. I closed my eyes, forcing a slow, deliberate breath into my lungs before I risked speaking again.

“I’m not calling to fight or point fingers. I tried to get her out of the house. I really did. She- she just couldn't. I need to know if you have the cats or if she talked to you about where they could be?”

Silences. Long and nearly unbreaking, until she hissed.

“Well, I'm at work and we have nothing to talk about.”

‘’What about the-”

Click.

She hung up. 

Everyone is working against me. Why? I just want to see my wife. Why is everyone trying to prevent that? Another storm rampaged my mind. I must have only been in the eye of the storm. The worst yet to come. The head lights of a passing car brings my attention to the time. 0128. I can't sleep in our room without her but I feel my body shutting down.  Muscles heavy and stiff I make my way to the guest room. Staring at the humming ceiling fan, the hunger pain and exhaustion I feel now growling in my mind. Slowly my eye lids get heavier and heavier until the inevitable happens. 

The sun is warm and a breeze peacefully caresses my skin, the air filling my lungs with the scent of summer and grass. I was lying under the sprawling canopy of a massive oak tree, the world quiet and still.

I opened my eyes, and the most beautiful woman in the world was lying next to me.

My wife.

Her hair was a halo of glowing light atop her head, catching the sun . Her smile still makes my heart flutter as thought we had just started dating again. Playfully, she rolls on top of me, her weight familiar and perfect against my chest. This is peace. Holding my wife, safe in my arms, no guilt about anything. Her hand reached up, cupping my jaw as she pulled me in for a kiss. It was slow and soft, tasting of the summer air. She moved to my cheek, her breath warm against my skin, and then trailed down to my neck.

This moment couldn't get more perfect. 

The kissing turned into playful biting, and I pulled her closer, my hands sliding across her back. But as I gripped her, the sensation shifted. Her skin, normally soft and sweet, suddenly felt wrong. It was painful. Itchy. Hairy.

The thick, coarse black hair was sprouting from her pores, filling my mouth and stinging my eyes. I tried to push her off, but the playfulness was gone. The biting turned violent.  My arms- my body is stuck.She wasn't holding me anymore; she was swathing me, her limbs wrapping around mine with an unnatural, suffocating strength.  The once peaceful environment dissolved into a dark, ferocious storm. The leaves of the oak tree turned into shards of black glass, shrieking in a wind that smelled of stagnant water and old copper. She's hovering over me  looking at me, her now glossy black eyes, trying to speak, trying to tell me something. The roaring winds and pouring rain of the storm had become a deafening, chaotic wall of noise that made communication impossible. She was still hovering over me, her face inches from mine, her lips moving in a silent, desperate plea I couldn't decipher.

BOOM

A crack of thunder shook the very earth beneath the oak tree, and a jagged streak of lightning ripped through the black sky. For a fraction of a second the light illuminated her face—but it wasn't her face anymore.Protruding from where her soft smile should have been were two massive, glistening chelicerae. They were wet with a dark, oily sheen, clicking together.

Before I could even flinch, it lunged.

I bolted upright, my breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches that burned my throat. A cold sweat slicked my skin, turning the guest room sheets into a damp, clinging shroud.

It was just a dream.

I stared at the glow of my phone. 0536. Technically I slept in but how am I supposed to feel rested after that? I have no energy to respond to anyone but I need to get up and continue for my investigation. 

In the shower I noticed scratches on my arms. Thin, jagged red lines traced paths across my forearms, angry and fresh. Still screaming for my nails. Checking my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. I checked my neck, nothing. It was just a bad dream. 

Time to check the laptop. I sat at the kitchen table, the screen’s harsh blue light cutting through the gray morning shadows like a blade. It made the scratches on my arms look even angrier. I logged in with no clue where to start. She never used her laptop. Why would she leave it out? On her desktop a single saved file “Medical Journal”. This seems very important but the cops should have searched this before I got here.  

I opened the file.

Entry One:

Weight:154.2lbs HIght:5’5in The plan for this journal is to help me keep track of some weird symptoms I”ve been having. Just until my husband gets back and we can go to the doctor.My skin has been extremely dry and itchy. Eczema maybe? No OTC lotion has helped—it feels like the itch is under the skin, not on top of it. Plus, I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. No food has been very appetizing. Will update tomorrow.

Entry Two:

Weight: 152.1lbs Hight:5’5in I’m not eating more than one small meal a day. I have to force myself to eat. The cats aren't as loving as they normally are, either. They won't sleep with me anymore; they just stand in the doorway and stare, like they don't recognize me.

I can’t stop itching. I do it without even realizing it until I see the blood under my fingernails.

And now, a new symptom: my head is killing me. A constant, throbbing pressure behind my skull. My eyes have become incredibly sensitive to light—even the morning sun feels like a physical blow. I've started pulling the curtains shut. Will update tomorrow.

Entry Three:

Weight 143.4 Height didn't check It's been a few days since my last update.. I lost a lot of weight. Not that it’s a bad thing! My head still hurts especially in the sun or with the big lights on. Ordered some blackout curtains with the groceries lots of bone broth and sugar water. It's really upsetting that the cats keep avoiding me. They were keeping me warm at night. Maybe I have something the cats can also get? I looked into it and I hate DR. Google. It said that I might have ringworm and giardia. I feel disgusting like I need to scrub the house. I ordered an antifungal for the ringworm and thankgoodness i have some leftover metronidazole. The “doctor” said that might help with the giardia so hopefully I won't have to go anywhere after all!  

Entry Four:

Weight:143.0 Hight:5’5in I gave it some time to work, but the meds didn't really help. Shockingly, 'Dr. Google' was wrong. I know how dumb I am to believe that it might work. I guess I’m just happy I don’t actually have ringworm or giardia.New symptom: hair loss. It’s mostly from my arms and legs. Maybe it’s from the constant itching, or the lack of food? My scalp feels fine, but my limbs are becoming... smooth. I’m just so exhausted. I don’t like hiding things from my husband, but I don’t want him to worry over something so far out of his control.I definitely can’t talk to my mom about it. I can already hear her: 'Get over it,' or 'You’re fine.' She just doesn't understand. I wish I had someone to talk to without feeling responsible for their emotions—or being made to feel stupid.

Entry Five:

Weight: 145.2 Height; 5’4 I was able to eat! It’s RARE steak. Its something I now crave. every meal. Even thinking about it makes my mouth water. The itching isn't gone but changed. The best way for me to explain it is that it feels like hundreds of bugs crawling under my skin in my veins. I scratch all the time now, even in my sleep. I bleed itching over old scabs. New symptom: where did the inch go? Maybe I was more malnourished than I thought. I’m drooling. Need more stake. I lick the plate clean. My favorite part. This has been so helpful. Almost therapeutic. I can keep track. I really miss him. I can't tell him about this. I'm better. All better. Its fine. 

Entry five pt2: I spoke too soon. I was cooking. I noticed thick black hair in my arms. I tried to pull it, but it’s like hot barbed wire—ripping, pulling, burning.That wasn’t the worst of it. I pulled and pulled and they moved. Under my skin. In my body. Infested. I’m infected. Need to get clean. It hurts. They are eating me from the inside. I have to get them out.I dig and dig. It didn't work to grab one—with all of my blood, it just slipped away. I’ll clean them out. I did something extreme. Bleach. In my arms, the bugs will die. Any opening where I saw them move—any opening that I opened further—I poured it in.Clean. Clean.They stopped moving. The burning was soothing.

LOW BATTERY

The notification floods the screen and breaks my concentration. My stomach turned, a cold, acidic knot of bile rising in my throat. Mental break. That had to be it. The agoraphobia, the isolation, the stress of the deployment—it had fractured her.

I looked at my own arms, at the jagged red lines that were still stinging from the shower.

'The police should have seen this,' I whispered, my voice cracking. If they’d found this 'medical journal,' she wouldn’t be a 'missing person.' She’d be a patient. They’d have her in a psych ward, safe, behind locked doors.

But they didn't find it. Or they did, and they left it here for me to find. Like a sick joke. Like a taunt. I gripped the edge of the table, my nails digging into the wood. I paced the kitchen, the phone pressed so hard against my ear I could feel the pulse in my temple. 1545. > Three calls. Three descents into a generic voicemail greeting that offered 'assistance' that didn't exist. My grip tightened on the device, my thumb hovering over the redial button again. The 'Low Battery' of the laptop was still a dark, dead eye on the table, and the silence of the house was starting to feel intentional—like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to give up.

'He should be available,' I spat at the empty room. The exhaustion in my voice was pathetic. I'm so weak.I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. The jagged red lines on my forearms were pulsing, a rhythmic throb that matched the headache behind my eyes. I'm just drained. I've been beaten down and the punches just keep coming and there is nothing i can do

The heaviness of my battered body slowed me down as I moved to plug in the laptop and I was fully anchored down in the living room next to the couch.  I could see the dirt now—really see it. It wasn't just dust. There were greyish streaks along the baseboards, like something had been dragging itself along the perimeter of the room. I saw the white powder again, settled in the deep fibers of the rug near my feet. Knowing what she’d done with the bleach... knowing she’d been 'digging' for bugs... the powder didn't look like cleaning supplies anymore. It looked like sloughed-off skin. Like the dry, brittle remains of a casing she’d outgrown.

I drifted away, losing the fight, falling into a sleep that felt less like rest and more like being swathed. That thought comforted me. Just as I sailed away to my only source of temporary peace I heard Click. Scritch. Click.I  stayed under the blanket, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped fly in her web. Click. Scritch. Click.  The sound wasn't random; it was a rhythmic, anatomical progression. It was the sound of weight being distributed across too many points. I could feel the carpet fibers depressing near my shoulder, then my hip, then my ankles.

Then, the air changed.

The 'smell of iron and dirt' wasn't just in the room anymore; it was descending. It was a heavy, cold, and humid cloud that settled over my face. 

Hovering over me, her status fell like filaments of cold nylon, vibrating with a high-frequency hunger. Every time they flicked across my skin, a spark of 'itch' followed, a sympathetic resonance with the 'bugs' already in my own veins. Her pedipalps are heavy, damp, and articulated with a terrifying, clicking precision. I felt them find a bead of cold sweat on my temple. They didn't wipe it away; they plucked it. A sharp, wet tugging sensation as the moisture was harvested from my pores. The heat from my 'battered body' was a beacon, and she was basking in it.

I wrenched my eyes open, a silent scream dying in my throat as the muscles in my neck seized.

Nothing. No one. Alone.

I still feel the ghost of its weight hovering over me. The ghost of her taking care of me. I know that it wasn't a dream. Her new smell is still hanging in the air. I whispered it like a prayer, my eyes darting to the ceiling, then the floor, then the dark void behind the couch. 'This was not a dream. This was real. This was—'

-Buzz. Buzz.-

The vibration in my palm felt like an electric shock. I looked down. 

PRIVATE CALLER.

My heart was racing. Every thud pushed the scent of a slaughterhouse deeper into my sinuses. I looked down at my arms, the ones I thought were just 'scratched' from the shower.

They weren't scratches.

The jagged red lines had split.

-Buzz. Buzz.-

I stared at the watery pink fountain pulsing from my forearms, the rhythm of the spray matching the frantic, uneven hammering of my heart. The smell of iron wasn't just in my lungs anymore; it was a flavor on the back of my tongue.

'That smells delicious.'

The thought didn't arrive like a memory. It arrived like a command. I looked at the 'jagged red lines' and for the first time, I didn't see a wound. I saw a harvest. I saw the 'rare stake' she’d been craving.

-Buzz. Buzz Bu-

“WHAT!” I screamed, the word tearing out of me like shrapnel.

My own voice sounded foreign—too high, too sharp, like metal grinding on stone. 

“H-hello, I missed a few calls from this number. I do have a few updates from the lab if you have some time to discuss what we found."

Updates...?' I managed.

'Yes,' the voice continued, oblivious to the fact that I was 'anchored' in a room that smelled like a slaughterhouse.

‘It was quite odd what we found and we did redo the test twice. The “white powder” is actually human skin cells.’

This tracks based on what I found on her laptop.

"We have never had so much all  in the same place and from the same person. Do you have any ideas on what could have happened or who the cells are from?”

This confirms to me that it was the discarded shell of the woman I loved. She hadn't just 'had a mental break.' She had outgrown her humanity. She had peeled it off like an old uniform and left it for me to find. I stayed silent.

“Umm well… The black hair that was in the pile of cells was actually spider hair. The techs let me know that back in the day it was used as itching powder. Would your wife do that or do you know someone who would pull a prank like this?”

silents

“Son, are you alright?”

The question hung in the air, competing with the smell of iron and dirt. I looked at my arms. The 'fountain' wasn't splashing anymore; it was beading. The fluid was becoming a gel, a translucent sealant that was starting to bridge the gaps of the jagged red lines.

Her laptop,' I rasped, my voice sounding like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. 'Did you check her laptop?'

The officer paused, seemingly irritated at my lack of answers. 

‘We checked for any threats or signs of stalking. Did yo-”

I cut him off, my voice cracking like dry wood “What about the journal?!” as soon as that last word left my lip i hear her muffled movements 

Click. Scritch. Click.

The Officer was still talking, a tinny, robotic drone about 'stalking' and 'evidence lockers,' but I wasn't listening. My head  is fuzzy and my body now feels like my skin shouldn't be there. The blood in my veins using the histamines to fight the newly found threat. I assist by scratching and ripping at my body.

“Sir, Hello are you-,’ his annoying voice breaks my focus and I hang up.

Itching. Itching. Itching. There is no relief. Only with her. Only with her can I find relief. Up I go to start our game of hide and seek. The clicking and creaking hints to find her. As I stop, so does she. Our romantic dance leads me further into the house until she stops. A new game we start to play is hot and cold. The closer I get the louder she clicks. I start this game close to the floor. Her response sounds disappointed and slow. Next I check the walls. She was more excited but I could hear in her voice was not there yet. I look up and she screams her rhythmic song, my heart pounding along.

‘I found you.” I whispered.

I pull the string to the long forgotten attic, a space too small to be useful in any way. Our games end and the attic door peels open. An arterial spray of hundreds of thousands of our spiderlings crushed me. Their little legs stab every inch of my skin. Using my opened wounds as a form of mothers milk. Crawling and eating their way inside of me like a kind of matriphagy. I'd gladly give up my body to save her. To feed my family. They crawl in my ears, my mouth, my eyes and I accept my fate.I lay on the hallway floor, staring at the attic hopeful that id at least get to she her once more, the feeling of our small translucent children making their way down my esophagus to incubate in my lung nauseating. I forced my eyelids open, the skin tearing away from the dried pink resin like parchment. The 'ravenous' spiderlings didn't scatter from the light; they refracted it.

My vision was a kaleidoscope of thousands of translucent carapaces. Through the shifting, silver-grey curtain of our children, I looked toward the commotion.

It wasn't her.

Before I could decide who my unfortunate witness was, I was hit with a flood of cold water. Their hydrophobic bodies carried away from my skin and another wave hit my face. Without the 'family' to insulate me, the cold water hit my raw, excavated nerves like liquid electricity. I could finally see. The officer broke in and was washing away the gift my wife had given. I tried to yell to tell him to leave but my lungs are still full.Instead, there was a heaving, wet click in my diaphragm.I began to cough. Not a dry hacking , but a projectile eruption. With every spasm, a spray of the 'translucent' children was torn from the delicate, 'iron-rich' lining of my lungs.They were being evicted from their incubator, hitting the floor in a silver, twitching mist that was immediately swept away by the Officer’s flood.

I sucked in a lungful of air, and for the first time in what felt like days .My esophagus felt raw, as if it had been scrubbed with steel wool from the inside out. I lay there, drenched and shivering,  I could breathe. But the 'itching'—the beautiful, rhythmic vibration that had turned my body into a hive—was silent. The house felt massive, empty, and  I'm useless again. Looking up at the officer his face was a mixture of disgust and fear. —a cocktail of emotions usually reserved for a monster.He saw a man who had 'plucked' his own skin into a pink resin, a man who had just vomited a silver tide of nightmares onto the floorboards. To him, the 'gift' my wife gave was a disease, and I was the patient zero he’d just barely saved. 

“Son, what the hell did I walk into? What just happened?”

I lay in the grey, shivering sludge of our children, my chest whistling with an air that felt like shards of glass. The 'Son' hit me harder than the water. It was a tether, pulling me back from the 'rhythmic song' and dragging me into the harsh, strobe-lit reality of the hallway.

'What happened?' he asked again, his voice cracking. He wasn't just asking for a report. He was asking for a reason. He wants to stop me. 

“Leave,” I could barely mutter a single word but I had to stop him.

He didn't move. He took a step closer instead,his heavy boots splashing through the grey, silken sludge .To him, the danger was Me. He thought the 'Hell' was over because the silver tide had stopped rolling.

“L-listen, I'm not here to hurt you.  I understand you've been through a lot recently but you need help. Let me call the paramedic and we will take a ride to the hospital and we can talk about Elena.”

I looked at him—my 'unfortunate witness'—and for a second, the 'Son' in me wanted to go. I wanted the ride. I wanted to talk. But as I opened my mouth to agree, my lungs—now 'hollow' and 'useless'—gave a final, “LEAVE!” with everything I could muster. He wants to keep me from Elena and I can't let him do that. The tears involuntarily flow from my eyes as I continue to scream with every ounce of my being “LEAVE! LEAVE! Just go! I don't need you here! LEAVE!”

“Alright kid, I'm not going to leave but I am going outside. I’m going to call for someone who can help you-”

“GO!”

My 'hollow' lungs hitched, a 'nauseating' vacuum of air that couldn't quite find its rhythm. I watched his silhouette reach for the door handle, his radio already crackling with the 'Cold' voices of the backup. I don't have long. I need to find her. How? Think, think, think, think. She must have left me a hint, Where? 

“The journal,’ I whisper. 

I dragged myself to the plugged in laptop. Determined.

“I have to find her… I have to find her…. I have to-”

I opened the journal hesitant to continue reading the torture my wife had gone through.

Entry six:  I am clean clean clean. Cats smell good. Yummy. Hunger. Hungry so hungry. The invertebrates inside need food. They are in my mind now. Eating away my humanity. I feel myself changing. I miss him. So alone. So hungry. I miss you Cade. YOull come home to me. You'll still love me but I am different. I mmust leave but you will find me. So hungry. Not to far her is your hint my love:

The sky is a wound, the light is a lie, A frantic, white glare for a world meant to die. I watch from the shadows, your "Witness" so small, A stuttering pulse in a house meant to fall.

Follow the friction, the rot, and the crawl, I claim every shadow, my handsome thrall. The game has grown quiet, the board has been burned, To the absolute hunger, the Mother has turned.

Our love is a fever, a pinnacle shriek, A mountain of resin, a god-blooded peak. Cry for your "Son," let your human heart leak, The dirt is too heavy to hear a ghost speak.

The latch is unfastened, the hollow is wide, With nowhere for "Cadet" or a "Spirit" to hide. The Witness is meat, but your soul is the prize, Come drown in the dark of your Elena’s eyes.

The nectar is bitter, the resin is deep, A promise of salt that the "Father" must keep. The world is a shadow, the hive is the truth, I’ve traded your mercy for hunger and tooth.

The floorboards are breathing, the foundation slides, But only the "Founding Father" decides.

I gripped the edges of the warped laptop, my  knuckles white and slick with 'Pink Resin.' 'The dirt is too heavy,' I whispered, the words an earworm burrowing into my grey matter.

But Elena isn't 'Outside' in the world of men. She is 'Outside' the boundaries of the house's skin.

She isn't in a hole in the yard. She is in the Crawlspace. “The latch is unfastened,” to the entrance. She is under the joists, between the red brick and the belly of stone. To her, the floorboards are the 'Sky,' and the soil is her 'Blanket.'

 I shoved the 'Melted' laptop aside, my fingers finding the iron slats of the floor-vent. The metal was burning with a biological heat—her heat.

'I’m coming, Elena,' I whispered, though I had no breath left to carry the words.

I didn't need to 'Think' about the dirt or the 'Heavy' sky. I reached into the dark, my hands disappearing into the gap. I didn't find the floor joists. I found Her. Her limbs—those glistening, multi-jointed 'Black Wires'—wrapped around my wrists with a strength that was both violent and 'Soothing.' She didn't pull me like a captor; she claimed me like a founding stone.  

I’m at peace with Elena. I cant feel anything anymore. I've proved for her. She will live on and and we will be one. Together forever. Peace.