RUNNING UP THAT HILL

Breathe, Laura, breathe.

Picture a pretty place. Fluffy clouds, rolling hills, cooing sicklebills… angels writhing around the Mercy Seat chanting ‘holy, holy, holy’, six-winged beasts full of eyes…

I can do this.

If hell is other people, then heaven is what? No people at all. Well, there’s no one around and things don’t look much like Middlemist Reds in bloom at Eden round here, that’s for sure.

Just five… six, are you kidding me? Seven more steps, Laura.

Why do they call it a ‘flight’ of stairs? It doesn’t fly anyone anywhere. Other than down, and what good is that? Stairway to heaven? Ha! A gutful of rotting fly agaric pumping venom into the brain is a picnic compared to this.

‘And so mounting as it were by steps, let us get to heaven by a Jacob’s ladder’.

Easy for you to say, mate.

It’s no good. If I only could…

No. I can do this. It doesn’t hurt me. No, really. I’M FINE!

Where is he? Your golden boy? Yeah, yeah, he was not the one deceived. I was the beguiled one while he was… where? Why was he not by my side when I was being tricked? Where is he now that I need this abomination to be taken out of man?
Sorry baby. I’m sorry. It’s you and me, baby. It’s you and me. Nearly at the top now. Don’t be unhappy. Don’t be….

AAAAAAAAARRGHHHH!

I’ll tell you what. Let’s go back, yeah? This time, you carry on being the one that creates life, cut the eternal damnation routine, and I’ll stay the hell away from the apple.
Deal?

For Kirstie Maginn. By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
Kate Bush