His Back
His back is like a mass of writhing snakes, each angry, white-hot scar a reminder of the vicious bite of the whip. The serpent of old was a slippery fellow, tongue dripping lies and teeth dripping venom—and these snakes are no different. They wriggle their way into his dreams, into his mind, whispering of memories he'd rather forget. They lie in wait, coils tense in anticipation. At long last, they strike. There is the hiss of leather through air, the sting of leather on flesh. And another snake forms—long and red and more potent than his brothers, for he is still new, still feeding off the lifeblood of the host. Up comes the whip again, and the snakes all writhe expectantly. But tonight things will end differently. Tonight the predator becomes the prey. In one quick motion the boy is up and the whip is in his hand. He is the master of the serpents now, the master of his pain. And the snakes are hungry and the snakes are wild and they wrap around the gypsy's throat with no regret or remorse and he falls to the ground—now nothing but a corpse.
Erik wakes up. His breathing is heavy. Beneath his sweat-drenched shirt, the ghosts of the serpents still shiver underneath my fingertips.
I love his back because each and every scar has made him who he is today.