May Our Voices Sing Like Blood from Open Wounds
by Jason Sanford
The barber whispers "ad Dei gloriam" as he gelds me, his tongs a red-hot star blazing the
firmament of my opium dream. Siface swore the opium would dull my pain, but when the falling
star reaches my flesh I still taste the cut and burn.
My scream is a beautiful, painful song. Or it becomes one in my opium dream.
Siface holds my hand and joins my song as flesh leaves flesh, his mezzo-soprano voice the
purest of angels delighting in what he hopes I'll one day accomplish.
"You are now like me," he says in his high-loving voice. "I will teach you. I will mold
Ad Dei gloriam. To the glory of God.
Five years later God forsakes us on a dark road between Bologna and Ferrara. Instead of
screaming, Siface sighs a perfect note as he dies on the packed dirt and stones. His sigh sounds
like a new song he created far too late for anyone in this world to enjoy.
As the vampire finishes drinking Siface's blood, the monster eyes me, no doubt wondering
why I didn't flee.
"I've no need to kill you, little boy," she says. "You didn't play games with my master's
mistress. Or did you?"