His words become meaningless now, an empyrean thunder of falling masonry. Tumble down tumble down . . . raghtakamminarro . . . The petals are swept away. His bony hands are around my throat, squeezing. His headless skeleton presses against me, bent ribs digging into my back. His pelvic bone bangs against my hip, and his cracked toes scratch at my ankle and calf.

Too much flesh, too much meat. Strip it off. I will make you as naked as I. I will take your skin. I will wear your face. I will—

There. A flicker of color. Tiny wings.

The butterfly from the mountain top, its orange and yellow wings shifting and fluttering in this deepdark bubble. Pretty light. Save me, pretty light, bring me salvation.

Salvation is the bone worried by fools. It is the fossilized finger of your dead god, your absent father. It is a worthless piece of chalk.

But . . . but, you can write with chalk.

Who will read your suicide note? What will you say, when there are no words left?

You took them from me.

You gave them to me.

The butterfly floats, just out of reach. I stretch for it as his bony fingers bruise my windpipe. I can feel the butterfly's wings brush my fingertip.

He wraps himself around my legs, and his bones bang against my lower back like an ascendant lover. His hands shift and tighten. I have stopped trying to breathe. Instead, I focus all of my fading energy on the fluttering web of color. Just out of reach. So close. Just one more . . .

Let go. We are all here. Join us. Let your light go out, and come into the communal emptiness of the deepdark. Let yourself fall into the unconscious, little spark. Let yourself go out.

She loves me. Yes, she does . . . I . . . believe . . .

The butterfly shifts and hardens in my hand. Its edge cuts my palm, and my grip becomes slippery with blood. I need something to hold, something less fine, less pure.

My vision goes dark as parts of my cerebral cortex shut down. I can still feel the weight of his bones, but my throat doesn't hurt any more. My thalamus can't be bothered to transmit the pain signals any more. My fingers are dull, and they fumble badly as they beat and tug at the peak of his spine. Yes, the thought struggles to form, this . . .

His atlas comes free and, like a blind man putting a puzzle together, I marry bone and blade. Yes, this will do . . .

More thunder, a wordless reverberation against my aching bones, as I cut the bones of his forearm. The pressure on my throat vanishes and my lungs surge. My brain explodes with light.

The bubble bursts. I can see. I can see where to cut him, where to put the knife so as to best take him apart. I can see the sinew holding the bones together at his elbow, at his shoulder. I can see where his heart should be, hidden beneath that twisted cage of ribs.

I can see his intent.