an american slaughterhouse
by
Skylar de Brun
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Skylar de Brun on Smashwords
An American Slaughterhouse
Copyright © 2010 by Skylar de Brun
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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An american slaughterhouse
The wait settled into slow pivots drooling across hours from acute angles adjacent to my gate, H14. I could do without hepatitis about now or happiness to the fourteenth degree or one in the afternoon. I’ll take a smile. Fuck, I don’t even want that. I’m fat with frowns, obese from their derisive scowls, anorexic to soft reds and allergic to dimples, especially dimples. Feed me a smile, force it down my throat, insert it in my intestine, give me a wound to bandage, a scar to remember, and a callous to hate. Make my navel envious, demand a pharmaceutical straight of umbilici. Cure my reality with prescription, give me a button to doctor my medication. I subscribe to comatose gods where prayers release opiates and pain requires finance. A kidney for six slips? That’s a good deal says the man with my wallet. I don’t need eyes, I can find the world with my hands. When did clocks get nipples? Must be time to board. The plane would be a pleasant coffin, hanging upside down to sink in the blood; drown in its bitter taste. Arms attached to overhead compartments, screams muffled by blankets and suitcases, torsos writhing to water’s chop.
Turn that frown downside up, frowns over easy and fractures over hard. I have a zero tolerance policy toward airplane accidents and groping. “That’s not my seatbelt” her face said from across the aisle. Alas, the air is tempered with silver, all torsos upright and all appendages attached. The stillness is pervaded by impatience. Waiting is unconditional and sitting is warranted by practice. Time breeds anger, the quiet kind that kills wholesale when your head is down, that ignores the scene when it’s someone else, that breathes heavy and sighs deeper with every effort. We all remember H14, we all remember when we had the opportunity to walk away before our frowns mingled with windows and steel, before our eyes stared longingly at our faces, when we could have avoided hepatitis or seen one in the afternoon. A non-religious god damn, an unholy fuck, a place where living countenances reigned supreme. “Ground control to Major Tom”, time to die!
Jack stood solemn and heavy, he could have shit his pants, he could have bloodied them with disgust. He never expected this sort of awkwardness at an estate sale. Somehow between a Hank Williams record and a lamp minus fixture attachment resided a small leather bound notebook, diary, or maybe pages of suicide notes, a collaboration of fantasy filled with unsettling appeal. He ran his hand across the binding. The smoothness of it astonished him, depressions met his fingers well, and the cover was adorned with a square without a center, a lost circle, this leather more worn than the next, not soft at all, grainy and disconcerting. It was without a title, perhaps worn away into the texture. He clutched it tight, held it to his man breast, smelled it. It had a smell. One of those oddly wonderful smells that books acquire with age, it smelled like someone’s prehistory, it was intoxicating, it crawled in his nose and there buried paradise. His lungs rippled with anxiety, he coughed abruptly then laughed outrageously, laughed at a bottle under the table labeled old book smell air freshener. That clever old cunt knew how to make a sale.
As Jack understood it—purely from eavesdropping on a couple of chatty relics perusing their neighbor’s belongings, projecting quiet judgment that undermined the sincerity with which they approached the widow—the woman’s husband had died from a distended bowel following an examination into the mystery of a five hour erection. The dead fellas collected things he did not like, a curious habit she said. At this word she looked at Jack and cried, sobbing words foreign to him with precious effort, her ochreous skin coddling her chubby features, diluting the color of her hair to near translucence. Seeing the book held tight in Jack’s hand she smiled with a belated effect.
“I’ve never seen that before”, she said, “did you find it here?” A deliberate nod was all Jack would manage.
“It’s got a smell” she mumbled, “an old smell.”
“Indeed it does”, Jack chortled, stifling the desire to spit truth in her eyes.
“Fifty should do”, she told him, her smile contorting face high. Jack handed her the money, three bills that she hurriedly snatched before waddling away. A clever cunt he thought, too bad her eyes don’t match her wit. Jack walked away, that fast walk that he thought no one would suspect. I’m casual, I just enjoy walking fast he thought, nothing to see hear.
“Stupid boy” the widow said to herself as she thrust the seven dollars in the tit pocket of her camisole, “stupid, stupid boy”.
“I don’t like Jack.” Danielle whispered to Amber as the peeked around the corner of the kitchen in to their living room where Jack sat quietly staring at a singular spot on the wall where too much spackle had once been applied.
“Why not?” Amber replied, “he’s one of the nicest guys we know.” Danielle shook her head, tilted it down,
“What’s he looking at?” Danielle said softly, “And he always stares at us when we kiss.”
“That’s because it’s hot.” Jack said from the living room. The girls hid in the kitchen as if Jack had penetrated the thickness of the wall with his gaze. Their high pitched giggling intoxicating to him even after such a curt remark. They were sexy, both in different ways. Danielle was taller, blonde hair begging to be curly, somewhat unkempt, adverse to make-up, the softness of her features at war with the casualness of her grooming. She was thin; in fact her body wouldn’t have attracted much attention unless surrounded by fat girls. She had a small ass, not much of one, same with her girl breasts. Appealing definitely but not other worldly. It was her face, her eyes; they held her attitude, a stale blue, like color faded by light, the softness intervening in their complete disappearance. Her voice—fuck he loved it—was in her eyes. She was a friend and an object, to be wanted for different reasons, to be approached by desire and condemned by content.
Amber was purposely feminine, a shrine to youthful perfection, a sexual object only, a dream always wet. She was short with long curly brown hair, pale skin and buxom lips. Jack always thought if there were an Eve it would have looked like Amber. Her hair wrapped against her face, a round one with a small nose, a cute nose. Jack never thought a nose could be cute. Damn you penis and brain, rarely do you work together. Her eyes were brown, beautifully normal, unassuming. It was like seeing her from a distance always. No inspection ever invalidated the way he felt, she was a masterpiece. Her body lithe and strong. She sweated sexuality; it was his cancer. She was a tumor for Jack’s desire, constantly malignant, metastasizing the breadth of his being, she was torture. They were more than physical excellence, their minds were as present as his was. Their beauty exited from every pore, from Amber’s nose and Danielle’s eyes.
Jack was unable to find that anywhere. Always with the tits, asses, and fuck, always. Would they believe he was trying to stare through the wall, he wasn’t, he was baked before he arrived, but would they believe it? Was he an aphrodisiac? No, but it turned them on, he was sure they were more passionate out of sight, just a room away, foreign and forbidden, a lust he could not help to want. He tried to treat them with respect but to fuck is to know and to want is desperate. Danielle walked in playfully, moving her weight from left to right, pushing her hips out each time, smiling coyly she ran both hands through her hair, arching back to reveal breasts normally hidden by baggy shirts, men’s shirts. It was selfishness and megalomania that made him observant. They orbited him like planets and a sun stays conscious of its own.
“I’m so sorry” Danielle said, pushing the words between her lips with exaggerated motion, falling next to him, her shoulder brushing his.
“I’m having a bad day. Amber has been talking to some guy all day. You know I get jealous. I do like you, you’re the nicest guy I know” she said as she touched his hand. He almost hated her; he hated not being able to hate her fully. It was practice, his misfortune. Fuck, Jack couldn’t lie to himself; he almost loved her. He hated not being able to love her fully, her misfortune. He smiled, touched her hand sweetly and said,
“I don’t care; I don’t like you all the time either.” His voice calm, his face soft and reassuring. Don’t give her an inch he thought, suffer your due. Water is envious of stone. She pulled away to a moment of tenderness, an instant when she felt real, quickly smothered by a smile and a quaint flick of her neck. She left the room meeting Amber before the kitchen, taking her by the hand Danielle began to kiss her passionately, sliding her hand to Amber’s crotch, pressing heavily, eliciting a deep gasp. Danielle glanced to Jack watching unmoved.
“Did you hear what he said to me?” she whispered before taking Amber into the kitchen. Jack shuddered, his hard on belying his visage. Each breath hurt. Why did he have to almost love her? He came in his pants. With his chin stowed on chest he decided to roll a joint to avoid the sticky walk to his car. He was still high from earlier but needed his boxers to be dry otherwise he would have to change them before going to his girlfriends. He hated that bitch but she loved him like a disease. Jack smoked slowly; he could hear the groans coming from the bedroom. Sitting on the couch he might as well have been on a deserted island. He was alone, snubbed, and covered in cum. It could have been any Tuesday for all he knew. He got up, closed his eyes, and walked to the door, he had memorized the paces. Opening the door he went outside, the sun was blinding. Two guys were sitting on the front porch, waiting. Jack passed by, he knew they were there for business but he wanted to kill them anyway, there, right there. They met his hate with indifference, his flaming sword flaccid from inaction. At the driveway the door opened.
“You’re leaving already” Danielle said handing a bag to the guys on the porch,
“You were amazing” she said, letting the door shut behind her. The guys approached Jack, smiles wide, “you’re the greatest man we’ve ever met” they said. Their lust disgusting, their envy unsolicited.
“I’m something alright” Jack replied before walking despondently to his car. He stopped, what compensation he thought. If only she wasn’t, if only I could..., the sun was blinding. He turned toward the house, a curtain moved quickly over space, his heart beat painfully before going torpid in his chest.
Jack’s phone kept ringing. Four messages all from Roxanne. He rubbed his head, squeezed the temples until it hurt, yelled and yelled again. His girlfriend was gorgeous. He had desired her for months but only weeks after sealing the arrangement through fuck he wanted something else, anything else. She was always horny, liked to please, she was a ballerina. She’d suck his dick even if he couldn’t get it hard yet he was so utterly dissatisfied that he cheated on her with uglier women. He knew he was a fucking idiot so he squeezed his temples again, tried to pop his head like a fruit. He yelled. No wonder Danielle doesn’t like me thought, validating his tumultuous emotions with deprecation. He breathed slow, gathered himself and called Roxanne.
“I’m on my way” he said while preparing to climb a tree. He wasn’t going anywhere. She had to wait so she could please him better, his gift to her, let her lust boil over. It was a routine, a calendar fuck to the second. Also he needed to change his underwear, a note he wrote on his hand to not forget. He began to climb a specific tree, one he climbed repeatedly. It took effort, physical effort that though difficult provided a feeling of accomplishment, a tangible victory that was his own where strength and skill found want exclusively.
He was invisible in its bosom, accompanied only by ants, vicious little things that bit often though he enjoyed it. Another tangible experience, a barrier to force down with stoicism. A pain felt and seen that through focus and volition he could overcome. In his sanctuary at the top of that tree he felt relieved. Jack took his recently acquired book from his front pocket and simply held it close with loose hands and tight arms. He smelled it, laughing because he forgot the smell was manufactured. His fingers moved about the outside, finding the stray piece on the cover, outlining its perimeter with clockwise motions, always clockwise. He didn’t open it, he had no need. He breathed again, a strong breath then returned the book to his pocket, descended the tree with youthful recklessness, leaving bits of flesh on pointed branches. Feeling of junk he tore the book from his pocket and read the first page. Someone in the distance waved. Jack turned away.
“I don’t like him” Roxanne told her roommate, Krista or Kirsta or Kristen, Fat K as Jack called her.
“Shut up, you love him” Fat K said.
“I know but don’t you ever tell him” Roxanne mewled. “Where is he?” she mewled again
“he said he was on his way”. Roxanne knew the routine but still enjoyed complaining, she fucked better when she thought he ignored her. She knew he knew too. It was unspoken and Jack found it sickening that she could be so desperate. Anything negative he saw in someone else that could exist in himself was sickening, an abomination. She was dumb. Not actually dumb but compared to him she was an ant. He absorbed knowledge like skin and regurgitated it likewise.
“Do you think he’ll like my new bra?” Roxanne asked.
“I doubt he’ll notice” Fat K responded.
“He always notices, even if he doesn’t say anything, I know he does.” Roxanne protested. The two girls heard a single knock on the door, a mild rap.
“I’m going to make him wait” Roxanne joked as no other sounds entered their room. She rushed to the door, flung it open to find nothing. Thrusting her head out she saw Jack walking away, a whistled tune pervaded the hall.
“Wait!” she screamed, running after him. Throwing herself in his arms. He caressed her hair, kissed her endearingly. Those first moments he knew he was lucky to have that connection with her though it never lasted, he couldn’t even force it to last. She was so pretty. He thought behind thoughts that he wasn’t worth her and her love was misplaced, lost then found, the joy of recovery overpowering natural emotions. He knew she loved him though she’d never made the mistake of saying it. He hated love because he had never felt it for a person. The sky, the woods, his dog these were things he loved, deeply and sincerely. But that couldn’t be the love he’d seen between other people. His love must be petty compared to that, it had to be or what point did it serve. The time they spent together was usual, ordinary, most of it. She was great at fuck, like an artist. Jack loved that. She would complain that he wasn’t vocal enough but he entered his own world of pleasure divorced from a double backed beast superceding everything else he knew. He ruled as a king as servile as a slave, a timely contradiction that pleased them both. After, she begged him to stay with her, to sleep in her bed. He held her close, caring or pretending to care, he didn’t know. He never slept those nights. Hours of lying awake, cramped in a space he enjoyed for as long as he lasted. He thought of H14 and laughed. She woke up.
“What is it?” she forced out.
“Nothing, just thinking of a book I looked at today.” He murmured, pulling her tight to sell the illusion. She moaned satisfaction
“I like books.” She said hardly able to avoid sleep. The slobber in her mouth made her lips smack. Jack cringed then cringed again. The morning broke to a sullen gray light cluttered by clouds and pollution incapable of producing rain. Roxanne was asleep, drool seeping down the pillow, struggling to break from the strand, snoring sporadically. It would have been unbearable if he knew she wouldn’t want to fuck in the morning. It was a smellier experience but a required gratuity. He washed feverously after and left with a smell only he could smell. The sky was more gray, the shade unforgiving to his eyes. The air smelled of a paper plant.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Fuck, a bunch, a dozen, requiem for Fuck. Feet shuffle fat and stupid vehicles attached to technology. Ears advertising signal strength and service tattooed on tongues lead lined, weighted with disappointment and commitment reeking of contrived effort and false hope. A horde of salmon pushing up perpendicular streams forced to cross a confluence of ignorance and noise, a vortex defined by shiny shoes and triple dose hair gel where promotion designates effect. Fuck. They crawl on bellies, slither up legs, infect peace with enterprise, compare notes then shrug in disdain. My ears bleed to their songs, their cadence forces my heartbeat irregular, the palpitations are enormous, their jaws swallow sockets whole. Miniature ones walk by imitating giants, unable to compete except by noise. Turn it down. A competition of strangers, tranquility and quiet slaughtered by greed. I want, I want, I want. Hear my requiem lord of Fuck, hear my call for blood, give them to the blade, make it soft like syphilis.
“What are you reading?” asked Arden. Jack furrowed his brow down to his stomach, a rotten sensation.
“Nothing” Jack retorted.
“I can see you’re reading something” Arden said. He was a good roommate, well described in series: tall, paunchy, timid, hairy, sedentary, pigeon toed with mutton chops, great teeth, and a slouch.
“Fuck” Jack yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Yes I’m reading but not anymore.” Quiet cannot escape boredom, a victim of impatience. Jack knew he should have never wanted more.
“Want to re-up?” Arden proposed. Jack checked his pockets, empty, checked the usual spots, empty. He saw a joint he must have rolled earlier but no bag. Then he remembered, friends can’t be trusted, friends of friends, girlfriends of friends, all suspect, so he put it somewhere secret yet obvious. He checked under the dog’s bowl, a few bowls worth. Crouched he wondered where it had gone, bouncing the once four fingered bag precariously in his right hand. Oh right, thievery! With a chuckle he heard a quick noise, a jingle, a redundant patter. The dog burst around the corner expecting food. She found it in Jack’s unsuspecting right hand then bolted out her door to the small fenced in enclosure Jack had built for her outside. By the time he caught her, the bag was shredded and empty, the dog wearing a dog smile on her dog face, briefly, before plopping to the ground, baked, disoriented, and immobilized, wearing that damn dog face relentlessly.
“Yep, need to re-up.” Jack told Arden who was smoking a joint. Jack looked to the table, nothing. “Was it yours?” Arden asked. A wave of the hand was Jack’s only reply, an exploding sigh. The process of course wasn’t fast or easy. It never is when you’re cashed. One call then another, one visit then another. High prices low quality, no sale.
“Just call Danielle” Arden suggested.
“Not today, I can’t do it.” Jack said.
“Then call Roxy” Arden repeated.
Jack sighed again. “No.”
“Well fuck you then” Arden protested. They sat quietly.
“I’ve got an idea” Jack exclaimed flipping through the records, pulling One World. It began to play. They still sat there. Arden’s faith absent.
“Excuse me while I play my axe” they heard.
“Under the sink” Jack yelped. Arden jumped to check, a half ounce, a safety half, a break in case of emergency half.
“We should put Tobacco Road on now,” Arden suggested. A disabling laugh enveloped the room.
You went to the valley of the dolls where the place was once a stream, where life strangled the water from the earth and lions tore into flesh. You drank the dirt that once was mud, sifted its remains to find fragments of bone and unwinding knots. The air smelled of flour, something was baking bread of ash and tyrants, its face adorned with feces from another failed experiment. It beckons beasts with calls of erections and punishes them with flaccid whips. Rise into the valley of estrangement where things are unreal, where the sky pisses its hate with gravity’s new force, where lords and gods bludgeon the survivors with hammers and signs, their clarity burning to nothing in the atmosphere, a colorful resonance to be translated by the mad: worship unto me. Build unto me. Sacrifice unto me. Spill yourself to fury and sound, laugh at your neighbors then devour them whole, leave no trace of their life, consume it in every orifice, bleed your bright propaganda and embrace the warmth that trickles down your leg. This is your lord and god, your savior and redeemer, a warm trickle of man and beast.
Set fire to the dirt that was once mud, slaughter the baker and fuck his bread, seed it with desire, create a new breed of ejaculation and donate it to the flames. Watch them contort into shape, define their space, and scream in terror, their whistle melts you to the ground, a pool of atoms to be absorbed by the earth, to be lost into dryness and from its reckoning the ground will boil blood. The flames watch it rise and writhe, consuming the dirt, transforming it to mud stained red that hardens and softens with the tumult of the heat. The fire pulls the wetness from the solid, lifts it from the place once a stream, the screams penetrating to the rotted bones of beasts. The flame gathers a core thundering from pressure, the red mud no longer on the ground circles the fire, forced tighter by gravity’s hand. The heat melts it down, lengthens it to strands then collapses back, the sphere breaks and deformity reigns supreme. The lords and gods shudder in disgust as spirals bounce to edges, curl and return, curl and return. Their hymns are suffering; they weep death from above to no avail. The fire cannot be stopped, they have created a power, an awesome power that brings them to their knees, their bodies prostrate against the sky; they worship slavery and witness its destruction.
The form spins upward; its speed rips them from the heavens and buries them in the earth, seeding it with life foreign to desolation. Greens turn to blues and blues to everything else. Cries spring from holes and water rises from nothing. The fire spreads and slows, its haste hardens into form, an absolute monstrosity, the lords and gods wither away, their being ripped apart by the dead, lining the earth with sinews and excitement, with quaking and wind, with destruction and torment. The fire creates two. Two things, its, indefinable, alien to existence. Hardened by speed and scorched by heat they rise from fallen ash, heaping the excess to the stream, polluting it with their presence, releasing legs atop bones, arms flailing to the coolness of the air, heads ripped from torsos and stretched to the sky. Monsters with faces hiding eyes, smiles that reap satisfaction and movement confined to physical limitation. Destroyers, putrid things that suffer the air, angry and irrational, deceitful and selfish, beings of want. They spy their new world, feel its life radiate against its wonder, they look passed the bounty, passed creation and starve in their ignorance, withering away like those before, contaminators spreading their insolence to all things before returning the world to desolation.
Jack felt the words, nodded to the closing of the book, and stared blankly into a space he thought no one else could see. He stared hard, straining his eyes to break the barrier of reality, to pierce through to an eden of destruction, where pain ruled the living and discontent ran rampant. Of course he failed, managing only to burden his head with an ache no reliever could fix so he did the next best thing. He closed his eyes and focused again, focused intently on the specks of light he saw, the flashes he could not define that would grow into lines and colors and of these he would reason shapes, forcing them to commit from nothing, magnifying passed the splendor like he was flying through a vast colorful space, magnifying to the end where on object rose and tweaked into something near recognizable only to disappear when recognition seemed close. It was surely explainable he thought as he opened his eyes, surely experienced by many others, many billions of others probably.
But those doubts didn’t surface until the vision was complete, for a moment they were his, a future or past, a supreme knowledge or alien life. He looked forward to see himself looking back; he hated mirrors. That was not his face. Who was that person looking back at him? The features remembered by touch but never sight, his height a mystery, his weight constantly changing. Was this fat? Was it skinny? He looked down to the book next to the bathroom sink. He had placed it their without caution, with the ease of a toothbrush or condom.
He jumped back then suddenly forward to rescue the book from wetness realizing he had placed it in a small pool of water created by the faucet, damn the faucet, when he was brushing his teeth. He always turned the pressure too high so the water ricocheted off the bottom of the shallow sink onto the sides which were never sloped, never, so the water pooled, sitting stagnant, waiting for something important to be placed unsuspectingly in its midst. Why couldn’t they be sloped, just gradually, an unestimatable amount, but slope them for fucks’ sake. He grabbed the book using his skin to attempt to dry it. He ran through the house with his arms plastered to his chest, the book underneath searching for a towel or shirt or anything dry and absorbable. He found a dirty towel used previously to dampen a severe leak in the roof, the corner was dry, good enough, he wiped the book down preciously, slowly, using small circular movements with intermittent blotting like he’d seen on a commercial once.
The liquid dried but its stains were present in spots, blotches, and streaks. Fuck that commercial. He sat down and blew on it, breath was never a savior. Checking the damage he noticed that the cover piece, the unusual part he traced with his fingers, had risen at the empty circle and frayed along the edges, the tanning used had evaporated away from the sink water leaving a crusty boundary trying to turn over itself unsuccessfully, though not from a lack of want, exposing a minute section of the underside, unusual and soft, not like leather, it smelled different too, it was delicate and nonspecific.
Jack set the book on his table, flattened the frayed edge as best he could then placed a larger, heavier book on top to hopefully fight the crease, to battle its natural urge to split apart from where it was. Jack went back into the bathroom, stared into the mirror, swung his arm across the sink, knocking everything to the floor with great force, picking it up and slamming it back down, stomping on it until it was all either flattened or broke. He tried to rip the sink from the wall but it wouldn’t move, he punished it with thoughts, punched the mirror; it refused to break. His hand hurt and his pride wounded he stared back into the mirror, counted his breaths, exhaled them deeply and focused on himself. He stared awkwardly, it made him uncomfortable, he wondered how he had a girlfriend with that face, it was stern, too stern for his youth. He ducked his chin to his chest, breathed again and looked back up without judgment, without anything, he could have been a statue then, he would have made a good statue.
The mirror was grey from use, it had been stared into so many times that it had lost the will to hold a sheen, that glimmer that covers a clean one, a new sensation that illustrates every pore, flaw, and expression with seemingly purposeful malcontent. So many times had the mirror reflected a face that it had lost the ability to function, it hung there like an old picture in a grandmother’s home, gathered and converted by the elements to represent a time lost to those living. It had toothpaste, water, shaving cream, spit, coffee, dust, moisture, bong excess, smoke stains, fingerings, words, drawings, and vomit on it. All smeared together by a lazy cleaning, a wiping without solvent, a dry rub that conglomerated every unclean substance into a haze, a dirty haze with a smell.
The face looking back each time Jack stared into it was an amalgam of the previous days, the experiences he could not recall, the saturation that entered then left his system, the days with the clap, with the flu, the days where he woke up curled in a ball on the floor, struggling to grasp the sink to pull himself up, pressing his hand to the sheen, imprinting his helplessness forever, a reminder he wouldn’t remember. What he saw was not a person, it was a thing, a bathroom thing, a creation of abuse and depravity. His face slightly warped by that day’s convex attitude, a particular smear that made him believe he was balding, a dot, some dot that sat on his lip when he stood upright, a black herpe he couldn’t feel but always saw. That mirror was as maniacal and devious as any person, affecting him greater than peer pressure or self esteem alone, it haunted him yet he never cleaned it, never even considered it. Its purpose was evident.
“Who are you?” Jack said.
“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled.
Jack shook his fist at the guy looking back.
“What do you want?” Jack screamed.
“What do you.....Fuck you, fuck you” again he screamed.
Jack hit the mirror, fist closed, with the side repeatedly banging against it, throwing his weight with all his might when it didn’t break. Letting loose with sounds of horror, agony, and delight converging in anger, tears rolling down his face, tears. He cried heavier because he was crying already.
Using both fists to overcome the weakness he felt, switching from the side to knuckles, leaving blood smeared and dripping down the mirror, rolling together then falling as drops on the fixtures below. The walls were beating back as his neighbor slammed against them, a competition of noise, louder and louder the experience grew more intense.
“Why are you doing this?” he cried.
His energy leaving, the weakness overpowering his anger, tears softening his face, the intensity cramping those muscles; his neck stuck in a singular position. With a last pathetic effort Jack slouched his back and flung his arm forward from the shoulder, his elbow and wrist limp from effort, inertia driving the weapon, cresting after a slow arch, losing speed as it fell. He made contact with the mirror with the force of a woman’s slap, laughing madly, laughing from the diaphragm, a bellowing that drowned the beating of the neighbor. His hand slid down the mirror mounting the fixtures between his fingers, his head settled in the sink, a deafening a crack ripped the mirror into pieces that crashed on the back of his head, landing without making a scratch, falling like snowflakes to floor, very loud snowflakes.
The crash silenced his neighbor, quiet infected his small space, sweat mixed with the blood on his hands, his breathing lengthened, a smile crossed his face. Using the sink he slipped to the floor, catching himself with his ass and the tile. Leaning back he found the wall with his head, resting leisurely he licked the blood from his hands, it wasn’t bad, he cleaned himself like an animal with clinical precision, he enjoyed the feeling. Jack prepared himself to stand, watching the ground carefully so as to not meet it again as well as avoid any sharp piece of mirror on the floor. As he put his hand down for leverage it touched a near circular shard, an almost cut out with a few lines of blood beginning to clot on it.
He stared into it unable to see anything from the smear. Taking his shirt he wiped away the blood revealing, to his surprise, a clean mirror, he wiped more thoroughly the rest of it, the blood cutting through the years of grime like acid, leaving only a perfectly glimmering mirror, a newly fabricated shard resting in his hand. Jack stared at a face unfamiliar. He realized an instant attraction.
“Who are you?” he said. The tone of his voice changing to that of curiosity like he was communicating with a child.
“Everything is going to be fine, I promise. My name is Jack. What’s yours?”
The book was open when he awoke, it waited for him, called to him with haunting randomness. Its pages settling wherever they chose, defining chaos by numbers alone, leaving a wake of bullet points that collapse linear progression. They were exaltations on paper, diatribes, and rituals labeled sporadically by simple shapes, turning around themselves across the page, turning into beautiful patterns and grotesque designs, running back over themselves making them nearly illegible, words on top of words, sentences smothered by punctuation and captured by letters. He lifted his head, his hands swollen, a ringing pervading his ears. His eyes found bold at the top of the page.
“You’ll never be me again.” it read.
He rolled on to his side, his hand cringed as support, dried blood speckled the floor. The pain was irresistible, he held himself and read.
I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on then I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on then I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on then I cut off their feet and put metal ones on so I can hear them when they walk, clang clang clang clang is the sound they make when they walk and I can hear them because I put metal ones on. The metal ones make the noise they make the clang. The plastic ones make no noise, they make quiet, I don’t like quiet steps. Whose steps are those and why are they quiet? I don’t like them I like the clang clang so I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on then I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on. I still hear the quiet, I don’t like the quiet. Why are your steps so quiet? So I cut off the feet and put metal ones on and they go clang clang when they walk they go clang when they walk and I can hear them. I can hear them, I can still hear them.
The sound of the feet they make me sleep they make me sleep they make me sleep. The sound of the feet they make me sleep when they walk across the floor. I hear the feet go clang clang clang go clang clang clang go clang clang clang; I hear the feet go clang clang clang when they walk across the floor. When I hear quiet I cut off the feet I cut off the feet I cut off the feet, when I hear quiet I cut off the feet that walk across the floor. Whose steps are those, why are they so quiet? I don’t like quiet steps so I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on then I cut off their feet and put plastic ones on. Why are your steps so quiet? So cut off the feet and put metal ones on and they go clang clang when they walk they go clang clang when they walk and I can hear them.
“You finally made it inside, awesome” said the clerk behind the counter.
“I’ve seen you standing out in front of that window staring in, what, hundreds of times. Hey Abby, how many times you seen this guy standing in front of the store, a hundred times?” the clerk yelled to the backroom.
“What guy? Oh yeah, plenty of times. He’s finally inside?” Abby responded.
“Of course he’s inside. Why would I be making a big deal if he wasn’t? Stupid bitch. Sorry about that dude.” the clerk said softer.
“What’d you call me?” Abby yelled, thrusting her head out of the stock room.
“Nothing baby, I was talking to this guy here.” the clerk said.
“If you think I’m some kind of whore like that last girl that worked here, ah fuck it.” Abby gave up. She watched the customer stare around the store, marveling at all the supplies, running his fingers over boards and canvas, flicking tubes of paint to see if they dented. She even thought he was about to juggle three bottles as he held two in one hand and one in the other, making heaving motions up and down.
“Did you hear this jerk say something about me?” Abby asked Jack.
“Hey, dude, are you there?” she rang out.
“What” replied Jack, “Did you guys say something to me?” His eyes didn’t turn away from the bottles.
“I was listening to these.” Jack said.
“Leave me alone please.” Jack said, “I just want to be left alone” he said while investigating the rack that held a pack of brushes varying in size and texture. How was the peg hooked to the rack he thought. He jiggled it. It didn’t fall.
“How much for the peg?” Jack asked.
“Dude, only the art supplies are for sale.” the clerk stated abruptly.
“He must be slow,” Abby whispered.
“You’re right, she is a dumb bitch.” Jack said to himself.
Jack found a small roll of canvas, it smelled good, like canvas. This is what canvas smells like he thought. He carried it over to the counter, set it down, and walked back to the canvas wall.
“You can’t leave that here, dude.” The clerk said.
“I just did.” replied Jack calmly.
“How much for the peg?” Jack asked.
“I told you it’s not for sale, only the art supplies.” the clerk responded.
“Oh, I think I’ve heard that before too.” Jack mumbled. “Must be some industry thing.”
Abby’s curiosity gave way to assertiveness.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” she asked.
“Where are your tubes of acrylic paint....and nails, big ones, peg size?” Jack asked excitedly. Abby laughed tacitly, a face laugh, a quiet indiscretion.
“Over here” she said, “under the sign reading paints.” She threw a ‘is this guy crazy’ look over to the clerk which he stuffed deep in his pocket.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Abby asked, expecting another outlandish or stupidly obvious request.
“Yes” replied Jack in a cockney accent, “rub my dick while I decide which paints to get.”
Jack heard a lady gasp but not from Abby, she didn’t make a sound. Abby leaned in to his ear, her mouth almost touching it, her breath hot.
“I’ll call the police if you say anything like that again, now buy your paint and get the hell out of the store.” Abby said deliberately.
“Yeah, yeah just do it” Jack said while laughing, “if you do call someone call the Ghostbusters, I’ve always wanted to meet them.” He found the paints he was looking for, a slate blue with a sheen, an ocean green like Joyce would know, and a blood red, like tiger’s blood. He bobbled the three in his hands, deciding if that was all he needed. Would I use a yellow if I got it he wondered? I don’t like yellow but,
“you should get a yellow,” Abby whispered as she began to rub her hand across his crotch, “a big tube of yellow”.
“I don’t think so, maybe this purple, more things should be purple. Get that hand inside my pants.” Jack said with a lack of interest.
“What do you think you’re doing Abby?” the clerk cried, “baby, what are you doing?”
“Good stuff” Jack said, turning back to ask the clerk about a peg, deciding not to since he was still debating on paints.
“Purple it is” Jack said, he jolted, “damn you’re not what I expected.” Jack turned to the clerk, “why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t what I expected?” “Finish up quick, I’ve got stuff to do.” Jack started to walk to the counter, Abby’s hand still down his pants, dragging her behind awkwardly, unable to match his steps.
“Yo clerk don’t watch this” Jack suggested, then leaning back to Abby whispered, “pull my dick out, I can’t have sticky boxers”. She obliged with a pull and a squeeze.
“Streak free that is not.” Jack said with commercial enthusiasm, “now how much for the supplies?”
“Just take them and go,” the clerk mumbled, “just go”. Jack headed for the door, something clipped his heel, “fucking watch it” he yelled. A faint “sorry” was all he heard. As he got to the door Abby came behind him, appropriate he thought.
“Can I see you again?” she pleaded.
“No” Jack said as he walked out the door.
After going outside Jack walked a good five steps before stopping and laughing awfully hard, breathing with great difficulty while doing it. He couldn’t believe that had just happened. “Paint the town red. Even the church? Especially the church.” What a bad ass.
“Excuse me”, a voice from behind him said, a lady voice!
“Excuse you, I just ejaculated thoroughly on a store counter” Jack responded with excitement.
“That’s the second worst opening line I’ve ever heard.” the lady voice said.
“I heard you inside, you’re the gasper!” Jack sighed, “what do you want?”
“I want to know...” the lady voice said before Jack interrupted with,
“wait, what’s the worst opening line you’ve ever heard, though I’m not admitting that my declaration of ejaculation was an opening line?” He said all of this foolery while examining his paints, his free paints. Fuck no nails.
“You didn’t get your nails.” she said. That’s it Jack thought, that’s a bad line sure but no where close to his, if what he said was a line. He was confused. She laughed at the back of his head.
“That’s not the worst line” she said, “do you want to hear it?”
“What am I a wind up toy? Do I look like baby blue, tin soldier, I mean tin soldier.” he replied, cringing, leaning his head down. Never reference a musical? It doesn’t matter, never reference it, I don’t even like it. Damn you memory. She laughed appropriately,
“I want to cum in your frizzy hair” she said smoothly, her voice exuding sexuality. Jack’s head lifted, I don’t have frizzy hair he thought.
“Not your hair, Jack, my frizzy hair” she said coyly. That was a reasonable request he thought, especially after his performance in the store. He became rigid, turned ferociously,
“how do you know my name?” he yelled, seeing the lady voice in person for the first time, his paints falling to the floor, the roll of canvas unwinding as it hit, smearing sidewalk grime along it. She bent over with special effort, reaching for the ground, extending an arm with pointed fingers. Her movement slow and unsure, her face looking up, away from the target. Her hands fumbled about the paints as she moved across the pavement, slowly gathering three tubes. Jack stood shocked, unable to comprehend the situation.
“Where’s the fourth tube?” she asked. He looked down, it was behind his foot which he lifted while verifying. Hearing the movement she reached forward, her head coming within inches of his crotch. She found the tube and the canvas along the way.
“I want to cum in your frizzy hair” Jack said with a disturbingly serious cockney accent, teeth clenched together. She laughed briefly.
“I think I’ve heard that one before” she replied, standing up, returning his paints to him then rolling up the canvas before handing it back.
“It might be dirty” she said.
“That’s okay” he replied “it’s just hair”. She didn’t laugh this time.
“The canvas” she spit back sharply.
“That’s okay” he replied again, “it’s just canvas”. She smiled sweetly. He didn’t know what to do, his charm temporarily disabled his rationale. He inhaled deeply.
“You always do that when you’re nervous” she said.
“I do don’t I” he returned. He stared her down, sliding his eyes around her whole being. He didn’t know what to say. He could put two and two together. He shut his eyes hard, kept them closed hoping the displeasing moment would end. He heard a tapping against the pavement, tap tap tap. Fuck fuck fuck he thought. He strained his eyes tighter together as if something was going to rip them away. He felt a tap on his shoe, it hit his toe, then the tongue, then the heel, again on the heel. Jack played dead, he breathed deeply again, he felt her breath against his cheek, moving to his ear. It was warm, heavy, there was a sweetness about it, like a pastry shop. She moaned slightly and whispered,
“Fucking watch it”. No words were appropriate for him so he stood still.
“You can move now” she chided. Jack stayed perfectly still.
“What do you think I am? You think I’m some kind of freak? You think I’m stupid? I know you’re right there, I know you haven’t moved. I can smell you, I can hear your loud breathing.
“It can’t see me if I don’t move” Jack said quietly.
“It knows you’re here, it has feelings, it...” she rambled.
“Did I say that out loud?” Jack asked “Fuck”.
“Yes you did, it replied” she said derisively.
“That was a bit much Jack said sportingly”, Jack replied. She couldn’t help but laugh which then turned to crying, a combination of both. Don’t cry he thought, hoping to hear the tapping disappear in the distance. He opened his eyes to see the tears rolling down her cheeks, the sadness reddening the whites of her eyes, her lips trembling softly. He had treated her like an animal. Be strong he thought, don’t give her an inch. Her knees quivered, she looked as if she would fall to the ground. She threw her left arm out wildly like she was probing space though finding nothing. Jack grabbed her hand with tender force, enough to let her know he wouldn’t let her fall nor would he hurt her. Damn you chauvinism, he would have let her fall if she was ugly. Why couldn’t she be ugly? She returned the grip to maintain leverage.
“And that’s just one of my hands” Jack said, she smiled and laughed.
“That doesn’t make any sense” she replied.
“It totally does” Jack said, “that is literally only one of my hands”.
“That’s dumb” she said, “but I like it. It, it, you called me it”
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry” Jack said sincerely, giving her much more than an inch, “I don’t know what to say to make it better.”
“Say something nice” she said.
“I still want to cum in your hair?” he said in the form of a question.
“You have to say ‘what is’ first” she replied, regaining her composure.
“You’re amazing” Jack told her, rubbing his fingers along the back of her hand, feeling the silkiness of her skin.
“You’re touching my eczema” she said
“Ew” he mewled releasing her hand causing her to fall to the ground. Not sprawling, just onto her ass. It wasn’t his fault he thought.
“That was a woman’s sound” she chortled, almost a snort.
“And that was a snort” he replied.
“That was no snort, I do not snort” she said still on the ground. He leaned down to pick her up, grabbing her hand he started to pull, he felt the stick hit him in the forearm.
“I can do it myself” she said with assurance. She put some weight on the stick and lifted, Jack nudged it with his foot causing her to fall back to the ground, not far, less than an inch, an hilarious inch.
“What the fuck?” she said angrily.
“I thought you could do it yourself, what’s taking so long?” Jack said very pleased with himself.
“You’re an ass” she remarked, “I don’t like you.”
“Let me help you” he asked.
“No” she responded, “I can do it myself, as long as you don’t fuck with me.”
“Fine, fine, if you want to be some kind of rosie the riveter, go ahead” he said.
“That’s sexist” she came back, “rosie represented a big change in women’s rights”
“I hate to break it to you but if animals in the zoo had rivet guns and knew how to use them they wouldn’t be in the zoo anymore. Catch my drift?” he said pointing a finger at her with great satisfaction, nudging the stick again.
“What the fuck? And do you mean women belong in zoos?” she demanded.
“I didn’t say that, you said that, and I whole heartedly disagree. Your sexist views are an anachronism” he replied with ever growing confidence, “besides, those are strong accusations coming from someone who can’t get up. Just let me help you, it’s a neurosis I have.”
“Get the fuck back, you’ve got issues, real issues, psychological issues, domination issues” she yelled while thrashing her stick about, striking him repeatedly.
“Damn, I’m sorry, I was just fucking with you” he apologized.
“And two can play that game” she contended wearing a clever smile.
“You’re amazing” he said.
“And you’re still an ass, now let me get up” she replied. He smiled. I’m not helping you he thought. He better not help me she thought.
“Fuck your perfect” he whispered. She smiled then began to get up.
“What are you doing to that blind girl” an old man said running toward Jack the best he could.
“I saw you knock her down two times.” the old man said.
“And you’re just now running over? That’s a bit lazy don’t you think?” Jack replied. The old man tried to grab her hand to help her up.
“I can do it myself you creepy bastard” she yelled. Jack shook his head, shrugged at the old guy.
“Are you okay?” the old man asked, “is he hurting you?”
“Whoa, I don’t even know her name. I was just going to cum in her hair and leave” Jack said with a smile. She laughed uproariously. The old man raised his fists and stepped between them, ready to defend her honor. Jack would have been impressed if the old man hadn’t been staring at her tits when talking to her.
“I’m fine” she said “he’s my friend, a cruel friend but a friend none the less, and my eyes are up here.”
“Damn” Jack laughed, “she’s blind and she knows you’re creepy.” Jack grabbed her hand, positioning himself between her and the helpful creep. She pulled him close. The old man tried to reach for her, barely touching her arm with his salacious fingers,
“I don’t trust you, let her go” he said with a strong push of old man breath. Jack leaned in close to him, his attitude changed and said,
“If you try to touch her again I’m going to kill you then go to your house and rape your wife if you have one. Do you understand?” The old man turned and ran without saying a word to his car.
“I see you” Jack yelled, the old man tripped but didn’t fall, rushed into his car and drove away fast, squealing his tires as he fled.
“I’m going to kill you and rape your wife if you have one?” she said with a shocked face.
“Well I’m certainly not going to rape his wife, that just intensifies the threat” Jack said.
“What if she was hot?” she replied.
“Well then I suppose we could have raped her together.” Jack said. She pulled him even closer.
“We should do more things together” she said pleased at the immorality of the humor.
“Indeed darling we should” he said, “to an eatery we go. You lead the way”. She punched him in the arm.
“I don’t want to do everything by myself” she said rubbing her cheek against his.
Groan, I’m so sleepy. What’s that? Sounds like something! I’m too sleepy to get up. The ground is hard, I miss the soft. It’s hot. I’m panting, still panting. What’s on my back? I’ll chew on it. I’m chewing, I’m chewing. I left a brown spot. Now I’ve got hair stuck to my lips. I’ll use my tongue to lick them off. I can’t reach them all so I’ll roll around. Not enough mud here, too grassy. I’ll roll over...what’s that in the grass? I’ll smell here. Something’s here, I’ll get it, I’ll rub my nose in it. It’s on my face, I’m shaking it off. It’s on the ground, I’ll get it, I’ll rub my nose in it. It’s s on my face. I’ll run real fast. I’m running, I’m running. Now I’ll turn around and run the other way, I’m running. What’s that? I don’t know. I’m running. Now I’ll run in circles around a tree. Can’t stop me, can’t catch me. I’m leaning in to the turns, I’m so fast, my tongue can’t keep up.
I stop and listen. Nothing, so I start running again, I’m so fast. I rip up the earth, it goes behind me, I stop and smell it. It smells like....it’s on my face, it’s on my face, I can’t get it off, I’ve got so much energy, I’m so fast. I’ll lean more, I’ll go faster. I’m almost sideways but I’m not dizzy. I can’t be stopped. What’s that? I’ll run through it. They fell from the tree. I’m gonna fall, I slip inside, now I’m totally sideways. I’ve hit the ground. Get up so no one sees. Start running again, I’m so fast. Someone saw! I’ll run at them, scare them away. They brace themself, I’m aggressive because you saw me fall, it’s your fault I fell. I’ll get you. Running leap, crotch shot. He’s down, he didn’t see anything, I was just running fast.