Sunday, February 10, 2008


-There is more to this one too.

His eyes shot open. He was sweating. The room was cold though. A pure cold. Sanitized and clean. But familiar. This was no hospital. This wasn't a morgue either. This place was something that he knew, he knew it very well. He saw the cracks in the ceiling...but they weren't cracks. They weren't the cracks that he remembered. These were something else, reaching out to him. Holding him. Bundling him and making him feel...full. Then he felt them. The needles, thousands of them under his skin; burrowing.
It wasn't pain, is was an irritation. As if each of these needles had been under the skin of his arms, legs, chest, face and groin for days. It felt as if each one of these filaments wriggling under his skin had been there for days, amassing infection, and as they moved, the pus was being released from a million small wounds at once. It felt lie a baptism. A warm baptism of decaying liquid.
He opened his mouth to cough, and realized that his mouth was already open. That the needles were in his mouth too. He bit down and felt his teeth test thousands of plastic tubes and he realized then and there that the tubes were attached to the ends of the needles under his skin that wriggled so.
Violently, he turned his head to the right, and he felt the needles pull out of the pores in his face, ripping and tearing but the pain was dull. His cheek pulled away from his teeth and flapped back when free. His eyelid lost the battle and ripped back into the socket. His forehead popped and bubbled and released the needles. As his left eye washed over with blood, he ripped his left arm free of the needles and tubes by raiding it over her bleeding, prostate head. The needles and filaments gave way from his neck down to the quick of his fingernails. Fiberoptics. That is what it felt like. It felt as if every pore on his arm had been reversed with a small, sharp snag hook simultaneously. His now free arm felt thick with the now brimming blood on the surface.
Wrapping his wet fingers around the cluster of tubes going down his throat, he pulled. He felt his tongue splintering and pulling, a if he had the winter pole that you are not to lick inside of his mouth.
He felt his gums scrape as layers of skin from his throat worked past. His throat felt charred, like the worst winter couch, with a throat meat purchase. As he pulled, he felt how deep the filaments went. Internal, deep. The more he pulled, the more he felt the vomit stir not so far below his neckline.
And then it launched. An acidic wash of liquid barrelled up his throat, digging into the wounds he already had, filling every fresh rip with stomach acid. The roaring continued. It was a taste unfamliar to him. He knew the bile, but the other milky liquid jetting out of his mouth and his nostrils was something else. It was sweet. It was what he'd always thought milk and honey would taste like.
The jagged blast of vomit arced out of his mouth and carpeted the rug below him. As his stomach spasmed again and again, he could hear the plashing of the newer layers of vomit onto the old. It was an incredible amount. It was gallons.
His stomach twitched and balled into a hard, deflated soccer ball. The questions were upon him now, and he was fully conscious.
He sat up with a slight slip. It was at this point that he realized that the tubes, the needles were only on his front side, and there was no ripping from his back. Wincing, he looked around the room. It was the room that he had remembered. it was the last room he had fallen to sleep in. Yet the magazines on the nightstand were grimy and cracked and now vomit spattered. How long had he been in this place?
Taking his throbbing, raw left hand, he wrapped his fingers around the slick, vomited filaments covering his right arm. He paused for a second, recognizing the pain to come before he tore them loose. Through his good eye he was able to see the spray of his own fluids from the now free tubes. Or was it his fluid? Was he being pumped full of something? Pickled?The countless cords dripped of the liquid that he knew was sweet. They dripped with the drip of a stream of water that has been recently shut off. He now understood his gallons of vomit.
Odd, unpulled tubes stuck into his arms at various points. The tubes were small, the diameter of a strand of spaghetti. But the length of the strand was a different issue. All of these strands seemed to go into the ceiling. The whole room was shrouded in these strings, these tubes, these needles. They were all focused on him though. Except for the ones that he'd pulled, they all led to him. It was as if the room itself had reached out and was drawing him in.
He looked down, and saw the cluster of tubes patched into his genitalia. For some reason, there were so many filaments working in the area between his legs that the entire area was obscured. But he felt it. He felt the needles working in and through his innards. He also felt the anesthetized dulling. Lastly, he knew what he had to do. With both hands, he grabbed the stalk of tubes above his groin. Slowly, he slid his hands down to the base, directly above his probed genitals. There was a second pause and then he yanked back, fierce and hard as one pulls off a Band-Aid.
The pain and shock was immediate and convulsing. The absolute white-fury pain that he felt as his crotch was self-obliterated was more than he could stand. The blood had spattered his thighs and stomach and it was only at this moment that he realized that he was naked. He laid back into his vomit-stained, blood-spattered pillow and attempted to absorb the stinging shriek in his crotch. He felt the blood pooling around his buttocks and hits. He felt the wet sheets as he shifted with every tense breath. Slowly, he looked down, over his chest and stomach towards the mess that was once his manhood. Slowly crunching forward, gripping the sheets for leverage, he continued the long journey to a seated position. The destruction of his flesh was vicious. There were streams of blood coming from all parts of his body. The amount of liquid that he had purged in the last little bit was more than a human could contain. In his last inches before a full view of his mangled male construct his blown nerves yelped as shrilly as possible, letting him know that the wound inside of his thighs was gaping and free. He felt pain that he didn't know existed. His good eye was wide open, his other winced with the flush of blood still racing before it.
Looking down, he now saw what was left of him. Looking down, hunching into a position where he could see, suddenly the pain didn't matter anymore. He may as well have had a question mark over his head. Something made no sense. But then something made complete sense. He was looking down at his vagina.
Peace and calm flooded over him as he laid again, back into the soggy pillow. He closed his eyes.

His eyes opened. Looking at the ceiling now and focusing, the spiderweb cracks looked less menacing. Not like the tubing that had tormented him in that dream. And there was Jackson, standing over him. "You had a horrible dream." He said, in that soft unbalanced tone. "You screamed several times." His voice was soft, grandfatherly. "These dreams, they are killing me." William sobbed. The vision of his dream was already fading, but he knew he would have to ride that vaginal image out for the rest of the day at least. Jackson pulled a chair up to the bedside. "I have what you need." He said, as he packed a small wooden pipe with a solid chunk of marijuana. He clamped the pipe in his mouth, with his molar, giving his unshaven, weighty face a strange grimace. The match flashed against the strike pad and Jackson tossed the pack next to William's leg. He brought the match to the pipe and pulled, sucking like the exaggerated suck a child does on a straw. Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he turned his head, coughing explosions of smoke from his throat. The tears pooled under his eyes. "Little bit harsh." He said, with a voice that sounded small and tearful. He passed the pipe to William.
Taking the pipe in his hand and placing it in his teeth similar to the way Jackson had, William fumbled for the matches. He had promised her and promised her, but he had never been able to put the pipe down. And now she was gone. But he could feel her staring him down from the grave. The kids never really understood, and sometime he got lost in the innocent pools of their eyes as they babbled to him and he was a million miles away in his head. A good smoke was what he needed. He struck the match, put it to the bowl and sucked the flaming, polluted air into his lungs deeply. He sealed off his throat and took the pain. Underneath it all was his pondering of his vagina.
"You done? Jackson asked, scooting back. William let the smoke blast out of his mouth like a plume of exhaust from a Diesel truck. No coughing. "Done." William said.
Jackson stood and shambled out of the room. There was no light coming in from the windows. It was still dark outside. Thank God for Jackson, William thought. Thank God for that simple, psychotic son of a bitch. He is the only thing keeping me stable in this horrible life I lead.
William laid his head back into his crisp, cool pillow and allowed his thoughts to wander. He kept them away from his vagina though. That vagina thing was weird.