Continued from Untitled part 2

I’m looking up, miles and miles away from anything.  Miles from the asphalt beneath me, miles from her teeth.  I’m looking down an extremely long soundproof tunnel.  The only thing I can hear is a heartbeat, some muffled noises…the sounds brain cells make when they die screaming.

I can see her, but damn she is far way.  Her teeth, broken and dripping.  Her eyes… nothing…more nothing than a shark’s.  I know she’s dripping other people’s blood on me.  I know what she is about to do, but I’m not going to do anything about it.  I could,  believe me, I could tear the walls of this tunnel down and eat this bitch alive if I was so inclined…but I’m done.  This is it; I’ll stay here until I come back with a reason to rip out every throat I see.  Finally.  I can kill at will.

Yes, her mouth moves toward my throat, yes.  Do it.  Bite, tear and end this forever.  I’m looking up through my K Hole watching her teeth get closer.  It’s beautiful…

I used to sleepwalk, I used to have a family…I used to think the sun was a good idea.  I’d wake up in my garage, digging through an old box of letters, notebooks.  Letters from before my love turned sour.  Notebooks from when I still cared.

I would wake up with my hand in the knife drawer, blood pooling around the handles of the blades.

I would wake up to find my child without a mother.  Rooting for a breast, a nipple that wasn’t there.  To feed.  Starving to death in a dry world.  I would wake up feeding myself…I gorged on every drug I could find and burned up alone in my bed for two.

The person who came out of that bed was different.  I had blood on my hands, literally.  I had screaming in my head that I could only beat down with vicodin, Percocet, PCP, Ketamine, coke, ether, ups, downs, expired anticonvulsants, mutant pills.  My wings had been clipped and I was stranded, yet somehow this felt right, that my newfound recklessness and utter lack of control was priming me for something…

I was being built for this fight.

When the shit hit the fan I opened my mouth to catch it.  I looked out my window to see the dead rise, walk around.  I saw my neighbors running, guns blazing, blood screaming down every surface.  The camera shook and the reels came off.  The lights came up and nothing got brighter.  The sky was black, and we were devouring each other alive, dead.  This is what I saw when I looked out my window.  Now it was real, no longer just a vision.

I fit into this world like a key does a lock.  Bullets into a gun.

Pain had left me.  It was the one thing I could not overdose on, pain.  Psychic, mental torture was my real drug of choice.  No worldly chemical could knock me down.  Only I could do that.

I dragged blades deep into my skin and felt nothing, saw the blood.  The red blood, the black blood.  Not the brown, dead oil of these who suddenly had it so easy.  I would exact my pain on them.  This was my fight.

I clutched my piece as I walked outside for the first time in weeks.  I was out of food and I wasn’t going to try and get more.  I was going to walk out into my street and become a part of this world, inserting myself into this stream of violence was the only option.

That’s when I met the drivers…before Prick…

…what a beautiful watch.

Watch?  What the fuck?  Wait a second, no…a huge black hand covered in rings, gold, light, hope.  I should have seen salvation, all I saw was an invasion of unnecessary optimism.  This can’t be happening.  Everything beyond a tailored cuff goes right underneath her neck, lifts her chin up.  The barrel of a gun now…pearl handle…is pressed against the right sight of my savior goddess’ mouth.

The slam of the hammer and the wreck it makes out of her mouth yanks me up and out of the darkness.  Everything in her ragged mouth gets blasted into oblivion by a fashionable, party-spoiling pair of black hands.  Now she is just gumming, moving her jaw up and down uselessly like a drowning fish.

He wraps a modified chain around her neck and yanks it tight, like a choke collar.  I see her fragile flesh tear through the knots in the chain, right before he drags her, kicking and thrashing and gumming away from me.

I look up to get a glimpse and I see a man, a huge, black man in a purple suit that shines like chrome.  He looks too perfect for this blasted world.  His shoes, perfectly shined and made of some kind of odd skin, accented with gold.

As the G bitch thrashes and spits, he stays clean and immaculate.  Nothing touches him.  He throws the bitch into the back of an unmarked van, closes the door and lights a massive cigar, inhaling slowly with a look of success and satisfaction so pure it freaks me out.  This man clearly loves his job.

I make some kind of noise and he looks over at me, stares for a second as if debating whether or not to address me.  He walks over to me slowly and his shoes echo in the blank street.  He kneels down over me and says, “Look here pimpin’… if you’re one of them, say so now.  I don’t want to get blood on my damn shoes.”

I tell him to fuck off, give me my shit.  Just then the pain rockets up through my every molecule like a freshly cracked oil mane and I black out.  Fuck.

To Be Continued.