OMFProductions

The room is small, dark.  There is a single light in the ceiling, its dim light casting a gray pool on the empty dirty floor that seems to hunch beneath the low ceiling.  On the floor, a figure lies motionless except for a lethargic expansion of the chest cavity.  Its hands are curled tightly in upon themselves, the fingernails black and dust has filled in the crevices.

Suddenly, the figure spasms, dust rising in a cloud around it as it coughs and wheezes.  The figure regains composure.  The figure drags its self along the floor, the sound of carrion worms in the grave feasting.  The figure moves the short distance to the wall and sits up, drawing its knees up in front of its torso.  Its head hangs down, hair obscuring its face, as it wraps its arms around its legs and settles into a fetal position.

“Where… where am I?”

It sounds like gas escaping into a vacuum, more of a hiss than a sentence.  The words are an atomic bomb in a world of silence, but the silence wins.  There is a quiet sniffling sound from the figure.  Still, the light, the room, do not change.  The figure squeezes its legs tighter.

“Hello?  Hello?  Is there anybody there?”

Silence.  The figure sits, tense, the muscles in its body growing taut.  Its head tilts slightly to one side, then the other, like an animal checking for predators.  Nothing happens.

“God damn it!  Somebody has to be there!”

The figure leaps off the floor.  It strides purposefully forward, taking four steps before abruptly meeting a wall half-hidden in shadow.  The figure begins to feel the surface of the wall, its fingers curling as it frantically feels for any blemishes in the smooth metallic surface.  Finally, the figure balls one hand into a fist and pounds on the wall.

“Hey!  I know you can hear me!  I wasn’t always here!  Somebody answer me!”  The figure strikes the wall again, and again, and again.  Soon the figure begins to cry out, at first in words, begging for answers, or acknowledgement, but none is forth coming.  As the figure continues, its attacks on the unfeeling wall become more frantic.  Soon the figure is howling, its voice sounding more like a screaming primate, a wounded animal.  It flails futilely at the wall.

First seconds drag by, then minutes.  The figure is unrelenting, yet still, nothing offers any response to its histrionics.  Finally, the figure collapses, exhausted and panting.  It raises its arms to strike the wall, but they fall limp to the ground before finding their target.  It falls to its side, damp sweaty hair clumping in the dirt on the floor.  Slowly, the breathing of the figure begins to slow to a steady, normal rhythm.  One blue eye, peaking out from the tangled mass of hair, slowly closes.

 

 

 

“Has it moved?”

“It did earlier.  It stood, and screamed while attacking the wall.”

“Did the wall hold?”

“Without a doubt.  The wall was more than adequate.  The subject broke down in frustration quickly, abandoning its native language for inarticulate calls and screeches in only minutes.”

“Did it do anything else?”

“It seemed to exhaust its self.  It does not appear that it did any serious damage to its self in the process.”

“Very good.  We will proceed as planned.”

“As you order.”

 

 

 

The light flickers.  The figure’s leg twitches, a slight spasm in response to the sudden, brief, change in the environment.  It groans.  Slowly its weight shifts.  The sound of its garments on the floor is like dry leaves falling from trees in autumn.  It blinks and tries to look up towards the light.  It raises its hand, in a primitive attempt to reduce the glare of the sole light source.  It squints and blinks, straining to see the source of the light.  It waits, watching.  Nothing happens.  The figure turns back, dropping its arm and rolling over, preparing to lie down again.  Suddenly, the light blinks off and on, again.

“What?”

The figure whips around, resuming its previous position, trying to observe the light.  Its mouth tightens.

“I know I saw it go out.  What’s going on?”

The figure waits, eyes bulging with intensity.  They vapidly gaze through the shadow of its hand at the light.

“Is it just the light bulb burning out?”

The figure slumps back, turning to its stomach to lie down again.  The light blinks.  The figure pops upright like a clay pigeon taking flight.  Its teeth grind together as a guttural growl emanates from deep within its throat.

“That’s not just the light going out damn it.  Somebody’s fucking with me!”

The figure leaps to its feet and slams its body against the wall, screaming.  It pounds its fist repeatedly, to no avail.  It runs out of breath, and stops.  It stands, panting in the light, teeth still grinding together.

“I know you’re there.  You’ve been fucking with me this whole time.”

The words fall into the silence and die quickly, suffocating under their own weight.  The figure begins to pace slowly.  Its hands open and curl into fists.

“Okay then, well, now that I know you’re here, I want to know who you are, where I am, and why I’m here.  I also want to know where my family is and if they’re safe.  When you want to tell me that, we can talk.”

The figure raises its hand palm inwards, with only the middle finger at length, towards the light.  It then sits down on the floor and curls up into a fetal position. As the figure closes its eyes, the light blinks.  The figure sits motionless on the floor.

 

 

The figure lies motionless on the floor, its body curled into a corner.  The figure’s limbs seem at ease, despite being tightly held together, as if it has become used to this position.  The figure’s clothing is turning grey, its accumulating dust and dirt from contact with the floor.  These are not the stains of a busy day or two, but rather the ingrained soot of weeks and months without wash.  The clothing its self is now made of fabric and the dirt.

“Hello, number 999897.”

The figure’s eyes pop open.  It looks around the cell, trying to find the source of the voice.  It opens its mouth and a trembling quiver comes out.  “Hello?”  The figure sits up, its head swiveling.  “Hello?”  It sits, cocking its head slightly to one side then the other, a rodent listening for predators.  It hears only silence.  The figure wipes its eyes and rubs its ears.  It sits, still, listening.  The only sound in the room is the figure’s own breathing.  “I must… I must be hearing things.”

The figure lies down again, its body falling into a familiar position in the corner of the room, its head just out of the ring of light on the floor.

 

 

“Phase two has been completed.”

“So it has been made aware of us?”

“Yes, and it has already begun to suspect that its awareness of us was delusional.”

“Splendid.  The subject seems to be nearing completion of the process then?”

“Yes.  The subject should soon conclude that nothing exists beyond its cell.”

“Good.  We have no choice but to proceed, the wheels have been put in motion.  We must follow this path to its end; whatever that end may be.”

 

 

The figure is sitting, filthy, dirty, against the cold quiet wall at its back.  Its head is slumped, and its face is smudged with dirt.  It sniffles and wipes its nose with its sleeve.  Its left foot is tapping rapidly.  It clenches its hands into fists then unclenches them, just to clench them back into fists.  Its shoulders rock slowly back and forth.  A sound rumbles quietly from the depths of its throat.

The figure stands suddenly and paces across its cell.  It randomly pounds the walls as it paces.  Its nostrils flare and spittle randomly shoots from its lips.  Without warning, the figure screams.  It runs full speed into a wall, smashing its self violently against the flat metal.  It gets back up and runs into the wall again, and again, and again.  It’s a vicious cycle, from wall to floor, each repetition leaving its mark on the figures limbs and body.

Finally, the figure falls to the floor with a thud, blood obscuring its features and staining its clothes.  It lies motionless, whimpering.  “There’s nothing… else.  This is all there is…I… I….”  The figure’s mouth stops moving, drool and blood oozing from the side of its face.

 

 

The figure sits in the center of the room, legs tucked beneath its body.  Its clothing is torn, a large section of material missing from the left sleeve.  It smiles, wide sick kind of smile as it pulls on the torn piece of material from its clothing.  It holds the cloth up to the light and squints at it.

The figure stands, turning the fabric over in its hands.  It takes the wide piece of fabric and twists it into a sturdy cord.  It lifts the cord to its neck and wraps it around.  It ties a simple knot in the ends and drops it hands to its sides.  The figure looks up at the lights and opens it palms.  The figure’s eyes stare blankly into the light, unblinking.  The figure breaths in and out, slowly, deeply several times.  It reaches up to the ends of the knot in the cord improvised from its clothes and begins to pull.  As the knot draws tighter, it begins to crush the figure’s throat.  The veins begin to bulge in the figure’s neck and forearms as it continues to tighten the knot.  Its blue eyes begin to bulge and its nostrils swell.

Suddenly, the figure collapses, its body limp.  Its head strikes the floor, hard, and bounces with resounding clap.  Blood leaks from its nostrils and ears.  The cord loses none of its slack, choking the neck into two bright red rings on either side.  The chest of the figure is motionless.  The figures breathing, so long the only sound audible, is gone.  Silence rules.

 

 

“The subject is deceased.”

“How?”

“Suicide.”

“How’d it do that?  We left it not implements.”

“It removed a piece of its clothing, fashioned a rope, and strangled its self.”

“Strangled its self?  Is that possible?”

“From what we can tell, the subject tied a knot to restrict its air supply while conscious.”

“A clever way to overcome instinctual self-preservation.”

“It did not believe it had anything to preserve its self for.”

“Then the experiment was a success.  The subject lost all sense of self, and its past.”

“Yes, assuming those parameters, the experiment was a success.”

One

The train station is probably my favorite place to go. It has been for years. This is where I go for inspiration. I look at it, hidden between warehouses and small box factories. My spine trembles, a guilty little pleasure, every time I see it.

From here, I can see the tracks stretching away to the north and south. My gaze follows the steel ribbons off into the horizon, and beyond. I see thousands of men under the sun, pounding long nails into the ground with heavy hammers. They toil with no end in sight, harsh crew chiefs prodding them to hammer on to meet their invisible counterparts pounding from the East. I see farms burned, and tribes routed. Rivers of blood soak into the soil, only to have the long tentacles of industry coil jealously across it.

I picture those who survived, old and withered, their bodies broken from a life time of toil or a moment of trauma. Feeble, they sit and watch the sun’s continuous progression, eagerly waiting for day they’ll be able to forget the misery of their life; waiting for the day they too finally succumb to the track’s insatiable thirst for life.

I think that’s one of the reasons I like it. It was built out of pain, pain and souls. The old familiar boy-like smile comes to my lips as I step into the shade provided by the overhang. My eyes refocus as I step through the simple double doors that lead inside. This building is to me as much temple as it is train station. The workers laying track and digging tunnels hanging from the walls are like religious icons, and thanks to United Way^TM, there’s even a passable alms box.

I stroll casually past the rows of waiting passengers. It is a good thing to see a room full of people you don’t know. There’s so much… possibility. There’s the young girl with her hair in pigtails, her head bobbing to the beat of music I can’t hear. She’s wearing the latest fashions for her age, which I’m sure gives all the boys in class plenty of reasons to think about her when they’re alone at home.

Next to her must be Daddy, constantly checking his watch and looking about. His left-hand ring finger bares a simple gold wedding band. His clothes hang limply on his soft and portly frame. He uses his full hand to push his glasses firmly into place. They must be on vacation, and he must be looking for Mumsy. What a sad, innocent, balding man he is… but if you ask, and if he’s honest, I’m sure he could tell you about lots of sins. He’ll tell you about his lies, he’ll tell you about the secretary he’s having an affair with, he’ll tell you about those very secret dreams he has about his daughter; the trick is getting him to be honest. Yet despite all these things, he’s still innocent.

There goes Anthony. As usual he wears the all too familiar green and brown uniform of a railroad worker. I watch as he pushes carts of luggage stacked high with Samsonite^TM suitcases and stuffed duffel bags. His steps are fast and the creases in his shoes show the miles he has walked on the stone floors. The light glints off the tight black curls of his hair. Somebody waves him over and he walks briskly over to them.

I’ve never spoken to Anthony. I learned his name when I heard somebody else use it, and I doubt he’s ever even noticed I exist. I wonder what Anthony thinks about when he’s here, spending his entire day pantomiming a stereotype. Does he spend his time fantasizing about the travelers, like the young girl? Maybe he thinks back on the women he’s raped?

It’s possible he’s worrying about a girlfriend, pregnant and at home. She’s there desperately awaiting his return. She loves him, and he loves her, but their parents disapprove. So Anthony dropped out of high school to work full time. At least this way he makes enough to pay for the roach infested two-room apartment they found in the projects. Anthony bleeds like anybody else, and even if the fairy-tale is wrong, and he is a rapist, or murderer, or drug pusher, he’s innocent. He’s done wrong things but he’s failed to see evil. You can tell by his shoes. They’ve been exhausted by innocent vigor. His shoes are tired, but they wouldn’t be if he was.

Forget about Anthony, what time is it? I’m hungry. I gaze up at the clock’s massive bronze hands as they swing across its marble face — 1:17. How time flies when one enjoys the view. In the East Side of the building, set behind a small wall that rises about four feet, is a cafe. A dark glossy marble arch looms over a gap in the wall. When I walk through this arch, I find myself somewhere far different from the bright linoleum floors of the waiting area. Here there’s a bustle of energy as hot sweaty servers rush back and forth from table to table. They move like an oscillating fan – circulating but having no real effect.

I watch as one pulls her hair back over her shoulder. The light cascades across her back, revealing the slight shades within her blonde hair. Waves of gold stream before my eyes and I see red flow from my wrist as cruel metal rends flesh. She looks up and our eyes meet. The neon world around me tumbles. My vision is no longer concrete and pure.

It isn’t her I see anymore, and I’m not in the café either. I’m upstairs, in my studio. It’s humid, and my sweat makes my flesh wet and clammy. Thunder rumbles outside and I look down into the still eyes of my last one. I reach into the hole I’ve made in her abdomen and grasp her liver. I take my surgical scissors and cut it free from the mass of steaming entrails. I take the liver over to my work station and begin to cut it into tiny chunks which I toss into a small bowl. Using a pestle I grind the blood and organ into a reddish brown paste. The vision is gone.

I’m back in the hot, clanging, cafe, full of its gaudy neon and hazy smoke clouds. There’s a certain beauty in filth. This is a place to wallow, to boil, to simmer like a growing infection beneath the skin. I recline and bask in the smoky lounge atmosphere that masks my presence. I take a bite out of my hamburger, feeling the grease of dissolved fat slide across my tongue and slither down my throat. My tongue flicks across my canine, dislodging a piece of still bloody flesh.

I pick up the napkin and wipe my mouth with it.  I raise my hand, signaling for my check.  My stomach rolls savagely, sharply burning my insides.  I pull a cigarette from my pack, where I left it out on the table, and light it. The flame jumps and the tip flares red as the paper, and then tobacco, curls into a small glowing cherry.  I blow the smoke out of my nose, and feel it singeing and blackening my sinuses and membranes.  My waitress arrives, and I smile at her, pushing the last of the smoke in my lungs through my teeth, savoring the sulfurous grit as an after taste to the flesh I’ve just indulged in.

She’s not the waitress I saw before.  I wasn’t that lucky. I look her up and down, taking another drag on my cigarette to avoid answering her question about the burger. She’s about 5’9, wearing heels.  Tight jeans snugly wrap around her hips, revealing the tenderness of her legs as they’re tortured by her heels.  She’s shorter than she looks.  I’m wiry, but tall, and I know if I was standing I’d be getting an eyeful right now from her low cut blouse.  She’s got curly, long brown hair, and a bird-like nose.  Her green eyes stand in bright contrast to her black eyeliner.  She bends over to pick up my empty plate and I notice a Star of David tattooed in the small of her back. Mmmm, Jewish and heretical. I lick my lips.

Her lips move and she asks in what seems like a New Jersey accent if I’m ready for my check. I tell her how beautiful her eyes are, and she smiles, blushes, and turns a half step away. I smile reassuringly and ask her when she gets off work. We make a date, and I take my check from her. I pay the check and leave. I have to go home and get ready for my date.

Two

The date went well. I managed to bring her home with me.  It wasn’t very hard, actually.  I told her I was an artist, and that I wanted to use her as a model.  She was shy, but flattered, and the offer of a little marijuana sealed the deal.  She’s upstairs right now.

I smile as I look in the mirror.  It’s rare that I find myself witnessing a smile in the mirror.  For the most part, I only smile to influence other people.  I don’t usually have anything to smile about when I’m alone.  But now, now I’m smiling, and it’s not to convince anybody else I’m in a good mood.  I rub my five o clock shadow slowly.  Sometimes I wonder if I should grow a beard.  I might have had one once, but it’s hard for me to remember that now.

I take a deep breath and appraise my naked, scarred body one last time before leaving the bathroom and heading up the stairs.  I close the door to my work room, the lock sliding home with an audible click.

The early rays of sunshine are slowly starting to peek through the cracks in the heavily draped windows.  I’m a night person; I do sleep a lot during the day, and I like it to be dark, but in the end, I still need my sun.  Probably just for aesthetic reasons.  I tread my way softly through the dark room, and hear a shuffling, wheezing sound in the corner, the sound of a terrified child, a wounded animal, a doomed thing.

She’s bound.  Her arms are stretched high above her head; her wrists woven through a cruel metal vice.  Her breasts sag pendulously with fierce alligator clamps attached to her nipples, a chain runs between them supporting a sizeable weight.  Her ass is lifted in a harness, taking away all of her leverage, and her legs spread wide lashed to two separate pegs.  A ball gag fits tightly into her mouth to finish the image.  It’s all about aesthetics, after all.

I turn from her and walk around my study, glancing at pieces I’m working on, pieces I’ve finished, blank canvases of an unusual color and texture, and occasionally looking back to the girl.  I take my art very seriously.  I will not pretend that I do this for fun, because I don’t.  No, I do this for my art.  I don’t remember when I first realized it anymore, when I first had my Perfect Vision of Beauty.  But it’s all I know anymore.  I caught a glimpse of the face of Life.  I saw the image of the Divine, and knew the Truth of Existence.  My eyes flicker across the blank canvases.  I prepared these during my last session.

I will use my art to convey My Perfect Vision of Beauty to the world.  I shall free humanity from ignorance.  The problem is — I can’t remember what it was anymore.  It’s like some half remembered dream from childhood — the worst nightmare you ever had, the one that woke you up screaming in a cold sweat, the one that was so bad that you still remember the way your pulse raced when it woke you up, but you don’t remember the vision its self anymore.  So, now I have to search for inspiration to remind me.

I’m trying to jog my memory, to recall that vision, to capture it.  I’ve made many attempts, and they’re well received enough for me to pay for my lifestyle comfortably, which is useful as I continue my search.  I’ve tried finding inspiration in many things.  I tried finding it in landscapes, in sunsets, in rainbows.  I turned to mythic epics and folk-lore.  I wandered through the chaos of post-modernism and dabbled in everything from music, to film, to sculpture, sculpting being the only one I still do.  Yet, even after all of that, I couldn’t remember the vision.

I started doing what Dali did, and just painting my dreams as best as I could remember them.  It was crude.  At first it was all blobs, and smears, bizarre sub-conscious images distorted and blasphemed by a clumsy practitioner.  A few people questioned me about the darkness of them, the strange brooding menace many of them seemed to possess, but soon it was just considered a part of my style.  Many a critic has argued it’s my reflection of society’s post 9-11 anxiety and fear.

My dreams became more vivid, and more bizarre.  I found myself imagining strange combinations of organic and non-organic bodies.  I was fascinated with Giger.  I spent nights and nights sitting in my studio, brooding over a wall of his prints I’d arranged while staring at a collection of animals and body parts in jars of formaldehyde I’d stolen from my science teacher back in high school.  At the time I’d just thought they were mysteriously cool, containing the vivid contrast between life and death with their suspended, frozen corpses.  However it came to seem they had some kind of sinister portent, hiding some secret I needed to know.

My first experiments were with animals and random items I bought from the hardware store.  Like my first efforts at painting, this was crude.  It was messy work, but I was starting to get ideas again, and I felt I was moving in the right direction.  Of course I wasn’t painting directly from the models I was making for myself, but I didn’t have to be.  Sometimes I’d find just a line, or a color, or a particular angle, and that would bring me one step closer to the final vision.  Yet, time wore on, and long before I found my final vision, the ideas began to slow.  I needed to be more elaborate.  I needed more to work with.

I know this will sound bad, but I don’t remember the first one anymore.  The one I popped my cherry with.  It would seem that of all of them, the first would be the one easiest to remember, next to the last, of course, but still, I can’t really recall anything about the first one.  That’s partly why I’m not sure when I started.  I’ve been doing it a while though.  Sometimes I use them in the paintings, or the sculptures.  Sometimes I just use them as a model.  Sometimes I do both.

My hands run up and down the edges of this canvas.  It’s a new idea I had.  I’ve never used one of these before, and I’m excited by the prospects.  I think this might lead to a break through.  I certainly hope so.  I place it gently in the easel that is set up to face her.  I lift the cloth off the tray of surgical tools next to the easel.  My hand drifts aimlessly over the cold steel reflections before gravitating, seemingly on its own, to a rather menacing looking bone saw.  As I walk towards her, a random ray of light bounces from the saw to her shining, terrified green eyes.  I chuckle, thinking to myself, “Ah, the things I do for my art.”

Three

My head throbs in time with the vibrating hum of the walls. They always play the music too loud at these things. I rub my temples, praying my agent or the gallery owner doesn’t find me in here. My tie is strangling, I’ve got a headache, and I was up way too late working this morning. It’s such a pain in the ass, the tradition of actually showing up for a gallery opening. I could give a shit where they put which pieces.

It’s illegal to smoke inside places like this, but after checking to make sure there’s not a smoke detector or fire sprinkler in this closet, I light one up anyways. I take a few puffs, savoring slow death before the bitch that runs the gallery starts knocking on the door. If she hadn’t given herself away, I might have answered her knock by now, but with her screaming about who would dare smoke in her building, I figure I’ll just stand here another drag or two.

I open the door and flick the butt at her feet. I blow the last drag through my nose and teeth and look at her flatly. She stammers, taken aback, her revulsion at my behavior obvious, but her “admiration” for my work tearing her with confusion. I snort at that one. This bitch doesn’t admire my art, she could never hope to. She just knows it brings all the art critics and aficionados running. Pretentious rich fucks with more money than brains.

I leave her stammering as I resume my obligatory wandering of the gallery. I stop and pose for pictures with some of the more notable attendees. Celebrities, local business leaders, a politician or two: all standing with me, shaking my hand, wrapping their arm around me, smiling, drinks in hand. It’s a grand soiree I tell you. If they only knew about the malleus of the 14 year old girl I put into that distorted bicycle sculpture, or how her small intestine is what provided that unique coloration that randomly streaks across it.

Gallery openings always remind me that not everything I do for my art is as enjoyable as actually creating it. The political bullshit, the networking and handshaking, I don’t like any of it. But being good at it has sure been useful. For a moment I think back to the morning session, and the way her green eyes glistened in the light of the sun that slipped through the cracks in the attic ceiling. I sigh contentedly.

There’s a pestering tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see my agent. Apparently the gallery manager told her about my cigarette. I yawn at her and turn around as she huffs something about how hard it is to get bookings for me when I act like such an asshole. I know she’s full of shit though. These morons would wade through a mound of shit looking for a pin if I told them it was an interactive exhibit about the meaning of life. Besides, I’m the artist; they expect me to be an asshole too. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans. Heh.

I begin to make a final circuit, my obligatory hour present being served. As I make my way from the second to third room, I notice a spark of golden hair and turn. It’s her, the one from the Train Station, the one that triggered that flood of memories. As I begin to approach her, a tall, husky man, with reddish facial hair approaches her. Seeing she’s apparently with someone, I decide to make an approach another day.

As I head for the door I look back over my shoulder, and admire the curve of her hip in the skirt she’s wearing, it wraps around her demurely but leaves little to the imagination. I memorize that line, that perfect geometry of her anatomy, as I step into the chilly night.

I walk past the bus stop, my feet drumming out an intense steady beat. She was there, the one I’d seen earlier, at my showing. I exhale and my breath steams in front of me. I wonder why she was there. Was it her idea to come to my exhibit, or was it a desperate attempt to impress her by that useless oaf that was in the way? I wonder what she thought of my work. I wouldn’t expect anybody who worked in that grease pit at the station to know a gallery like that existed, let alone be able to appreciate my work, but then, there’s something about her…

I step over a sleeping homeless man as my stride takes me into one of the less pleasant parts of town. When the scantily clad prostitutes call at me I sneer at them, startling them into silence. I’m not in the mood for that tonight. I clench my fists in my pockets. I’m surprised really. I didn’t expect to do anything but go home after the opening, but seeing her…

If only I could have made an approach on her tonight, I wouldn’t be here now, in this shit hole of crime and vice looking for… looking for… not those thighs in the short mini skirt, not that toothless asshole with an empty bottle, not the whimpering old woman, not the orphaned children in the windows, not the needle in the gutter, not the overflowing trashcan, there, in the back of an alley, in a green suit.

Look at him, winding up and smacking that bitch. Her shirts been torn and one of her breasts hangs freely. She’s holding her face, blood leaking from her nose and lips. He pulls his arm back again, his rings shimmering in the light of a small bulb at the back door of some club. I watch the back of his fist collide with the other side of her face. She slumps over and lands face first in a pile of trash bags. He pulls out a handkerchief and begins to wipe the blood from his hand.

I move, hungry, here is the beast I want. As I head down the alley I grab a broken board spiked with random nails. I run, my steps echoing off the close walls. He turns and sees me. I wind up with the board and his eyes widen in surprise. This big black beast never expected to find himself the prey. I swing the board, its metal teeth anxious for flesh, and bring it across his face. His cheek pops as the nails tear through and snag his face. The wood itself lands with a painful thud, the vibration stinging my palm as his cheekbone flattens. I stomp on his throat as he falls to the ground, crushing any forthcoming scream along with his voice box.

This is bad form. I’m far from my tools, far from my home, far from my freezers. I don’t know what came over me. As I watch the pool of blood seep from his head at my feet, surrounding my boots, my head swoons. A sound like wailing wind fills my ears and I totter, weak in the knees. A black beauty clouds my vision and I moan. So close. The world comes rushing back around me and I look down again at the steaming puddle I’m standing in.

I hastily pull out my digital camera and snap a few frames of the grisly scene beneath me. I stuff the camera into my pocket and stride off into the night, heading towards the nearest bus stop. I don’t like working from photograph, but ones does what one must.

Four

What’s that noise? I turn and rise, naked, from the brackish black water I am kneeling in. I look inland, towards the black beaches and past the burned jungles. The volcanoes belch smoke into the sky. The air feels like that in an oven. But, that noise, there it is, again, that’s not the growling of the volcanoes. What is that?

Suddenly I sit up in bed, sweating. I blink, struggling to remember the dream I must have just been having, but it is gone. All I remember is the knocking. I pull a pair of jeans over my legs as I open my door and wander down the stairs of my tiny castle. I yawn, and stretch my arms, then squint to peer through the tiny peephole. It’s my agent. She better have a check for me. I unlock the door and let her in.

She quickly steps through the opening and I close the door behind her. I size her up, shoulder length dark hair, nice figure, one of those extroverted types. She’s a nice enough girl I suppose, but there’s nothing special about her, except her ability to turn my experiments into cash, and for that, I make sure to behave just well enough to keep her. I know not many have the audacity, or naiveté, to be my representative. That’s not even taking into consideration the patience my charming disposition necessitates.

She hands me a check, sales from last night’s show. Of course, the exhibit will run for a week or two, but most of the works sold. Convenient way to dispose of evidence, some might say. What’s that? Something about the police calling? A flyer for the opening was found at the scene of a mysterious slaying?

I laugh and put my arm around her shoulders.  I lead her into the kitchen, smiling, thanking her for her good service, assuring her that flyers had been distributed all over town, tens of thousands of people could have picked one up. I grind some beans and take a deep whiff. As I begin to start the brewer, I tell her the only thing somebody should be upset about is that the police were so short on leads in this brutal horror that they were praying a random flyer might be a workable lead. She still seems a little shaken, so as I pour a cup of coffee and begin to add cream and sugar to my liking. I explain that due to the victims, there will not be any funding for proper DNA testing in this case. It’s sad that these things happen, but many random crimes go unsolved all the time. She shivers slightly, but I see the left wing bleeding heart sentimentality in her kick in, and she swallows it whole.

I ask her about any new bookings. She asks me if I’ve got enough work to present. I lick my lips and squint at her, sizing up her limber frame, my mind flickering to the contents of my attic, to the photographs on my camera, and I admit that no, I’m not yet ready for another show yet. There’s a flash of yellow light in my eyes, I blink, and shake my head, it’s Her blonde hair, and it’s gone. I lift my coffee mug, take a sip, and smile at my very brunette agent.

She walks across the room then hugs me. She starts saying something about having to go run some errands. I walk her to the door while sipping on my coffee. I wonder if I can find Her at the train station today. I need to cash this check. I smile and nod as my agent turns and waves from the door. I close it as she makes her way down the stairs and slide the locks in place.

Well, this check will surely help me find a way to woo Her. Once I can find Her. I guess I’ll have to stop by the train station to see what I can see after I cash this check. I climb the stairs, licking the last bitter drops of coffee trapped in the recesses of my gums. I pull out a cigarette and spark it up before dropping the pants I put on for my agent and stepping into the shower. I stand with my back to the water, pulling deep drags of the smoke flavor across my teeth. God I love this. I crush the glowing ember against my chest and shiver. As my skin sizzles my ears buzz and my eyes roll back into my head. I open my eyes and turn around, washing the soot and ash from my fresh scar.

God I hate the bank. All the people milling about in line, it’s like any place with crowd control, by the time the process is done you feel like cattle. Moo. It’s always a pain in the ass coming to this bank. The lines are invariably longer here than almost any other branch, but this is the most en route way to the train station, and I’m in a hurry to get there today. Funny, I haven’t been in a hurry to get anywhere… in… well, I can’t remember the last time I was in a hurry. Most things aren’t worth hurrying for.

I tap my foot and look around the lobby, as I’ve already taken the time to fill out a deposit slip. My eye runs over the people around me, surveying the variety. The young boy, still in his school uniform standing under the arm of his doting grandmother, the wrinkles of age that time has etched into her, a testament to death’s slow steady approach; I look past them, into the lobby. People are sitting idly, waiting for their turn to speak to a banker. Their eyes wander the crowd, as mine, or stare fixed out the window, looking off into an abstract distance, focusing on nothing anybody else could hope to see.

One of the men sitting in the waiting area suddenly stands and approaches me. I look him up and down, and I have to admit, he does look familiar, but I don’t where from. Hmmm, seems he was a gallery manager, quite fond of my work, but the owner shut down the show? I don’t remember that, but then, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Heh, so, he has his own gallery now and he’d like me to show there. I wonder if it’s the truth, or if he just recognized me and is looking to land a “name” to get a start with. I give him my agent’s number and tell him to call her about it. She can sort out his story; I pay her to pay attention to that kind of shit for me. He seems satisfied, and returns to his seat.

As I turn around the sky cracks with a thunderous boom and I jump unconsciously, squinting into the dry air at the volcanoes burning behind the jungle. The hot black brackish water laps at my shins and knees. I turn to look out to the sea behind me and there’s the waiting room of the bank again. I realize the teller saying “Next, please” is talking to me, and I step forward handing her the check and deposit slip. She, luckily, doesn’t know who I am, so I manage to get my cash and receipt before anybody else tries to start up a conversation with me. I’ve got business to attend to at the train station.

I push open the old familiar doors with my usual apathy. I’m not used to being excited like this. It’s fun. But, I’d rather not show my hand. I don’t want to misstep and startle this one. I’ve startled some before and it’s always a hassle. Sometimes it gets messy. Sometimes, I have to give up, lest I be outed. Ultimately I don’t want anything to disrupt this one. This one is special, I can feel it.

As I make my way across the waiting area, I wonder, where is Anthony? Or any bag boy for that matter? There’s usually always one visible. It doesn’t matter. I’m here for a reason. I step boldly through the archway into a fog of destiny, looking for Her. I scan the room quickly and don’t see her. Damn it. It seems she’s not working today. I pull out a cigarette and light it as I walk into the café’s bathroom.

Something in here smells shitty, and that’s saying something considering what I’ve done to my sense of smell. I walk slowly across the white floor towards the urinals. My foot slips and I look down, barely managing to avoid a very painful gymnastic maneuver I cannot do. Water? In the middle of the floor? I see my feet in the puddle of blood from the alley and then I see the water is coming from the middle stall.

I approach slowly and push the stall door open. It squeaks quietly as it swings on its worn hinges, and now I know why this place smells so unusually shitty. Here’s Anthony. Face down in the bowl. His pants are smeared with shit, and I’m sure if I looked, I’d see piss and jizz on the front of his pants. I pull out my camera again and snap a few shots, the smeared shit running down the thighs of his pants, the way his head hangs limply in the water. His arms hanging over the sides of the toilet reflected in the puddle of clear water on the floor. It’s as if the toilet spawned this strange, smelly, still-birth, and spat it out, placenta, birth water, and all. All and all, better to shit your pants dying than die drowning in your own shit.

I stride over to the urinals and relieve myself. It’s curious. This is not what I’d expected to find today. I’m not very happy about somebody else coming in to my temple to pick their prey and not taking the time to lead it away. This will bring unwelcome attention here. I pull sharply on my smoke as I drain my bladder. It’s strange how clean and tidy the scene is. Granted, all bodily fluids and waste is a tad messy, but they’re all constrained in his pants, and the majority of the mess is very clean, clear water.

I see a flash of golden hair and a large blue eye. The curve of Her hip is burned on my retina and I wobble. I hold my fingers to my temples, breathing deeply through my nose. My head is spinning. I look back at Anthony’s lifeless form and a low buzzing sound slowly begins to fill my ears. I flick my butt into the urinal and make my way out the door. I stumble through the café and burst out into the waiting area. I reel and cover my eyes as the colored neon is replaced by the bright clear light of afternoon sun. I lean along the half wall until I reach the side of the building, and make my way towards the exit.

Five

It’s hard now to believe how recently I was in my beloved train station. The buzzing sound is only getting louder in my ears and I’m not sure where I’m going. My feet move on impulse, stumbling over each other. I trip and fall, rolling onto my back and the sky glows red above me. I reach up and wipe sweat from my brow, then stagger to my feet.

I turn and see hideous half forms. They remind me of my work, muscles drawn taught over bones and steel rods. The ground puddles with blood, or, maybe it’s that strange black water I keep finding myself standing in. The distorted monstrosities reach out to me, clawing at my clothes and staring with empty burning eye sockets as I scramble past. I should be terrified. Maybe I’m a little crazy, maybe I’ve been a little crazy, but this is… familiar.

The heat is blistering and I struggle blindly onward, the buzzing now a great roar. As I turn to my right, the red sky is sliced open by a blinding golden sheen. The heat melts away and I’m standing on my street, at the corner. I can see my building from here. It looks like somebody’s standing at my door, almost as if they expected me.

I wheeze, stumbling towards home. Who is that? As I approach a window opens across the street and light streams down to slice through the shadows. Like the sun as it rises, Her golden hair leaps into sight and I swoon. She stands at the top step of my stoop and looks down at me with her large doe-like eyes. Her cheeks are high and smooth. Her breasts strain softly against her shirt and denim coat. Just above her low slung jeans the line of her hips draws my eye towards forbidden bliss. Before I can say anything, she lifts one arm high above her head and swings at me. A shadow fills my vision and then whump. I fall to the ground, reeling. I wonder if that’s blood or snot leaking from my nose. As the world collapses into blackness, I see her bending down over me.

My head is pounding. I slowly open my eyes and everything is blurry. I can’t move. I’m suspended like the savior at Galilee, my arms wide above my head and my ankles tied together. It hurts as I inhale and I flex, pulling at my muscles to alleviate the tension. Sunlight cuts tiny lines across the floor and walls and I realize this is my studio. I see my canvases, and my tool tray. I’m naked, and I shiver in the cool air.

I hear somebody coming up the stairs. The door slowly opens and she steps inside. Her denim jacket is gone, and she’s wearing a large plastic apron now. She puts a hand on her lip and fixes me with her gaze. Her lips pull slightly in a small coy smile to the side. She makes a kissing face at me then lifts a surgical mask up over her face, leaving nothing for me to see now but her eyes.

She strides purposefully across the floor and throws the cover from my tool tray. I see them gleam in the darkness with cruel intent. She runs her gloved hands along them, as I have so often run my own bare hands along them. Finally, she picks up the scalpel. Simple. Elegant. As she approaches, she seems to smile again behind her mask. The scalpel comes closer and unlike all my prey, I do not whimper.

The stainless steel rends flesh and nerve as it plunges into my eye socket. I shudder and scream a scream that never makes it to my throat. It’s internal, and as the blade gouges into my other eye, it echoes in my head. I feel blood begin to leak from my ruptured eye sockets and run down my cheeks. I lick my lips, tasting iron and salt. The buzzing from before screams into life and I’m looking again at the volcanic islands. The black jungle seems to seethe, the source of the din that floods my ears.

I feel the scalpel’s edge against the skin above my sternum. As it slips between the cells of my skin, the noise reaches a deafening crescendo, the seething jungle explodes. As cool air makes contact with bone, I am lost, floating, free, in my Perfect Vision of Beauty.