IV.
I pull the familiar pouch from my bag and unzip it with shaking hands. I take out the heroine and the butane torch, as well as the scorched spoon that’s become an integral part of the process. In less than two minutes I’m on the couch, the needle poking beneath my skin with welcome obtrusiveness. The sharp point punctures my vein and chemical reassurance is almost immediate as I apply slow but steady pressure to the plunger. But we’re not done here. No, certainly not.
I’m not looking to get high. We’re way past the point of feeling good. I’m looking for detachment in the most extreme form of the word—detachment from reality, detachment from my body, detachment from this world. I’m lining my veins with an elixir of finality, a cure for existence. I’ll continue to pump this medicine into my arm until my body refuses to accept it.
If home is where the heart is, then this is where they’ll find mine—cold and stationary in my chest, trampled by the heavy footfalls of a ghost that refused my love and admiration.
Maybe now I can turn the tables. Maybe now I can be the one to do the haunting.
With ample amounts of poppies caressing my body and brain, I take a quick moment to contemplate the brashness of my hasty decision. Does this warrant a note? Is that appropriate? What explanation can I possibly leave to offer solace to my friends and family?
I begin to rise from the couch, but there is no balance, no equilibrium. As I fall to the floor, I instinctively extend my right hand in an effort to soften my landing, but my reflexes are slow and my hand reaches the floor at an awkward moment, which results in my wrist bending at an awkward angle. I can see the way at which it has bent and can only assume it’s broken. But there’s no pain. And some part of me understands I should be disturbed or concerned, but the injury seems of small consequence at this time.
I feel an oppressive weight on my eyelids as well as a thick, painful sickness that seems to start at my toes and creep its way slowly north—something like a physical form of static. It touches my stomach and I feel the urge to vomit, but it’s as though my body doesn’t have enough strength or energy to go through that procedure. The sickness continues to move above my stomach, almost purposely sidestepping my heart and resting at the base of my neck. I’m paralyzed now, completely incapable of moving any part of my body. Still, the nausea becomes more powerful and I feel it rising, taking the form of a bitter taste in my throat, like bile or blood or some combination thereof. Before I can even realize it, the vomit is leaking past my tongue and through my teeth, streaming down the sides of my mouth and collecting in a small pool under my cheek. I cough and sputter in an attempt to avoid choking.
Finally, the anvils that have attached themselves to my eyelids become too much. My eyes close and for just a moment or two, the sickness fades, the pain subsides and I am sure I’m dead. Then, as if my eyelids were a projector screen quickly retracted into its storing place, my eyes shoot open and the living room fills my vision like a blurry mirage. I can feel the vomit sticking to my face as I careen my neck to look upwards.
And she is standing there.
She’s looking at me, but offering no assistance. Then, after a moment or two, she reaches down and pushes the hair from my eyes. She uses her sleeve to wipe the saliva, vomit and tears from my face. But her face is still unreadable. Does she know this is her fault? Does she realize I’m tracing my veins back to death because of her? Is this the end she had always wanted for me? Is this some cruel demon I’ve fallen in love with? Some temptress intent on manipulation and destruction from our first interaction?
And just like that, my brain seems to explode with understanding—synapses sparkling like an overzealous pinball machine, comprehension bursting like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My body’s atrophy disappears within the span of a single breath and I grab her arm and pull her down to the floor with such unexpected strength, even I’m surprised.
My body feels as if it had not been on the verge of death only moments ago, and I jump to my feet. She’s on the floor, clearly stunned, and I reach over to the coffee table for the needle that I’d left there. Without any hesitation, I force the needle into her neck and pull it back out. A thin geyser of blood spits up at me. She jerks her hand up to cover the wound right as I bring the needle back down. This time it catches the outside of her hand and she pulls it away with the syringe stuck below the skin. She manages to get to her feet and push past me, her neck shedding a steady stream of blood down her white blouse. She moves with amazing quickness towards the back door and pushes it open, half-running and half-falling down the steps.
I chase after her, throwing her to the ground just short of the tree line. I jump on top of her, keeping her shoulders pinned to the cold ground with my knees. “Look at what you’ve done to me!” I scream at her, traces of vomit and saliva spurting from my mouth. “Look at what you’ve done to us! How could you be so fucking cruel? Why do you haunt me like some vengeful spirit?”
Her expression is unwavering, unafraid. “Who do you think I am?” she replies calmly. “Where do you think I came from?” She gives a quick, cold laugh when I don’t respond. “You used to know. You used to understand what a powerful and uncontrollable thing your mind can be. And you used to accept perfection for what it is: unattainable…nonexistent…not real…bullshit!” She spits the last word with increased force, like she’s angry. Not angry at her current position, but angry at my lack or comprehension.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply truthfully. “You’ve been following me! You’ve been everywhere—trying to torment me with all those men! You used to inspire me! You used to personify everything I wanted: beauty, love, loyalty, encouragement…”
She cuts me off with another cold laugh. “I’m sorry dear, but all that just sounds like perfection to me. And what have we said about perfection?” She laughs again, staring up at the night sky, her blue eyes glistening in the moonlight like two stained-glass marbles.
I feel a hint of something warm and internal at the top of my spine, something taking a slow escalator upwards. Understanding? Acknowledgment? Acceptance?
“But you’re mine!” I scream down at her. “You belong to me!”
“Honey,” she replies with no real affection. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”
And with that response, something conquers me—something violent, ugly and unrestrained. I pick up a sizeable rock sitting on the edge of the woods and bring it down on her skull with as much force as gravity and my own strength will allow. The sound of the first blow is flat and wet. The rock smashes the side of her head and leaves a shallow indentation flowering with blood. The second blow lands more towards the center of her forehead, offering an incredible gash that streams blood like a small waterfall. The moon catches the exposed skull beneath and accentuates the white area like a spotlight. I throw the rock into the woods and wrap my hands around her neck, tightening my grip until I’m sure no breath can sneak in or out.
The blood has created a crimson mask over those vibrant eyes. Even in death, those eyes are as lively as the first time I can remember seeing them. I use my fingers to delicately push the lids closed. Oddly enough, the smile hasn’t left her face. But this smile isn’t cold or taunting, it’s peaceful and accepting…exactly how I’d want it to be.
I stand up and head back for the house, leaving her body at the edge of the woods. I walk up the stairs that lead to the back door and pull it open. I step through the threshold and let out a gasp that implies something between shock and confusion.
This is not my parents’ house.
The layout looks to be similar, but it’s clear these rooms have been abandoned for years and years. The house I’m standing in looks as though it should have been condemned a long time ago.
I take a step forward into what I can only assume was once a kitchen. The rotted floorboards moan under my steps, threatening to give out at any moment. I turn my head and instinctively take a step back as a result of the body sprawled out on the floor only a few feet from the entrance to the kitchen.
That’s me, facedown on the rotting floorboards, my wrist bent under me at a painful looking angle. I lift my own corresponding wrist in front of my face and see that it’s not damaged at all. I reach down to touch the body, expecting my hand to pass through the flesh like it’s some kind of hallucination or an extremely accurate depiction emitted from some nearby projector. But my hand touches flesh. And that flesh is cold. Ice cold.
Without even thinking, I pull away and head for the door. I burst through and bound down the back steps, but my foot catches the last one and I go sprawling out on the grass. As I stand up I’m completely startled by the familiar voice behind me: “Going somewhere?”
I whip around to see Gavin perched ominously at the top of the stairs. He’s wearing a black robe, similar to that of a judge, with a dark black hood that comes over his head and shields any moonlight from his eyes.
He walks down the stairs and advances on me until he’s only a step or two away. “Now this isn’t what I had in mind when I told you to get away for a while.”
I’m in shock. I ask the first question that comes to mind. “Am I dead? I saw my body on the floor in that house…”
He laughs, almost uproariously, and shakes his hooded head. “No, you’re not dead yet. But I suppose the punishment should fit the crime…am I right buddy?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, refusing to look at his face. “What crime? What the fuck is going on?”
“What crime?” he mimics with a sense of astonishment. “Did you really just ask ‘what crime?’ You killed someone! You killed some poor, innocent girl! You bashed her head in with a rock and then choked the life out of her. Don’t tell me you forgot about that little incident.”
I’m speechless. Of course I remember it. Her body is only a few feet behind…
I turn around and see that the body’s gone.
“Look Gavin, I don’t know what’s going on here. But there’s been a huge mistake. That girl…that girl is evil! That girl has been purposely torturing me. That girl…”
“That girl’s a victim buddy. That girl has been whatever that sick mind of yours wanted her to be. And how do you repay her? You shoot yourself full of junk and kill her. I told you to lay off that shit man. She’s supposed to be your muse, your inspiration—not the junk. But you don’t listen. You never listen. So now you’ve got to come with me.”
He reaches out a strong hand and grabs my wrist, the one I could remember shattering during my drug-induced collapse. “Where do you want me to go?”
“It’s just a little walk through the woods. I’d like to say you have a choice, but you really don’t.”
And with those words I can feel free will drain from my body. Any urge to run or escape melts away and I feel my legs following Gavin without any instruction from my brain. He leads me to a path in the woods, a path I have never seen before. Of course these are not the woods I grew up with as a child. No, these woods are deeper and darker. They’re busier with God-knows-what scratching through the underbrush. They smell of death and decay, of things long expired. I feel no hint of civilization in these woods and it doesn’t surprise me that when I turn around after only a minute or two of walking, the house as well as the entrance to the path are both gone. There’s nothing but forest in front and forest behind.
We’re both silent as we walk, but the woods provide an eerie soundtrack. The sounds of animals and bugs are pervasive—living things scuttling across the ground, climbing the tall trees, killing each other for pleasure and sustenance.
These woods are alive with death.
Suddenly I can see a clearing ahead. Not just a clearing either, but light as well. The light is wavering and as we approach I can see there are large, flaming torches stuck into the ground. In front of them is something that looks like an ancient stage. There is a small group standing silently in front of the stage and a man standing on it, in the center. After just a few more steps I can see the face of the man. A few more steps and I can see the noose draped around his neck.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask Gavin. “That can’t be me up there. I’m standing right here! Christ, you’ve got your hand on my wrist. That’s not me up there!”
I blink my eyes and feel the coarse, gritty texture of rope around my neck. I’m standing on the stage now (or I suppose scaffold might be the more appropriate term), staring out at the small group positioned directly in front of me. Gavin walks in slowly behind them.
“The punishment needs to fit the crime buddy,” he says as he approaches.
I look down at the small group. Terror strikes as I see none of them have actual faces—all features have been replaced by familiar photographs, photographs from my bedroom wall. Fond memories of family and friends stare up as I stand with a noose around my neck. It’s then I notice that one of the bodies in the small group has a normal face sitting atop its neck. She stands there, looking up at me, those eyes embossed with something unfamiliar: sorrow, sympathy, guilt.
“Are you ready?” Gavin asks. He’s standing at the side of the stage now, his hand on a large lever.
“Wait,” I cry out. “Wait, I didn’t kill her! She’s not dead! Fuck…she’s standing right there!”
“She’s wherever you need her to be,” Gavin says. “But that doesn’t change what you did. You murdered her.”
“Listen to what you’re saying!” I scream. “She’s right there! She’s fucking staring at me! She’s perfectly healthy!”
“Stop right there,” Gavin says as he shakes a disapproving finger at me. “What have we said about perfection?”
He returns both hands to the lever and pulls. With a heavy creak, the trapdoor below my feet vanishes and I fall while her eyes watch my abrupt descent with sadness and horror.
V.
There’s a lingering pain in my neck—something like a burning sensation, but sharper. It shoots up and down my spine like some malfunctioning elevator, occasionally stopping at different floors along my backbone then continuing on its path in one direction or the other.
The noose has left a strong impression around my neck. It almost feels like it’s still there. Every little bit of saliva that slips down my throat feels like a scorching cinder. I make a conscious effort to avoid swallowing and take a look at my surroundings.
I’m still in the clearing, but the stage is empty. In fact, I’m the only person here. The torches are still lit and I’m lying on a soft bed in between two of them. I attempt to sit up, but heavy ropes hold me in place. They run across the length of my body like strong snakes, keeping me pinned to this mattress, which feels like it’s made of soft leaves and feathers.
I can hear something approaching in the woods beyond the clearing—footsteps, muffled voices, snapping branches. It almost sounds like a small procession. Before long, I can see figures enter into the clearing. There look to be four of them. And it doesn’t take me long to see they are all familiar faces, but in a very disturbing sense.
My parents lead the flock, draped in dark robes like the one Gavin is wearing. But their faces are withered and distorted, like they’ve aged twenty years and were exposed to excessive amounts of radiation in that time. Their mouths are gnarled, lipless lines streaking the bottom of their gray, wrinkled faces. Their noses look fragile and off-center, like they could fall off at any moment. And their eyes are tired and emotionless, scanning the clearing and my body without any real indication that the sensory information is actually reaching their brains. They look more like walking corpses than living beings.
They’re followed by my sister who is holding her baby daughter in her arms. The child is wrapped in a black blanket and not visible from my vantage point. My sister has ferocious scars polluting her face. It looks as though that face had been ripped apart and sloppily sewn back together. Her eyes are full of more life than my parents’, but they wander contemptuously, casting disdain on this entire unholy spectacle.
Rounding out the meager procession is Gavin, who’s robe, much like his face, is streaked with dark crimson, like some kind of brutal war paint. His face doesn’t look any different though, with the exception of a paler complexion which allows the crimson streaks to stand out with more force. He holds a tall torch in his hands. The flames cast his body in a light so harshly evil, I’m forced to turn my head away.
The entire procession stops just a few feet from my bed.
“Guys, what’s happened to you?” I ask in a quivering voice. “Please, untie me. This is all a terrible mistake. Mom…dad…please get me out of here.”
No one says a thing. No one responds to my words. It’s like they can’t even hear me.
“Hello,” I yell desperately. “This is all too fucked up. Please…someone help me off this thing!”
Again, no reply. I let my head drop back to the bed and let out a frustrated grunt.
Suddenly, I can hear Gavin’s voice run strong through the clearing. “We’re here to rid ourselves of the evil associations that come from caring for a murderer,” he says with all the oratory power and strength of a medieval king. “We’ve cast a dark shadow on all our lives by giving our hearts to this man, and we need to sever those connections in the interest of saving our souls.”
My family murmurs in agreement.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I reply almost under my breath. “What is wrong with you people? Has everyone lost their fucking minds?”
“But we have rituals for this kind of disassociation,” continues Gavin. “We have ways of separating ourselves from a monster. That’s why we’re in these ancient woods. Welcome to the Sabbath, my friends! It’s time to cleanse ourselves!”
“Christ,” I yell back. “Are you listening to yourself? You talk about my issues…you’ve flown off the fucking deep end Gav! You’ve lost it!”
He approaches my bed with cold eyes full of intent. He reaches beneath his dark robe and removes a long and ritualistic looking knife from somewhere inside. He stands over me, the knife hovering just above my bare midsection.
“Wait…wait,” I plead with escalating panic. “Wait…what are you doing? Stop this, man. I’m right here. It’s me.”
“It’s time to create some distance between us and this man,” Gavin yells to his associates. “We may have loved him at one time, but nobody's perfect.”
Gavin plunges the knife into my midsection. My skin offers nearly no resistance to the blade and I’m pretty sure I can feel that long, sharp edge actually touch my spine. I scream in agony. The pain is excruciating, but Gavin shows no sign of stopping. He pushes the blade upwards, creating an enormous gash (almost a gory canyon) over my abdomen, like he’s performing some kind of ghastly surgery.
“Before we can purge ourselves of him, we need to accept our associations!” Gavin reaches into my stomach and removes a handful of bloody innards. “Step forward and accept your associations.”
As I writhe on my back, tied helplessly to this deathbed, my family members approach mindlessly and solemnly. Gavin smears a handful of gore on each one of their faces, saving my sister’s baby for last. As she brings the child within his reach, its mutilated face becomes visible. Its head is misshapen with ugly, tumorous protrusions contributing to the deformed appearance. Its eyes are unaligned, appearing to operate almost independently of each other, like some hideously human insect.
Gavin smears its face with my blood and the image is so monstrous, I almost vomit all over myself. Once everyone has been anointed with elements of me, they fall back a few steps from my body. I twitch and mutter, blood splattering from my mouth. I refuse to look at the gaping wound that has replaced my midsection. I imagine the mere sight will send me into shock.
“So let her come and offer her forgiveness to us,” Gavin says almost lightheartedly, as if we’ve passed the formality of the ceremony and are now approaching the jubilation, the celebration.
I look at everyone’s blood-smeared faces. They’re all smiling. Their wretched, hideous faces are all plastered with grins of pleasure. But they’re all silent now. So silent, in fact, I can hear an additional set of footsteps approaching. I’m too weak and in too much pain to lift my head at this point, but it turns out I don’t even need to. She approaches my side completely and hangs her head over my face. I stare deep into those blue eyes, looking for answers, searching for help, pleading for explanation. But it doesn’t matter. I’m already dead to her. I’m dead to all these people.
“Please grant forgiveness unto us,” Gavin asks her. “We are corruptible, we are not perfect, but we see our mistakes. Please forgive our misjudgments of character. Forgive this mother and father for birthing such evil. Forgive this sibling for her kindness and loyalty. We wish to bear no responsibility for your murder.”
She smiles, not taking her eyes away from me. “Granted,” she says simply as she brushes a strand of hair from my eyes and gives me a brief kiss on the forehead. She then turns to Gavin and he smears a healthy dose of gore on her face.
The smiles on the group’s faces widen now. This is a celebration: a celebration of forgiveness and a celebration of separation.
“Then let us burn our associations!” Gavin cries. “Let us exorcise this evil from the world and cleanse ourselves of the darkness left in our hearts.”
Gavin picks up one of the torches and moves slowly but graciously towards my mattress, a mattress, I am slowly realizing, that’s destined to become a funeral pyre. The amalgamation of hideously depraved faces glows like a unified variation of a jack-o-lantern. There are chuckles and taunts as the flame is touched to the undoubtedly flammable mattress on which I lay. I can actually smell my flesh burning before I can feel it.
I wrestle with the ropes as the fire nips at my legs. I twist my body, but as my midsection turns the pain is unbearable. Surprisingly though, I manage to wiggle one of my wrists free, the same wrist I could clearly remember breaking in the house.
Oh how that seems like so long ago. I contemplate the miraculous healing that could have occurred and realize that it’s impossible.
So am I dreaming, or is this hell? Or is it something in between?
After all, I suppose that’s what insanity is: something between hell and a dream.
But the sensation of melting flesh harbors all the unbearable pain one would associate with reality. I’m beyond screaming at this point. In fact, I can feel the flames touch my lips with merciless intensity, liquefying the flesh and bonding it together until there’s no mouth to speak of, just a fiery pile of skin decorating the bottom of my face.
I watch as that horrible version of my family laughs and dances around my burning body, they’re enthusiasm for my departure completely palpable. And I watch as she stands by herself, close enough to the fire to see small beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead. Her eyes are mirrors, displaying the grisly image of a decimated man engulfed in flame, burning to ashes. Even as I feel my eyes begin to boil, I can see her face bathed in some inappropriately angelic glow, the petite beads of sweat making her look more human than she ever has before. Her complexion is livelier than ever as well, and her sorrow is beautiful. She looks perfect.
