Monday, April 6, 2009

All Mine: Misogynistic Love is Still Love by Joshua Lucht

When Sharon asked me why I had shot myself in the face, I knew just what I wanted to tell her, but of course, I couldn’t talk. I could not have possibly said anything without lips or teeth and only a stub of a tongue left, but she stood there nonetheless, looking at me stupidly, waiting for an answer.
So I grunted.
She ran out of the cage, still looking horrified, and for a second, I thought that she was just going to leave me there to bleed to death all by myself. Maybe the sight of me was too much; she was always squeamish. I had not seen myself yet, but to be fair, I must have looked a fright. But she came back a few seconds later with a notepad and a pen. She shoved them into my hands and I glared back at her with what probably would have been a look of disbelief if I had a face to wear it on. “Uh,” I said successfully since ‘uh’ comes right from the throat and doesn’t need a mouth to shape it. I took the cap off the pen and scribbled, “911” on the notepad.
“Oh, right,” said Sharon. “Sorry.” And she ran out for the phone.
As much as I disliked the idea of calling those bastards, those paramedics and asking for their help, there was really not much choice. I was still bleeding and I was not a doctor, but I did know that a person can not bleed for too long without, you know, dying. Aside from that, shooting one’s face off really is as painful as you would think. And say what you will about those black-hearted sons of bitches, they carry morphine in those little packs of theirs.
Me? I thought the best thing to do would be to slump over and black out.

I do not remember meeting Sharon, so she must always have been there. I lost my virginity to her when I was fourteen and she was twenty and we had been a certain kind of buddies ever since.
I had heard people say that sex was a letdown when it finally happened, and I remember bracing myself for a disappointment, but I should not have bothered. It lived up to the hype. That's one of those moments that are just frozen for me. It took me a few seconds before I realized that it was not my whole body being engulfed. It felt like I was in her entirely. It was suffocating.
But what I remember most sharply was her smell. Her hair was long and crimped and it covered my face as she draped over me. She used that shampoo that smells like fruit, strawberries specifically. The next morning, I went right out and bought a slew of Strawberry Shortcake dolls. To this day, I still can not masturbate without them.

And, all the fourteen years since, I do not think the two of us have gone more than three or four days without hooking up, even during her short marriage. Hell, I even flew to Atlantic City for her honeymoon and managed to get her to slip away from her new husband for a couple of hours. It was not hard; she just left him there at the Blackjack table while we went up to their room.
If that story is not something to be proud of, then I give up.
But her marriage only lasted for seven months. It did not fall apart or anything. Her husband never found us out. Nothing that dramatic. He just died very unexpectedly.
I am pretty sure that deep down, she knows that I killed him.

I came to just long enough to see one of those shits in his white uniform kneeling over me. That was not a pleasant sight, but on the plus side, I noticed that it did not hurt anymore. He must have given me some morphine first thing. Good boy.
Either that, or I was slipping away. I had heard that you lose feeling right before you die. I could not have told you where I had picked that little tidbit of information up, but I started to panic. I had to do something to see whether or not I was still alive.
I managed to lift my fist and punch him square in the jaw. I was disappointed at how weak it felt when I connected, but it still felt pretty good. He laughed if you can believe it. "This guy's a fighter," the medic announced. “He'll be okay; he's got spunk."
And people wonder why I hate these guys.
Heroes my dick.

I am not sure why I can’t remember his name. It really does not matter, but it worries me, the thought that maybe my memory is slipping. It definitely started with a B, but it was not common. No simple Bob or Bill could have ever snared my Sharon. And it definitely wasn’t Bubba. I would remember that.
He was handsome, I guess. But none too bright.
The news came as a shock. I didn’t want to marry her myself, but I was not to keen on the idea of sharing her, either.
There was no 'I met this guy,' no 'I went out with this hottie last night,' no 'I let this guy get to third on our first date.' No, she did not tell me until the last minute.
We had just finished and I was getting dressed and she just blurted out, "I'm getting married the day after tomorrow. I thought you should know." And that was it. I was not even invited to the wedding. I actually think that she may have had it in her head to stop seeing me altogether.
I walked out without a word.

Sharon rode with me in the ambulance. She looked like she just might start crying. I have always hated that. Maybe it was just me, but it seemed like a remarkably long ride to the hospital. I was drifting in and out, so it was hard to tell, and besides, I had forgotten to wind my watch. To be honest, I could not even remember if I was wearing it. Even if I was, I could not have looked at it. The paramedic was in the way. Those guys ruin everything.
But my apartment is less than two miles from the county hospital. We should have been there by now. It looked like they were taking me to the good one.
Christ, maybe I was in trouble.

When I built it three years ago, I had no idea it would come in so useful. I was in my black helicopter phase and I was pretty sure we had been lied to when they said that the cold war was over. Seriously, they just got up there one day and announced that our enemies were not our enemies anymore. It was so sudden and it felt like bullshit. I could not have even told you what my theory was, but it was frightening. I think it may have had something to do with globalization or zombies or both. And fire. I have always been afraid of fire. At any rate, I was pretty sure something bad was going to happen. The sense of danger I had was urgent, nonetheless. I knew that I had to build a cage.

The longer the ambulance ride lasted, the surer I was that I was done for. Which should not have been surprising, I mean, how many people survive a pointblank gunshot wound to the head? Actually, more than you would think, according to the sixty year old Mexican nurse who looked after me and bathed me every day in the weeks following what they called my 'incident.' At least I still had my eyes, she would tell me. She told me stories of people who lived long, rich and full lives without any faces at all. It did not cheer me up much, but bless her heart for trying.
All the way to the hospital, Sharon kept begging me to keep fighting and pull through. She told me that she loved me.

Come on. I may be dense, but I am not gullible.

I don't think she has ever really forgiven me for showing up at her poor, handsome dead husband's funeral. I really should have left her alone with her grief, but I wanted to see it for myself. When I saw her crying, it pissed me off.
The funeral was beautiful, though. I could only hope that when my time came, people would go to so much trouble. All the flowers were white and blue and all the people wore black and cried. He was even more handsome than ever. Whoever had reconstructed his face, they were very good. He was laid out in a spiffy tux and the whole thing was so fancy that when I first saw him, I thought maybe I had killed James Bond by mistake. But no, it was just Sharon's poor, stupid, handsome, dead husband.
The look on her face when she saw me was unmistakable and furious. She knew. I figured I was in for an earful next time I saw her.
But she never confronted me. She did not even bring it up that night when I balled her.

The bullet came out through the top of my head, right at my hairline. It missed my brain completely. Since the damage was mostly cosmetic, there never really was any question as to whether or not I would pull through once the bleeding stopped. And that is good news, since, believe it or not, I really did not want to die. This will probably not make any sense, but I was just trying to clear my head. They keep giving me pamphlets on suicide prevention and people keep telling me that I have lots and lots of things to live for and the chaplain stops by every day to offer comfort or something like that. None of it is necessary, but I can not tell them that, of course.
They tell me that I will never talk again.

I had been using it as a storage closet for years, ever since the end of my short-lived conspiracy theory phase. The things I thought I might need in case of nuclear emergency, did not take up much room. A couple boxes of non-perishable food and a manual can opener. Two flashlights and plenty of batteries. A Bible and a stack of porn to keep my mind occupied. Several bottles of whiskey and a couple cases of beer. Two cartons of cigarettes, a clay ashtray that my niece had made me and a plastic disposable lighter. A bucket with a seat welded to the top for a relatively comfortable makeshift toilet. A bottle of valium in case I decided to just end it. And a pistol.
I'd read somewhere that, in a nuclear blast, the people who aren't killed turn into freaks. So I got a gun in case a gang of mutant zombies decided to come around looking to put their syphilitic hands on my supplies.
When I got over my paranoia, one of the first things I did was clear out the cage so I could store boxes full of things that I didn't want but was too lazy to throw away. I ate the food, drank the booze and smoked the smokes. I threw out the Bible, kept the porn. The gun stayed where it was, in a small box with the bullets on the highest shelf. It never occurred to me to get rid of it any more than it had occurred to me to use it.
I forgot all about it.

Sharon comes by every day, careful not to be there the same time as the chaplain. She hates God now. She ran into the chaplain once, my second day there. He told her to trust in Jesus because he had a plan for everything. She sat there with her lips drawn tight, listening, her face growing paler as she fumed until she finally gritted her teeth and growled at him to leave which he did without a fight. I was very grateful to her.
She kisses me and I lie there, silently, wishing I could kiss her back. She talks and talks and asks questions even though she knows I can not answer her. Mostly she wants to know, why did I do it?
I love her and I hate her and honestly, even if I could talk, I do not think I would have the heart to tell her the truth.

The first time I talked to her poor, dead husband was that night, during their honeymoon, after Sharon and I had finished. I went downstairs into the casino and sat down next to him at the blackjack table. I noticed right off how goddamn handsome he was. It was hard to miss. I have always been good-looking enough, but there was something else there. He had kindness in his face.
"Any luck?" I asked casually, putting my meager stack of chips on the table.
He kept his eyes carefully on his cards and the dealer, but he managed to answer me out of the side of his mouth. "I'm up six hundred," he said.
He did not seem too excited, though.
“Wow,” I said. “You got some kind of system or are you just lucky?” I leaned in close, like I was going to tell him a secret, but I said, loud enough for the dealer to hear, “You count cards?”
The dealer chuckled.
“I’m not smart enough to count cards,” said the stupid husband candidly.
“Well, what’s your system?” I asked.
“Hit sixteen and under. Stay seventeen and over,” he said. He still hadn’t looked at me. Not once.
“That’s not much of a system,” I pointed out. “I think it’s just how one plays twenty-one.”
“Well at any rate, I’m up six hundred,” he said. “Maybe it is luck, though. I’m not very smart.”
He still had not looked at me. It must be sad to have the guy boning your wife walk right up and introduce himself and still not be able to pick him out of a lineup.
And this guy, this timid creature who had so little dignity that he was willing to tell a stranger twice in the space of thirty seconds that he was stupid, this was who my Sharon had picked over me.
He had to go.

The night when I made love to Sharon for the first time, I wanted her to fall asleep with me even though I knew full well that it was not feasible.
Normally, it would have been a point of contention, my parents insisting on leaving me with a babysitter when I was fourteen years old, for God’s sake. But, as long as they kept hiring Sharon to watch over me, I never argued. She had been my sitter since I was six and my first ever below-the-belt girl feelings were for her.
I was eleven when I got my first erection. Sharon was putting me to bed. She was lying next to me, reading me a story and stroking my hair when suddenly, I felt one of her tits rub up against my arm and poing!!! Right out of nowhere.
People talk about puberty like it’s a long process. First you get a little fuzz, then zits, then your voice cracks, etc. But for me, it was instantaneous. One second, I had a teeny dinky I would not have been able to do anything with even if the opportunity had introduced itself, and the next second, it was a throbbing hard-on, a living thing, desperate for some flesh to burrow.
She bent down to kiss me on the forehead, just like she always did before switching off the lights and I quickly moved, kissing her right on the mouth. And Jesus, her lips were soft.
It took a lot of effort and manipulation on my part. There were a few veiled threats and even a little begging. But three years later, she let me take her. After we had finished, when she was lying there over me, her hair covering my face, I started to doze off. Then, she climbed off me. I felt something like grief when I slipped out of her.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“I have to finish my homework,” she said, stepping back into her panties. “And your parents will be home soon. Just go to sleep.”
“Sleep with me,” I said.
“I can’t,” she insisted. She was almost dressed by now, which was really starting to upset me.
“Then just lie here with me until I fall asleep,” I said.
She leaned down and kissed me, putting her tongue just between my lips before pulling away. “I can’t,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I’d fall asleep and then we’d be in trouble. Or at least I would be.” Then she got up, turned off the light and left, closing my door behind her.
I was so furious, I do not know how I managed to fall asleep, but eventually, I did.
The next day, I got back at her. I spilled the beans; I told my dad everything. He told me to stop telling lies and that I should be more respectful of my babysitter and that it was wrong to spread stories and so forth. At first, I was really hurt that he did not believe what I was telling him, but then I saw his face.
He was beaming with pride. Fourteen and already banging college students. What father wouldn't be proud?
Two days later, Sharon was back. As my dad and mom walked out the door, leaving me with my trusted babysitter, I swear he winked at me.
And it all happened again.
Twice that time.

The strange thing is that Sharon’s stupid pretty husband and I became what you might call friends or at least as close to what a person like me comes to friends. Our friendship wasn’t deep or meaningful; we never shared feelings or had long talks or any of the things that women do. But we got close enough for me to feel bad about not remembering his name. We would get together every so often to drink and do the things that guys do, usually right after I’d been with Sharon. I tried to schedule our male bonding time to follow my trysts with her. For some reason, that was when I felt the most affection for the poor guy, when I could still smell his wife on my fingers.
Whether this was pity or some need to relish in my conquest only a shrink could know for sure.

It has been eleven days now and so far, there is no end in sight. God knows when they are going to let me out of this place. It is not so bad, though. Sharon still comes by every day to give me a sponge bath and a handjob and to cry by my bed.
And the things she says, the things she says. I think that maybe, finally, she is mine.
I still have not decided whether or not it was worth it.
It was not planned out. I know what it sounds like, but it was not. It started innocently enough. I just needed some time alone with my thoughts. I called her on a Tuesday, and I told her to come over to my place on Friday and let herself in with the key I had given her, God knows how long ago. Then, I restocked the cage and locked myself in. The first day or so was actually pleasant. I went through most of the whiskey and all of the porn. I did not get much thinking done. But by Thursday morning, I wanted out pretty badly. I was trapped with nothing but my own thoughts and believe me, that is not a good thing.
Then, in the middle of the night, late Thursday or early Friday, whichever way you want to look at it, I remembered the gun. I took it out of its box and just looked at it for who knows how long. Hours. I knew was supposed to do something, but I did not know what. For a while, I thought maybe I would kill Sharon, but I did not want that. There was no reason for it.
I stared down the business end of that gun thinking hard, then not thinking at all and then it hit me. I put the barrel under my chin. It didn’t take but a few seconds before I found that I had worked up the courage and then, there was nothing to do but pull the trigger.
And that’s how I lost my face.

Last night I had a dream about a taco stand. I had to pee worse than I think I ever have in my life. I did not want a taco, but I went into a small taco stand so I could use their bathroom. When I walked in, I saw the bathroom in the corner. It was a stall, out there in the open so you could see the feet of the person who was using it. A Mexican with a thick moustache and a cowboy hat was peeing. He was tall, so you could see his head as it rolled back while he emptied himself.
I knew I was in a fix. I could never make myself go if everybody in the taco stand could hear me. I bought a burrito, walked out, chucked it into a dumpster and pissed in the alley.
I have no idea what this dream means.

I remember that morning, when I told Sharon what I wanted from her, too clearly. I figured that if I gave her fair warning, my conscience would not bother me and I was right. On the other hand, it is entirely possible that I would have been okay with it either way. I was never one for guilt
“I want you to end it with him,” I told her.
We were lying in bed together, which was rare. I usually took off right afterward. I think I took her off guard when I turned toward her and started stroking her hair instead of just climbing out of bed and getting dressed. Like I said, it was unusual, but we needed to have a talk.
“I can’t stop seeing him,” she said. “He’s my husband.”
“I didn’t tell you to stop seeing him,” I said. “You can stay married to him for all I care.”
“Then what?”
“Stop sleeping with him.”
“Why?” she asked, all doe-eyed and innocent, trying to pretend that she had no idea what I was getting at.
I figured I might as well get all cliché on her, so I just slid three fingers inside her and said, “Because I want this all for myself.”
She looked at me like I was crazy.
“Do this for me,” I said.
“Sharon, I’m warning you.” See? I gave her fair warning. I actually used the word ‘warning.’ What more do you want?
She said she would have to think about it.

Three days later, I went fishing with Sharon’s poor stupid husband as guys will sometimes do. I was trying to think of a subtle way to broach the subject, like complaining about an imaginary girlfriend or maybe an ‘I was reading this article in Cosmo,’ introduction. But then I decided that he wasn’t clever enough to warrant a round-about approach, so I just asked him. “Hey buddy, when was the last time you nailed your wife?”
“This morning,” he said with a goofy, kind of endearing smile.
I did not hesitate. There was no sense wasting any time. I kicked his legs out from under him and held his face under the water. The poor stupid bastard did not resist. Hell, I did not even feel him wiggle. He probably did not realize he was being killed until his lungs started to fill with water.
Or maybe he wanted to die. Stranger things have happened and believe me when I tell you that a good woman can do that to a fella.
I do not know how long exactly it takes for somebody’s lungs to fill with water. I could never hold my breath for more than a minute, so I figure that was about how long it took. When I was holding him under, a peace came over me. I looked up at the shore, at the trees and I have never felt more at one with nature as I did at that moment.
Time just slowed to a crawl. I could not tell you how long I knelt there with my hands pushing down on the back of his head, but it was the most beautiful few minutes of my life.

After three weeks of medical treatment and physical and psychological therapy, they let Sharon take me home. She kept her day job, but she was able to drop down to part time because, as it turns out, when you lose your face, you are entitled to a social security check every month.
We have a good life together. She gives me lots of attention and lets me fuck her anytime I want. Mostly, though, she just sits with me and holds my hand while we watch TV.
Most importantly, with all the attention my poor invalid self needs, she does not have time for another man.
And all it cost me was my face. I really never was that handsome to begin with.
Yep. She’s completely and irrevocably mine.

Eternity Will Keep You by Joshua Lucht

Eternity Will Keep You

“Eternity will keep you where death finds you.”

When Oscar stepped out of the teleporter, he knew it was going to be one of those days. Just like always, it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. He was at the office. It was the start of another work day. Perfect. And no sooner had he pulled himself together than, he started to sweat, which was bad. It was hot out, sticky hot actually, and Oscar, though not what you would call tubby, was prone to sweating. Once he started, his body would just not stop, no matter how cool the air conditioning was inside. His armpits were like the eyes of a little bitch who can never stop crying.
To make matters worse, the first face Oscar saw as appeared was David’s and Christ, did he always have to smile like that. David was officially Oscar’s least favorite human. He was one of those guys whose entire identity is wrapped around their status as class clown, which was an exceptional problem in David’s case because he was just not very funny. You know the type.
And great, now he was gonna start talking.
“Whew! Is it hot out!” said David with his goofy, could-be-charming-if-I-wasn’t-so-damn-ugly smile. “You know how hot it is?”
Oscar sighed, resigned. “How hot is it?” he asked, dutifully feeding the line.
“It’s so hot, on the way to work, I saw a guy pull his pants down and piss on himself just to cool off!”
“You didn’t see anything on the way here,” said Oscar wearily. “You teleport just like everyone else.”
“I know,” said David, looking pleased with himself. “It’s a joke. I made it up.”
“Besides, piss is warm,” said Oscar with no idea why he was arguing with this prick.
“That’s the joke,” said David. “Piss is warm, but it feels cold ‘cause it’s so hot out!”
The only thing keeping Oscar from pounding the crap out of this guy or just going back through the teleporter and calling in sick was knowing that in a few seconds, he’d be seeing Cassie. She was magical and definitely the high point of Oscar’s day. He’d finally built up the nerve to talk to her a few months back and they’d become friendly. He even thought she may have been flirting with him a few times, but that was almost certainly his imagination. If only he knew how to take it to the next step, ask her out, maybe get in her pants. Oscar wasn’t a bad looking guy and although he wasn’t what you’d call charming, he was nice enough, so bedding the office beauty shouldn’t have been entirely out of the realm of possibility.
Believe it or not, Oscar was quite charming once up on a time. Not so long ago, he was adept enough at flirting and all those games to get laid at least a couple of times a month. But over the last few years, Oscar had been feeling more and more disjointed and just felt less of a need to be nice until finally, he realized that he’d forgotten how. For some reason, he’d been getting testier; his fuse was getting shorter and shorter. Either that or everyone else was getting more irritating.
Or both.
But, of late, he’d been thinking that needed to stop and he should make nice, if for no other reason than he needed to get laid. And not from one of the countless parade of escorts, call girls and just plain hookers that filled the pages of his little black book. (Okay, the book was actually burgundy, but that doesn’t matter.)
And Jesus Christ, here she was. He progressed from shriveled to flaccid to rock hard in a matter of seconds. He’d told himself the night before that today would be the day he’d ask her for dinner or coffee or drinks or whatever. ‘Don’t be a puss, Oscar,’ he told himself. Girls like confidence, so he should just ask her even though she was a 9 and he was a 4 on his good days. Chicks like guys to be decisive, aggressive even and they’d look past all kinds of flaws if the guy carries himself the right way. So, if that was true, why did they carry pepper spray?
“Hey, Oscar,” she said before he’d realized that he was already within speaking distance.
“How’s it going, Cassie?” Oscar answered. Goddammit, just do it, you pathetic weakling.’ And then, to his horror, he heard himself blurt out, “Drinks with me?”
“I’m sorry?” said Cassie.
Well, that was mortifying, but there wasn’t any turning back now. “Would you like to have a drink with me after work?” he asked, surprised that he was capable of structuring a sentence.
Cassie smiled at him, but then, she said, “I don’t drink.”
“I’m three years sober last month.”
“Congratulations,” said Oscar, unsure of what the proper response to an announcement like that was. He stood there, looking and feeling stupid, with his hands in his pockets, fingering his change and staring at her. “I’d better get…” Oscar trailed off, and after a few more awkward seconds, he started to turn away.
“I drink coffee, though,” Cassie said, stopping him. “Sometimes, I even have dinner.”
‘What do I say now?’ Oscar thought, panicking. “Um…” he started. “Do you wanna have coffee and dinner?” Christ, that sounded stupid!
“Wow, coffee and dinner,” said Cassie with a smile. “Look at the big spender!”
Good, she was joking. She wasn’t very funny, but she made a joke, which relaxed Oscar a little. “Should I just pick you up here after work?”
“Sounds like a plan, Oscar,” Cassie said with (was Oscar imagining it?) a flirt in her voice. She stood there, looking at him for a couple of seconds, like she was expecting something else.
‘Should I grab her tits?’ Oscar wondered.
Probably not. He just turned and walked down the hall to his cubicle.
The rest of the day just flew by. Oscar felt just like a Jr. High kid who’d just gotten a note passed to him in study hall from the popular girl saying, ‘Do you like me? Check yes or no.’ He was in such a good mood that he didn’t even mind David popping by every twenty minutes or so to say something retarded. He was going on an honest-to-God date with an honest-to-God hottie and there was a chance that he’d be having complimentary sex, if not tonight, then soon. And to top it all off, when Oscar and Cassie walked into the teleporter together, she took his hand, a sign that there was potential tonight.
So imagine Oscar’s surprise when the machine turned on and suddenly, he found himself standing alone on a sidewalk in hell.
Nothing was burning; there was no heat, no soundtrack of screaming. There wasn’t a thing about the place that would’ve tipped off a casual observer to its nature. Even so, Oscar knew exactly where he was. He’d died and gone to hell.
Come to think of it, how’d that happen? There had never been a teleportation accident. Not one. Apart from being so fast, that was why everybody loved it so much, its safety. It was why its inventor, Dr. Trinity was a hero. No more car wrecks or plane crashes. Aside from the escalating homicide rate, the world was a perfectly safe place now.
Oscar did a turn to look at the city around him. Funny, he never would’ve thought that hell would have cities. The place was surprisingly clean. There was no litter, no graffiti, and no cracks in the sidewalk. But aside from being clean, it was also empty. There wasn’t a single car on the street. There was a school on the corner, less than a block away, complete with playground, but no children.
Just as he was wondering if he was going to have to spend eternity without ever seeing another soul, if that was maybe what made hell hell, three men appeared from around the corner and started walking up the sidewalk toward him.
Oscar couldn’t believe it. The only thing that could’ve possible been more shocking than dying in the first place was the sight in front of him, these three men coming at him. It was like being in a funhouse hall of mirrors. Each of these three was his height and weight and each shared his face. They were duplicates.
The one on the right was a younger version, sure, but it was him nonetheless. The one in the middle looked to be the same age as he was now and very serious. The one on the left was also roughly the same age and wearing a sly, kind of dirty smile.
The trio reached him and the one with the smile was the first to speak. “Have we fucked her yet?” he asked.
“Fucked who?” asked Oscar.
“Cassie,” answered the serious on in the middle before turning to the pervert. “And you asked me that this morning and I said ‘no.’ He’s been at the office all day. What makes you think that he found the time to approach her, much less fuck her?”
“What the hell is going on?” asked Oscar.
“They could’ve had a nooner,” insisted the horny clone, ignoring Oscar entirely.
“We didn’t have a nooner,” said Oscar.
“See?” said the serious one in the middle. “They haven’t even gone out on a date yet. There’s no way they’d have a nooner.”
“Stranger things have happened,” said the horny one.
“We were on our way to dinner,” said Oscar. “I asked her out this morning and we went into the teleporter together. And now I’m here so again, what the hell is happening?”
“It seems there’s a flaw in Dr. Trinity’s invention,” said the young one on the right, speaking for the first time. “It’s just not safe.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Oscar. “There’s never been a teleporter accident.”
“It’s not a teleporter,” said the young one.
“I don’t follow,” said Oscar.
“How does it work?” asked the young one. “You step in, the machine breaks you down into subatomic particles. Then, it puts you back together on the other side, right?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“A person can’t survive that! How could Dr. Trinity think that someone could be vaporized and live through it?” demanded the young one.
“So, if it’s not a teleporter, what is it?” asked Oscar.
“A cloning machine. It kills you, then it clones you,” explained the young one. “You’ve only existed for a few hours, my friend.”
“Bullshit,” said Oscar. “I’m thirty-three years old.”
“And you remember it all, I know,” said the young one. “The machine is very precise. It makes a perfect copy, down to the memories. Down to the soul.”
Oscar looked around and suddenly, coming out of every door and from around every corner, stepping out of every crack was a perfect replica, as if on cue, to emphasize the young one’s last point. Some were a bit younger, many were a lot younger and they all were dressed differently, probably to tell each other apart. “Okay, what now?” Oscar whispered.
“Now nothing,” said the young one. “You pick yourself a name and start your life in Hell. There’s nothing for you to do until the next one gets here. Then you’ll come with me to meet him.”
“Pick a name?” said Oscar.
“We can’t all be Oscar now, can we?” said the young one.
Oscar turned to the serious one. “What’s your name now?” he asked.
“Theo,” he answered, and then pointed to the horny one. “He’s Heff.”
“No, I wanna be Oscar,” said Oscar.
“Don’t be stupid,” spat the young one. “I’m Oscar. Pick something else.
“I’ll fight you for it,” said Oscar.
Young Oscar looked surprised, but why? Surely this wasn’t the first time this had been proposed. Shit, they were all the same guy, right? It was hard to imagine that he could say anything new even if he tried.
“You’ll fight me for it?” asked the incredulous young Oscar. “What, did you have a few drinks before stepping into the teleporter or are you just a fucking retard?”
“No, he was on his way out on a date,” said Theo. “He died with confidence.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Oscar.
“It means you’re probably the only guy here with any balls,” answered Theo, eliciting a giggle from Heff at the word ‘balls.’
“I don’t follow you,” said Oscar.
“Eternity will keep you where death finds you,” said Young Oscar.
“Thank you, Mr. Cryptic,” said Oscar. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Whatever frame of mind you’re in when you die determines what you’re like down here,” explained Theo. “For example, the guys who got into the teleporter hungover always feel like shit.”
“And this guy?” asked Oscar, nodding toward Heff.
“Remember a couple of weeks ago when the office called us at home and had us come back to grab that file?” asked Heff.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Oscar, actually remembering it very well. Christ, this was surreal. And he was starting to miss life and the world where everything was flat and normal and you only use the word ‘surreal’ when you’re high.
“You remember what we were doing when they called?” asked Heff.
“Jerking off,” answered Oscar.
“And we went without finishing, didn’t we?” said Heff. “I stepped into the teleporter with an end of the world hard-on and now, I can’t think about anything but fucking.” Heff stopped for a giggle when he heard what he’d said. “Ha! I said ‘butt-fucking!”
“Okay, thanks for the education,” said Oscar, turning back to the young one. “So, how about it?”
“You really wanna fight me for the name?” said young Oscar.
“Yes, I do.”
“What are the terms?”
“Whoever stops moving first loses,” said Oscar. “The winner gets to keep the name ‘Oscar’ and the loser has to call himself ‘Herb.’”
“Why ‘Herb?’” asked young Oscar.
“Because it’s a shitty name,” answered Oscar.
The young one took a second to think. “Fine,” he said and Oscar clocked him in the face with his elbow before anyone could even blink.
“FIGHT!” yelled Heff at the top of his lungs and wouldn’t you know it, all the wandering Oscars gathered ‘round, forming a circle around the fighters.
Young Oscar recovered pretty quickly, though. He wiped the blood from his mouth and lunged at Oscar with something like a shriek of rage or maybe a war cry exploding from his throat. But Oscar was ready for him. He stepped to the side just as young Oscar came into reach, grabbed the kid’s head with both hands and slammed it right into his knee. Either young Oscar wasn’t very popular or else they hadn’t seen a good fight in a while, because the crows erupted in cheers and whoops. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar thought he saw Heff put his hand down his pants.
Oscar wasn’t about to let the kid who’d soon be calling himself ‘Herb’ regain his footing. The little prick’s nose was flat against his face and blood had soaked the front of his white shirt, but Oscar didn’t think hell was any place for mercy. He grabbed a fistful of hair from the back of the kid’s head and kicked his legs out from under him. He smashed the kid’s face into the pavement six time and then let go, stepping back to see if the kid was going to keep moving or not.
“Had enough, Herb?” he taunted. All the other Oscars were hushed, thickening the suspense.
The kid slowly pushed himself up. Scraps of skin were hanging from his face and in one place, his cheek was torn open so you could see his teeth. “Just so you know,” he growled, still on his hands and knees, spitting blood with every word. “After I finish you off, I’m gonna fuck you.”
Wow. The determination Herb was showing was admirable. Still, Oscar rushed up and kicked the kid in the ribs, throwing him onto his back. Then Oscar stomped on the kid’s neck, pushing down with all his bulk until he heard the kid’s neck snap.
And the crowd went wild.
Oscar had never been much of a fighter. He’d only been in two fistfights, or rather had the memory of two fistfights, in his life. But goddammit, that felt good.
Heff ran up and gave Oscar a huge bear hug. Oscar felt Heff’s erection up against his leg which was disconcerting, but it was gonna take more than a little creepy homoeroticism to dampen his spirits.
Theo walked up and clapped Oscar on the back. “I think we have ourselves a new leader,” he said.
Oscar scanned the crowd and Theo was right. They were quiet again and every eye was fixed on him. He didn’t know if they were waiting for words of wisdom or instructions or just a good old-fashioned pep talk, but Oscar knew what he had in mind.
He turned to Theo. “What’s outside the city?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” Theo answered. “I’ve only been here a few hours myself.”
“Right,” said Oscar, turning to the crowd. “Who’s been outside the city?”
The crowd just looked at each other stupidly, some shaking their heads.
“Well, we’re in hell and here’s a city full of us,” said Oscar. “Why wouldn’t there be other cities?”
Everyone looked perplexed. Oscar couldn’t believe that nobody had thought of this before.
“Somewhere, there’s gotta be a city filled with thousands of Cassies,” said Oscar.
The crowd took a few seconds to let this sink in. Then, Heff stepped up, raised his fists to the sky and screamed, “PUSSY!” That one word was the spark. Everyone started screaming and throwing hats into the air and Oscar could’ve sworn he even heard a couple of ‘yee-haws.’ He looked out at his multitude, all wearing his face and they started chanting, ‘Os-car! Os-car! Os-car!’ behaving the way the crowds do in old newsreel footage of Nazi rallies.
He held up his hand for silence, but before he could open his mouth to ask for volunteers to join him in his little quest, he heard a voice behind him say, “You’re a fool.” Oscar turned to see young Herb back on his feet. His neck was slightly askew, but other than that, he seemed whole. The gashes on his face were even starting to heal. It made sense. All of them were dead already, so snapping someone’s neck shouldn’t really be that big a deal.
“Nobody asked you,” said Oscar.
“Do you even know what’s out there?” demanded Herb.
“No, do you?” returned Oscar.
“No,” the kid admitted. “But I know that we’re in Hell and this city is relatively safe. Whatever’s outside, it can’t be good.”
Oscar turned to the crowd. “Okay, everybody who thinks we should listen to this fag, raise your hand,” he shouted.
There were scattered murmurs and laughs, but not a single hand was put up. Oscar turned back to Herb and shrugged. “I guess it’s unanimous,” he said.
Typically, in a situation like this, the kid would’ve had some kind of respect for Oscar for what he’d managed to do in a matter of minutes since he’d gotten here. The kind of admiration that grows slowly throughout the ninety minutes of your typical buddy movies where the two guys hate each other at first. Not so. There wasn’t anything in the kid’s face but seething resentment. “I still can’t figure out how you beat me,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’ve been here what, twelve years now?” Oscar asked him.
“Give or take,” said Herb.
“Well, there you go,” said Oscar. “That’s more than a decade’s worth of Kung Fu movies that I’ve seen and you haven’t.” He turned to the crowd. “Right, I’m thinking that only four or five of us should go at first, then if we find something, we’ll go from there. I promise nobody will get left out. It’s just that we’re a small army and we don’t want anyone thinking they’re under attack.”
There were some grumblings at this, but nothing intense enough to suggest mutiny.
Heff stepped up next to Oscar. “I’m one of the four or five, right?” he asked. “’Cause I’m coming, like it or not, even if I have to trail behind like a stray dog.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured,” said Oscar, turning to Theo. “You in?”
“Why not?” Theo said. “I got nothing to lose, right?”
“Not that I know of,” said Oscar.
“I’m coming too,” said young Herb. Oscar turned around to look at him and was a little surprised to see that he was pretty much healed. His neck was straight and they wounds on his face were just shadows now.
“I thought you said this was a bad idea,” said Oscar.
“It is,” said Herb. “I’m coming anyway.”
Oscar shrugged. The kid was a pain in the ass, but he’d been here longer than anyone else, so who know? He just might come in useful. “Whatever,” he said, turning back to the crowd. “Okay, we’ll be back soon,” he told them. “If any new Oscars show up, let them know what’s going on.” He turned back to Herb. “Which way is out?”
Herb pointed past the crowd. “That way’s as good as any,” he said.
There really wasn’t anything else to say, so the four them made their through the Oscars who, a few claps on the back aside, (and a couple of times, Oscar thought he felt someone grab his balls) let them pass unmolested. Whether the silence was out of some kind of respect or if they just wanted to let them get on with it without any further delays wasn’t clear.
They were at they edge of town before they knew it. “Were we close to the outskirts already or is this city just smaller than it seems?”
“It’s not a big city,” said Herb. “No matter where you are, you’re never too far from walking right out of it.”
So, they walked into the wilderness without any more fanfare. None of them spoke much. Even Heff seemed nervous and kept to himself.
The ground under them was rock. It was almost like pavement only it was red like clay and crumbling and it reminded Oscar of the desert except there wasn’t the occasional cactus to break the monotony. There weren’t any crevices where snakes or scorpions might be hiding. It wasn’t hot or cold or bright or cloudy. It was nothing. A perfect wasteland.
It wasn’t long before Oscar couldn’t see the city behind them anymore. There was nothing but horizon as far as the eye could see in every direction. They could’ve veered to the left or right and gone in a perfect circle without realizing it until they were back in town. Since nobody was making conversation anyway, Oscar focused hard on keeping his feet straight, which was proving harder than you’d think. If pressed, he wouldn’t have been able to swear that he was weaving like hell, but after a while, Theo grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“What’s that?” asked Theo.
It took Oscar a couple of seconds for his eyes to find what Theo was talking about, and when he finally saw it, it was a let down. Two strings, white, the kind people used to tie packages up with, floated in the air, suspended, never falling. Oscar doubted anyone would’ve ever noticed them except that they sky was getting dark enough for the white to almost glow and besides, there wasn’t anything else to look at.
“I don’t know what it is,” said Oscar. “Why doesn’t it just blow away?”
“There’s no wind,” Theo pointed out.
“Then why doesn’t it fall?” asked Herb, walking toward it with his head bent to one side.
“Careful,” said Oscar, putting his hand on Herb’s arm to stop him.
“Hands off; you’re not the boss of me,” spat Herb, shaking off Oscar’s grip. Real mature.
“Fair enough,” said Oscar, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
Herb moved on toward the string without further discussion. He reminded Oscar of a bug going into a light. That never ends well.
“Someone’s gon-na di-ie,” sand Heff with a delirious grin. Oscar was about to say something, reprimand the pervert for his sadism, but then he realized that he wanted to see what kind of mischief the string was going to work on Herb as much as anybody. The smart money said that whatever was about to happen to young Herb, it was gonna be pretty cool.
Oscar, Theo and Heff stood completely silent as Herb approached the string. For a second, Oscar thought that maybe nothing was going to happen after all. But when Herb reached out to touch the string, its work was quick.
In the span of maybe three or four seconds, the strings stretched and wrapped themselves around Herb, holding him fast. He had just enough time to begin a scream when the strings pulled themselves tight, slicing through the boy. It was an instant vivisection. The hundreds of pieces Herb was now in fell to the ground, making the sound of a brief, sickening rainfall.
Oscar, Heff and Theo stood there, stunned and staring at the pile of Herb. After a minute or two, Oscar took a step toward the mess, but Heff and Theo both grabbed him.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss,” said Heff.
“The strings are gone,” said Oscar. And so they were. Their work was done and they’d simply vanished. Oscar shook off his companions’ grip and walked down to Herb.
“What exactly do you think you’re going to do?” Theo called after him.
Oscar, bent over Herb’s pieces now, looked back at them. “We have to put him back together,” he said.
Theo and Heff, still clearly spooked, slowly made their way down to where Oscar was. “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Theo when he’d reached him. Heff sat down on the ground and crossed his eyes, just staring at the puddles and glops.
“You saw how fast his face and neck healed themselves,” said Oscar. “If we start putting him back the way he was, I think his pieces will mush themselves together and he’ll be good as new.”
“If we manage to put all of him back in the right order,” Theo pointed out.
Heff laughed at the idea. “Can I put his dick where his nose goes?” he asked.
“No,” said Oscar, smiling a little at the thought in spite of himself. “Now give me a hand.”
“No problem, assuming we can find one,” said Heff, reminding Oscar of that asshole David and his ba-dum-ching humor.
As you’d expect, it proved to be slow and tedious work, but Oscar was right. All they had to do was put two pieces together and they fused and started to heal. Even the parts that were just bone locked into place. Then, all that had to be done was glumping on some flesh like spackle and it looked like a body part in seconds. Oscar started with the feet, looking for toes to stick back on while Heff worked on the hands. Theo tackled the more difficult job of piecing together young Herb’s skull.
As it went by, it got easier by degrees, mostly because the more they worked, the bigger the pieces they were working with got. Instead of putting together skin and meat and bone together like a jigsaw puzzle, it was soon a matter of putting a foot onto a leg, etc. None of them could be sure they were putting his organs and guts in quite right, but if they got in there close enough, they’d fix themselves. That was the theory anyway and the three workers were hopeful.
At last, all there was left was putting the head back on. Herb looked a little Frankenstein-ish, but the scars were healing before their eyes. The only problem was when it came time to scoop the pile of goop that was his brains back into his skull. Putting heart and lungs back in roughly the right cavity was one thing, but there was no piecing the kid’s brain back together, so they slopped it back into the head. Finally, they had a sloppy creature that, drooling aside, seemed to be able to stand on his own.
“So do we go on or what?” asked Theo when they were done.
Oscar looked up and whistled under his breath. “Jesus,” he muttered. He’d been so hard at work and focused that he hadn’t noticed what was happening in the sky. Everywhere he could see, the sky was filled with strings, ribbons, pinwheels, thick ropes with nooses, etc. The only area that was clear of danger was the way they came from.
“We should go back,” said Heff. Since even Heff, who would’ve braved anything for a chance to get into Cassie’s pants, wanted to go back, Oscar was inclined to agree and just give up.
So the foursome headed back with broken spirits. They’d failed completely. Aside from Herb’s babbling, which was a step up from his drooling and farting and self-pissing, they were all more or less quiet.
“I wonder how many I can convert,” Heff wondered after a while.
“Convert to what?” asked Oscar.
“Well, women are out, so I’m about to go and start my life as a fag,” answered Heff. “I’m just curious how many usses are going to let me put it to them.”
“Herb just laughed and said, “Fag funny,” which was a step up from his babbling.
“I’m sure you’ll find some takers,” said Theo.
When they got back, the streets were empty again, which was fine with Oscar since he wasn’t exactly itching to tell his throng about the great failure. The only person they saw was a new Oscar, standing alone and looking around, dazed.
Herb was talking nonstop now, saying things that, while incoherent, were at least complete sentences, like, “Banana pooped on sidewalk.” It was a step up from his ‘fag funny.’
So the responsibility of greeting the new soul fell to Oscar by default. Heff and Theo had slipped away. Oscar didn’t want to entertain the visual, but he figured they were off somewhere fucking or trying to get Oscars to join them in a circle jerk.
So all there was to do was to go up to the new soul and ask the question that was burning in Oscar’s mind.
“Have we fucked her yet?”

Sunday, January 25, 2009

The Story of the Runner by Joshua Lucht

I want to tell you a story about a man who wanted nothing more than to be the fastest person in the world. Wouldn't you know it, when this man was a child, god himself came down and offered to become his personal trainer. And, as you'd expect from somebody who killed his own son, god was a merciless taskmaster. The work was grueling and went on for years. Through rain, snow, sleet, even a hurricane one time, god had his protégé running, molding him into just what he always wanted to be: the fastest person in the world.
Time passed and the child grew into a man with no friends, no education, no interests and no connection with even his family because god had him running so long and so hard that the man had no time for any of these things.
And then, the big day was upon him. It was the moment of glory. The entire world would be watching on their television sets to watch the race that would determine who the fastest person in the world really was.
He took his place at the starting line when he saw god, his own personal trainer approaching. The man, thinking that he was about to receive some sort of mini pep-talk or some words of encouragement turned to hear what his lord and trainer had to say. That's when god pulled out a .45 Magnum and blew the man's kneecaps right off. Then god unzipped himself, pissed on the man's face and walked away.
The end.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Safe Bet by Joshua Lucht

Bill Finch had a doting wife, not to mention two kids and three grandchildren, all of whom adored him. He had more money than he could ever hope to spend. He had the gratitude of his government. And he had less than fifteen hours before the Machine was going to take him from his house, hold a parade in his honor and then shoot him in the head in front of a cheering crowd.
The town had made its preparations. The local bar had even created a new drink and called it the ‘Bill Finch.’ Three parts rum, one part amaretto, a squirt of chocolate syrup and a couple drops of Tabasco to give it a kick. It was disgusting.
He was twenty-two when the Machine approached him. Fifty years old was an eternity away.

When the country handed the reigns over to the Machine, they meant well. They were in a crisis. It just kept happening, sometimes every day for weeks and weeks. Someone had to bail the people out.
And more than hate or lust or greed, fear can make people do some very bad things.
The Machine promised peace and order and they were better than their word. They hunted down those responsible and for the first time in years, there was something that passed for justice. Everyone gathered for the hangings and they were wonderful.

They did the first batch on a Saturday afternoon, lined up neatly on a steel gallows. It was built for ten, and it glistened in the sun. Ten arms with metal wire instead of rope nooses stretched out over ten steel swinging trap doors.
Bill had good reason to be there that day, even more than most. He was the only surviving member of his family. He’d lost his mother, his father, his sister and his fiancé, each in separate incidents. TV was not going to cut it for Bill. He needed to be there, live and up close, so he could taste it.
But revenge was not the real reason Bill had come. He was curious. Just like everyone who had bought plane tickets to the city and filled the hotels so they could be there, just like everyone all over the country, glued to their television sets; he was curious. Bill had seen people die before, but this was different. This was justified. This was righteous. He had permission to enjoy it.
What struck Bill about those first ten was how young and handsome all of them were. Obviously, the Machine had chosen the most photogenic to start the executions off with.
The Machine had not put black pillow cases over their heads. You could see their eyes bugging out with effort and surprise as they swung. They saw the blood spill down the front of the condemned’s shirts as the metal wire sliced through their throats. The smallest of them, a skinny kid, no more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, actually lost his head. When it popped off, everybody cheered.
Bill stood there, glued to the spot, for hours, watching them scrub the gallows clean, long after the crowd had dispersed.
“You enjoy the show?” asked a husky voice behind Bill, making him jump.
Bill turned to see a thick man, in his sixties, wearing a Machine uniform.
“I’m not sure,” Bill answered.
“Gruesome business. Hard to watch.”
“The boy on the end, the one whose head came off, he helped plan the one that killed my boy.”
“I’m Major Croft.”
“Bill Finch.”
“You had lunch yet, Bill?”

“Are you a gambling man?” asked Major Croft, swallowing his mouthful of cheeseburger and smiling.
“Not really.”
“Do you think you could be?”
“I guess that would depend on what the bet was,” Bill said slowly.
“That’s a smart boy!” said the Major with a guffaw. “General First is a gambler. A smart gambler like you.”
“I’ve never really…”
“But you already know the secret, choose your bets well. That’s all you need to know.”
“I guess.”
“Ten years ago, before it all started, do you know what the average life expectancy in this country was?” asked Major Croft.
“Seventy something, I think,” Bill said.
“Seventy-six. And now that the Machine is in control, General First wants to lay down a bet that we’ll start seeing people dying of old age again.”
“The General wants to make a bet?”
“We’ve turned a corner in this country. It won’t be long until everyone is a patriot. But what then?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you think you’ll live to be seventy-six, Bill?” asked Major Croft.
“Hell no.”
Major Croft leaned in and smiled. “You wanna bet?”
Bill frowned.
“Seventy-six is the number General First wants to use,” said Major Croft. “So, here’s the bet, if you want to take it. We give you five hundred thousand dollars…”
Bill dropped his fork into his plate.
“…and on your seventy-fifth birthday, one of our soldiers will take you from your house and execute you.” The Major lit a cigarette before adding with a wink, “If you live that long.”
“And if the Machine is still in power,” said Bill, realizing that he had probably just said something that could get himself hurt.
But the Major smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “There are lots of reasons why you might not have to pay up. A smart gambler would jump on this.”
“How many years can I sell?”
The Major’s smile spread to a maniacal grin. “As many as you can spare.”

Bill had four million dollars that he hadn’t spent yet. Eight more years.

He had been working on the noose for weeks, sharpening the steel rope until it was like a razor. His head would come off entirely. He stood there, on the chair, feeling proud and rebellious. But then he kicked the chair out from under himself and the only two things he truly was were stupid and dead.

Kimball's Demise by Joshua Lucht

It found me three hours ago and I don’t have too long before it eats me alive. It’s sloppy and predictable and it was just biding its time. I never knew what it was before now. I did not believe in it, but somehow, I knew that it would get me.
And now I’m finding out that there are some things that man was never supposed to know.
Like the Tree of Good and Evil.
I’m crouched on the floor in the corner of my bedroom. My bed, a mattress on the floor with no frame looks inviting, but I just can’t lie down. When it finally ends, I want to be awake.
I thought it was harmless.
All I can do now is sit here, chewing what’s left of my fingernails, down to the bones and smoking the rest of my cigarettes. There are eleven left in the pack. I hope they last longer than I do; smoking has always been my security blanket and I can’t deal with a craving in my last moments.
That was my first stop this afternoon. I went into the gas station and bought three packs of cigarettes. I live just around the corner and they carry these cigarettes special for me, French ones that you would never find in a gas station. I buy three packs every day.
He was standing next to a bicycle in a white shirt and a black tie and he was very, very handsome. I was walking quickly; I don’t like to be bothered and the man, smiling, handed me one of those gospel tracts. “’How much do I love you?’ Christ asked. ‘This much.’ Then he spread his arms and died for me.”
I think it got in through my hand. The only reason I say that is because my index fingernail fell off first.
Against my better judgment, I took the gospel tract. Sometimes, it’s just easier not to put up a fight. I did not even think about it again until just now; I shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans along with my loose change and keys and walked away.
It’s taken one hand entirely, withered it until it crumbled and fell away like ash off a cigarette and it has moved through my chest into both of my legs. And now it’s bubbling under my skin, turning it dark and blistering.
It’s only been a few minutes since I tried to lift one of my legs only to have it dissolve and fall onto the floor, like God was tapping a cigarette.
It’s almost over now, but there’s one small mercy: it’s left my right hand alone so I can still smoke.
I’ll light my last cigarette now; it’s almost over.
I only have seconds left.
With the scant flaps of flesh under my nose and over my chin, I can manage to suck on my cigarette.
She was beautiful and I had no idea that she was in league with the two men on their bicycles. She caught up to me and I thought she wanted me.
She touched my hand and told me that I was loved and then she turned and walked away to add another notch in her crucifix.
But God, she was gorgeous. If my lips were still on my face, I’d be smiling beautifully.
All that’s left now, aside from half a cigarette and my stink is memories. I’m not so sure I want all of them.
Like my baptism; I panicked.
The preacher dipped me under the water, and I felt an unbearable fear. I’d never even imagined that kind of fear. Even in my nightmares, I hadn’t guessed that anyone could be this afraid.
I’m looking at the walls of my bedroom and I realize just how sharp the corners are and suddenly, I’m afraid of the ceiling.
Suddenly it occurred to me, when Brother Jim held me under with his chubby hand, what I was preparing for.
I was going to die. That was the first time I really understood that. I guess for some reason, maybe childishness, maybe believing in the second coming of Christ, I’d always thought I would be exempt.
But when my head went under and the water crept over me, I knew that I was not special. I was going to die just like everyone and that’s why it was so important for me to go through this; I had to prepare myself to go to Heaven. And I couldn’t breathe.
The light is here now, just like when the preacher brought me up from the water and I gulped the sweet air as hard as I could.
I stare up at the corner of my room, where the top of two walls meet the ceiling and it’s sharp enough to cut, so I cower on the floor.
After my Baptism, I gave up the faith. Surely, God would not take a child and send him to hell. If I was not a believer, I knew there was no way I could die. God would just not do that.
But I’m older now.
I can see it and it’s gorgeous; it’s a white light, just like everyone said it would be.
It’s enveloping me and my last cigarette is only ash now.
Across the room, I can see the corner of the floor and it’s just as jagged. If I could, I’d scoot to the middle of the room; I know this corner is going to cut me.
My good hand has given out now and it’s all I can do to keep the cigarette in my mouth. And now it’s gone. I don’t know if He has given me peace or if I have just lost that part of my mind, but suddenly, I’m not afraid anymore. All I can think is how breathtaking Heaven will be if I make it.
I’m going out like a candle.