Post by The Major on Oct 30, 2013 8:40:18 GMT -8
"I love you, but what are we going to do?” She said in that painstaking way that used to be something of an annoyance when they were dating so many years ago. Slowly the husband had learned to take comfort in the tone, often wondering it moments of silence if his developed tastes were signs of a twisted nature –or if his secret life was seeping into the self-contained universe that was his family. The heart skips a beat; such could never be. All of this was thought in the space of a few moments, as his eyes drifted downward to her mouth to the level her lips –another bad habit. He liked them though. Comfort resided there. Warmth emanated from here. Life was a cudgel, but those two tender pieces of flesh were the exact thing that made the struggle worthy.
Their children play past the house, hooting and cheering as they play fight and pretend to be cops and robbers, sticking each other up with hands spread like blasters, thumbs clicking down for some reason as though they were shooting double action revolvers. They were beautiful, but even they were not the seat of his happiness –they were only the result of the two adults who now stared at each other, lying to themselves, distracting themselves with the manifestations of their joined legacy. Secrets were dark, rancid, but they could not conquer this hallowed ground, this escape from reality and the grind of what he did at night to earn those fateful credits which provided for all of this. Her nervous smile was so very cherished, so much so the husband failed to notice the warping on the edges of the sky until it was too late. Everything was always too late. The house cracks into tiny squares and flees away like a million pieces of confetti. He panics, yells, throws his fists to catch anything as it is whisked away and the heavens turn to the starkest black. His children melt in a chorus of laughter, their laughter, and they swirl into the black hole while cheering and playing. Impossible. This could not be. The husband turns back to his wife, and she is smiling to a new sound. Beep.
Beep.
Blackness. Everlasting blackness. Only it was never that easy.
The husband awakens in a stupor and notes the beeping in the background, pounding away in his skull as a headache racked his brain as the treble seemingly vibrated his gray matter and sluggishly moved it out of place. He is not alone. It was difficult to discern at first since the room was so dark.
Beep.
The figure was strange to even fathom, humanoid, but lanky –with arms and legs like spindles that a spider would use. Hair, it had sleek hair flowing down to a ridiculous length, nearly brushing past where this thing’s knees would be. Beep. Now he realizes he cannot see the walls of this room, or theater. It was difficult to discern just about anything besides the hellish beeping. Something above him airs out a spine shivering metallic whine: a single light fixture hanging and housing a weak light bulb that buzzed as it threatened to fizzle out and short quite soon. Beep. The Husband attempts to move, to stand, but he cannot. Beep Beep. The beeps come in a bit faster now. Straps are fastened to his shoulders, arms, ankles, and hips. Leather presses tightly at his bare skin and has left it raw and dirty. He sweats as the incessant beeping continues to escalate to a faster pace. Panicked now, he begins to gurgle and make noises like a mouse being chased by something with only one intention once it catches up. As if the situation could be any more absurd, a type of object that felt very much like a popsicle stick was stuck in his jaw. Words tried to come out. Questions, curses, and pleas all formed but were swallowed back because the moment his tonsils moved and his tongue attempted to spit out the vowels, he would choke, hack, and then it would feel as if the stick would cut into the back of throat. Blood was thick in the back, sending a wave of heat down his gullet that was everything but pleasant.
Beep.
The figure speaks: a woman’s voice, a bit raspy as if suffering from sleep exhaustion, and thickly accented yet articulate. Beep.
“Hallo,”
Beep.
“You may think of me as an artist.
The planets are my canvas
and my plans brush stroke the various markets.”
Her long and graceful arms come out from the pool of darkness, as the suit buttons of her midnight blue wool sleeves glistened and reflected the gaping horror and confusion in the husband’s eyes. The finger nails are meticulously groomed, long and delicate looking, with black music notes painted upon a background of white. Over these smooth, tender, and long fingers are white operating gloves drawn. She continues to speak while securing the ends to her wrists. Beep.
“One time
my father disavowed my existence
so I went to the place of his residing
and I was not invited.
I was determined to end the fighting.
I got violent.
Long story short: he’s not breathing.
For some reason I liked it
and it was really, very, exciting.
Couldn’t stop the addiction,
and the irony is:
the rest of my family is missing
yet I know right where they are hiding.”
Beep. Beep. She produces a hypodermic needle filled with a shining substance. The Husband tries to shove himself out of the firm straps, convinced enough momentum would shake him free.
“Do you know what Amobarbital is?
Dopamine carries the message,
Morphine to numb the tips,
Scopolamine for the potent starts and feeling,
Temazepam for that long haul,
and barbiturates for everything in between.
Torture is for the torturer, overplayed.
But this dope will make you sing without me even touching you.
Suggestion: enjoy this high
since you don’t have a choice in the matter.
Did you know that I don’t even have to beat you to get information?
Science is wonderful.
I just stick this inside gently,
manipulate your genes like a child playing with legos,
and you tell me everything from the top of your hairs
to tips of your toes,
blushing like we’re best friends.”
Beep. Beep.
“You sell drugs in a bag,
with a bitch at your side
to people looking for an escape in the form of a brief high.
You sell lies in a sack
and tell your kids life is just fine.
Drugs in a bag.
At the end of this session
I’ll ask you to guess
what is hidden inside my trunk.”
Beep. And then the woman stabs the needle into a singular gray vein in his left arm. The pain is sudden, but passive, reminiscent of the light bulb now shaking above him. Warbles, spiral patterns, cold forming as ice drops on his body hair, and then a blur that turns into black. Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Their children play past the house, hooting and cheering as they play fight and pretend to be cops and robbers, sticking each other up with hands spread like blasters, thumbs clicking down for some reason as though they were shooting double action revolvers. They were beautiful, but even they were not the seat of his happiness –they were only the result of the two adults who now stared at each other, lying to themselves, distracting themselves with the manifestations of their joined legacy. Secrets were dark, rancid, but they could not conquer this hallowed ground, this escape from reality and the grind of what he did at night to earn those fateful credits which provided for all of this. Her nervous smile was so very cherished, so much so the husband failed to notice the warping on the edges of the sky until it was too late. Everything was always too late. The house cracks into tiny squares and flees away like a million pieces of confetti. He panics, yells, throws his fists to catch anything as it is whisked away and the heavens turn to the starkest black. His children melt in a chorus of laughter, their laughter, and they swirl into the black hole while cheering and playing. Impossible. This could not be. The husband turns back to his wife, and she is smiling to a new sound. Beep.
Beep.
Blackness. Everlasting blackness. Only it was never that easy.
The husband awakens in a stupor and notes the beeping in the background, pounding away in his skull as a headache racked his brain as the treble seemingly vibrated his gray matter and sluggishly moved it out of place. He is not alone. It was difficult to discern at first since the room was so dark.
Beep.
The figure was strange to even fathom, humanoid, but lanky –with arms and legs like spindles that a spider would use. Hair, it had sleek hair flowing down to a ridiculous length, nearly brushing past where this thing’s knees would be. Beep. Now he realizes he cannot see the walls of this room, or theater. It was difficult to discern just about anything besides the hellish beeping. Something above him airs out a spine shivering metallic whine: a single light fixture hanging and housing a weak light bulb that buzzed as it threatened to fizzle out and short quite soon. Beep. The Husband attempts to move, to stand, but he cannot. Beep Beep. The beeps come in a bit faster now. Straps are fastened to his shoulders, arms, ankles, and hips. Leather presses tightly at his bare skin and has left it raw and dirty. He sweats as the incessant beeping continues to escalate to a faster pace. Panicked now, he begins to gurgle and make noises like a mouse being chased by something with only one intention once it catches up. As if the situation could be any more absurd, a type of object that felt very much like a popsicle stick was stuck in his jaw. Words tried to come out. Questions, curses, and pleas all formed but were swallowed back because the moment his tonsils moved and his tongue attempted to spit out the vowels, he would choke, hack, and then it would feel as if the stick would cut into the back of throat. Blood was thick in the back, sending a wave of heat down his gullet that was everything but pleasant.
Beep.
The figure speaks: a woman’s voice, a bit raspy as if suffering from sleep exhaustion, and thickly accented yet articulate. Beep.
“Hallo,”
Beep.
“You may think of me as an artist.
The planets are my canvas
and my plans brush stroke the various markets.”
Her long and graceful arms come out from the pool of darkness, as the suit buttons of her midnight blue wool sleeves glistened and reflected the gaping horror and confusion in the husband’s eyes. The finger nails are meticulously groomed, long and delicate looking, with black music notes painted upon a background of white. Over these smooth, tender, and long fingers are white operating gloves drawn. She continues to speak while securing the ends to her wrists. Beep.
“One time
my father disavowed my existence
so I went to the place of his residing
and I was not invited.
I was determined to end the fighting.
I got violent.
Long story short: he’s not breathing.
For some reason I liked it
and it was really, very, exciting.
Couldn’t stop the addiction,
and the irony is:
the rest of my family is missing
yet I know right where they are hiding.”
Beep. Beep. She produces a hypodermic needle filled with a shining substance. The Husband tries to shove himself out of the firm straps, convinced enough momentum would shake him free.
“Do you know what Amobarbital is?
Dopamine carries the message,
Morphine to numb the tips,
Scopolamine for the potent starts and feeling,
Temazepam for that long haul,
and barbiturates for everything in between.
Torture is for the torturer, overplayed.
But this dope will make you sing without me even touching you.
Suggestion: enjoy this high
since you don’t have a choice in the matter.
Did you know that I don’t even have to beat you to get information?
Science is wonderful.
I just stick this inside gently,
manipulate your genes like a child playing with legos,
and you tell me everything from the top of your hairs
to tips of your toes,
blushing like we’re best friends.”
Beep. Beep.
“You sell drugs in a bag,
with a bitch at your side
to people looking for an escape in the form of a brief high.
You sell lies in a sack
and tell your kids life is just fine.
Drugs in a bag.
At the end of this session
I’ll ask you to guess
what is hidden inside my trunk.”
Beep. And then the woman stabs the needle into a singular gray vein in his left arm. The pain is sudden, but passive, reminiscent of the light bulb now shaking above him. Warbles, spiral patterns, cold forming as ice drops on his body hair, and then a blur that turns into black. Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
