A muffled cough erupts from a shivering mound of jackets on a chair dripping with sweat and seizing every 37 minutes. A pale white hand is raised to a pair of pale white lips but no sound escapes the jaws that wrench out a silent scream. The walls are crawling with insects that feed on the dung smothering every crack. Every creature with six legs and a mouthful of dirt climbs over the moving lumps of flesh propped up in chairs. This is not hell, but then again, what isn’t these days?

The five occupants do not question their presence. No one ever does. Every housing of tissue either sees themselves as deserving of the priority position they hold, or undeserving of the hole they are buried in. With a mouthful of reasons why desperation is attractive nightwear, the words spill from a mouth to a zipper and beg to be taken as seriously as they are taken as pathetic.

No one is falling for it honey, you’re covered in your own filth and no one else’s.

The room falls silent after the heaving mound of clothes ceases its coughing. Five chairs face each other while the 10 eyes refuse to meet. The surgeon covered in blood is the first to speak.

“There must be a mistake in the records. Mistakes happen. They can be forgiven. I can be forgiven. Forgiveness is what matters, right?” He spreads his hands over the bright streaks that stretch across his clothes and licks the red fluid from his fingers. “Forgiveness is not too much to ask for, right?”

The four stare directly at his shoes as he pushes aside a mound of dirt that may or may not have crawled out from the anus of another unfortunate occupant of the bloody surgeon’s chair.

“Forgiveness is the last thing that matters.” The soft words of a woman cradling a child force the shivering mound of material to stop shaking and the bloody surgeon stops the frantic wiping of his clothes. “Forgiveness never lasts unless you forget the transgression. Therefore you must not only forget the transgression, but the forgiveness as well. If you do not, it will haunt your every interaction and intention. The willingness to forget every fault matters far more than forgiving each one.” The woman lifts the baby in her arms to her lips and softly kisses its cheek. It does not make a sound. “Forgiveness never lasts.”

“Your baby is fucking dead.” The mound of clothes shifts to reveal the sunken-in face of a man whose body has aged far more than his mind. “You are nursing a corpse you filthy harlot.” The man reaches his two arms out through cracks in the material surrounding him to reveal two palms with dangling broken fingers. “What you do to those around you is meaningless, as is forgiveness and forgetfulness. The hell you put yourself through is the hell that will greet you when no one else is around.” The man pushes his arms further out of the huddled mass of sleeves and collars to reveal holes that seep puss from every pulsing blue vein. “You are your own jury for your own actions.” The junkie with the broken fingers stares into the eyes of the woman nursing a baby’s corpse. It is unclear to the other three who between these two hates the other more.

“We must find out where the mistake was made. I am not supposed to be here. I deserve better.” The surgeon says in a voice loud enough to distract both the mother and the junkie. “This is a mistake, because I have made none.”

“Well then whose blood is covering your clothes, you charlatan?” The voice comes from a bald old man who wears a clerical collar. “I have been here before and it must be stated that mistakes do not occur.” The old man hunches over and spits black saliva onto the insects that scurry between his black shoes.

“And who might you be, Father?” The bloody surgeon asks through gritted teeth.

“I am the clergy spit from the mouth of hell. A small creature with hooves the of an ox, talons of an eagle, and the mouth of a dog told me that there was an issue of overcrowding, but an upper level administrator with two rows of teeth, voice of a hyena, and the hide and horn of a rhinoceros confided in me and said that the great Lord Satan himself did not want competition in the upcoming ceremonial crowning of the Prince of Lies. Make your own decision. Just know that everyone has something to hide, unless it drips down your pants, oh bloody surgeon. I ask again, whose blood are you licking from your fingers?”

The surgeon halts his movement as he raises his filthy hands to his equally filthy lips. “It is my own.”

Upon this declaration, the fifth pale body seated on a chair in complete silence begins beating her stomach with her fists and clawing at her throat until yellow and brown vomit splashes onto the floor. It seeps into the dirt and flows in between the cracks and trenches created by the scurrying insects, leading to the formation of puddles surrounding the shoes of each person seated in a metal chair. They all stare, none of them bothering to pick up their feet from the pooling liquid.

“This is not hell.” The mother says as she cradles her corpse.

The vomiting woman wipes her mouth with her hand and then wipes her hand against her shirt. It is made of soft white silk the color of her pale skin with colored patches covering it in a nonsensical pattern. The oversized buttons, shoes, and hat adorning her are now covered in her sticky puke, making her bright outfit far less appealing. She does not say a word. She is as silent as the corpse in the mother’s arms.

“I think it’s safe to say that was a lie, Doctor. Try again asshole.” The junkie with the broken fingers mutters and opens his mouth to catch a glob of snot as it drips from his crusty nose in between his chapped lips.

“It is the blood of those whose insides I picked apart and ripped from them in an effort to pay my bills. It is the aftermath of every artery and inch of intestine I placed on a platter to trade for my own gain. It is every drop of blood I let fall to the sterile floor so that I could turn mine from tile to hardwood. Forgiveness is what matters here, right?” The man fidgets with his clothes as blood drips from his chin onto the manure stuck to his shoes.

“That’s better.” The priest damned from hell smiles to reveal his pointed teeth that resemble an animal accustomed to chasing his food in order to devour it. “I can tell why you’re here you pathetic vermin.” The clergy stares through the junkie who gnaws on a piece of skin hanging from a shattered knuckle.

“I broke my fingers pushing plungers into syringes deep enough to break my skin and flood my body with the feelings I only wanted to feel if they were cheap and fabricated. I traded any emotion that might arise from reality so that I could feel what I wanted when I wanted. But despite my claim to control, I became a slave to the tourniquets and capsules and felt only what they wanted me to feel. As much as I begged for my life back, they sucked me dry. Every time I injected, I wasn’t adding anything to myself. I was removing any trace of myself that was left. I am no more than a pumping pulse devoid of humanity.”

The silent girl dressed in bright clothing shoves her index fingers into her eye sockets to produce blood and tears that drip down to her chin and mix with the remaining vomit that has yet to drip to the dirt.

The surgeon and priest fall silent as the girl cries tears and blood from her bright red eye sockets. The woman clutching the baby’s corpse again kisses its head and whispers softly, “I only wanted to leave everything to the past. I wanted to nurse my legacy so that I could forget every mistake of my own and see the success I let crawl from my womb become everything I couldn’t. Forgetting is what matters. Forget every connection and relation because what matters is leaving enough behind so that what remains can stand on its own two feet once you’re sleeping six feet below its footsteps.” She touches the cracked lips of the dead child and the jaw shifts to the left with a quiet popping sound. “Forgetting is all that has ever mattered.”

The clergy turns to the girl whose tears and blood continue to flow from her eye sockets. He smiles, again showing his pointed teeth to the other occupants of the room. “You, my dear, must have a story to tell as well.” The girl falls to her knees and begins writing in the dirt and grime with her finger.

Acrobat.

Screamed.

Attention.

Mute.

She crawls back onto the metal chair and buries her face in her knees.

“So she’s another carney whore who can no longer shriek until someone stares at her. Why do we even give a shit?” The junkie spits a fingernail from his mouth that he dislodged from his broken fingertip while chewing on his cuticles. “Be glad the bitch can’t talk. It gives us time to think about what we have done to the bodies we were entrusted with at birth.”

The mother lets out a whimper and hugs her baby’s stiff body. The priest lets out a howl of laughter and throws his head back. “Filth, filth, filth, the lot of you. They make no mistakes, only we do.”

The room again falls silent as the five occupants stare at the floor as it crawls with insects with nowhere to go but none of the cognitive ability to understand that running is futile. A rustling of centipedes, arachnids, and beetles comes from a far wall covered in mold and manure as it swings open to reveal a door bearing a bright yellow light and warmth. The silhouette of a man in a suit wearing glasses stands in the doorway and says in a quiet calm voice, “Your time is up. Purgatory room number 4735 is in need of new occupants. Please step this way. He will see you now.”

The five occupants rise to their feet and walk slowly toward the door.

“About fucking time,” the junkie with the broken fingers mutters.

“On the contrary, worm, time is the last thing any of us will be thankful for now.” The lying priest spit from hell hisses through his teeth to the shivering man as he drags his feet along and limps toward the warmth emitted from the open door.

The wall closes behind them and only the vermin that crawl among the dirt remain, only to be accompanied by even filthier pathetic creatures that will wait impatiently for their turn to leave the grimy room, all the while telling themselves that they possess the knowledge of what is most important.

Now onto the Devil residing in the details, because the Saint I strung up who used to reside on my shoulder has finally stopped screaming.

I’ve replaced anything that resembles wiring with thin strings so that you can easily rip my limbs in whatever direction you please. What’s important to never forget, though, is that I performed the surgery. You may be pulling the strings, but I tied them to the holes I drilled in my bones. You are no more of a pawn to me than I am to you. Surprise.

Last night the mud climbed past my ankles to clog the hinges in my knees. I looked to the top of the bank and saw you staring down at me. I awoke and found myself sinking deeper into the swamp. The familiar smell, the cold bubbling over of disease, reality never missed a beat. I looked to the bank above my head, but you were nowhere to be found, and that is why I smiled as my face was submerged and my lungs squeezed their way through my ribcage. There comes a moment in time when you’re so filled with filth that your organs begin to shred as they push their way past the sharper parts of your insides. It’s at this moment that you realize the face that comes to your mind is the last one you’d ever expect.

If you still believe that the pores under the eyes that stare longingly at you secrete anything more than contaminant, then you have a lot left to learn, vermin.

I continue to lock every door around me, as if that will keep me in solitude. It’s growing so much more apparent the deeper I descend into this burrow that solitude is one glass of wine I will never spill in a drunken stupor. I could easily blame the chemicals, but let’s be honest for once tonight and admit that they only turn up the volume of the different octaves I choose to not tune out.

Take. What’s. Left. Of. Me.

Make. What’s. Left. Of. Me.

Burn. Burn. Burn.

And then it hits me.

I’ve made it this far and haven’t learned a thing.
And baby, you’re all the proof I need to admit that.

All the excuses in the world can’t keep Refutation from collecting. He’s arrived torch in hand and I can smell the smoke as it seeps under my door. “I swear these scars were the last. I gave control to whoever pulls these strings. I am not to blame!” The smoke burns my eyes and I look to my left, only to realize I nailed my windows shut. I knew he was coming. I am to blame for all of this. I smile to myself as saliva drips onto my shirt and down my arm, pooling on the end of the hammer gripped tight enough to discolor my knuckles. Just as the room goes silent, the surface tension breaks and spills from the weapon in my right to the floor beneath me. My mouth is dry and my eyes roll far enough back to see mixtures of red and black as they swirl before me.

“You know my name well. I have come to collect the emptiness within your words. My name is Refutation and you will worship me from your knees as I pick my teeth with your elaborate words that may be sharp enough to cut the skin of dregs, but will never pierce my scales.”

My entire face tightens and my teeth clench as they protrude from my convulsing crumpled body. I fall in the pool of my own cocktail of stomach acid and saliva, lapping it from the floor and telling myself that it will be enough nutrition for me to last through the night. Refutation shoves his fingers into my mouth and rips my jawbone from my face.

“You can finally stop telling yourself that you’re okay. You won’t be needing this anymore, for it only served you by chewing down validity to palatable morsels, and you and I both know those were regurgitated whole.”

My tongue hangs limp above my Adam’s apple. In a sick way that you could never begin to understand, I take solace in the thought that I’ll never again have to grit my teeth to force the corners of my mouth upwards while I pretend that every word you say to me doesn’t make me want to scream in your naïve face the exact date and time that I made the same mistakes that you currently pretend taste sweet enough to be worth it.

If only you knew how much I couldn’t care less to continue caring for you any more than I used to.

My bloodshot eyes begin to focus on more than the tango of black and red. I take wooden features with brass hinges from the marionettes surrounding me and attach them to my face. I stand to my splintered feet and stare into Refutation’s hollow eyes and speak through a wooden saw toothed grin, “You see, I may be no more than a wandering author who will never sign his name on anything more than a withered trunk of a lonely tree, but I know when I feel something real. I know what affection and affliction feel like and how to swallow both without choking on the alliteration. I have sewn parts of myself back to their fringes time and time again, and this night is no different. I may swallow more shards of shattered reality than any mere dreamer could stomach, but I awake every morning with a beating pulse. So do your worst, because I will rebuild myself with the chunks I cut from the bodies around me that I gave life to, and no fire can ever set my branches ablaze.”

I do not claim to be capable of standing without pipes in my shins, but I stand for words you have never heard whispered with sincerity. I may be the loaded gun you never want held to your head, but if both our fingers are on the trigger, we may just make it to see sunlight.

-Spero

The second is enough orange bottles of 100 mg termites to let me sleep tonight. I never intended for them to crawl down into the dry pit of my stomach, but to claw their way to the places in my mind that I refuse to acknowledge.

Denial has served me well enough up until now, why should I remove the blindfold tonight?

“Certainty” is both the most comforting feeling and the vilest experience. “Puppy love” looks cute when scribbled on Valentine’s Day cards, but “road kill” would be a much more fitting title. It’s the day that you wake up and do not recognize a single face around you that you realize how much your own has changed.

All I want is to have you understand. To have it all make more sense to you than it does to me. I have become the very monster I swore I’d spend my life chopping up into digestible pieces. The eyes that follow me as I walk into the shadows are not the ones that make me sweat; it’s the beautiful glow that creeps through black mascara that forces me to shove stakes through the tops of my feet. Baby, I’m not going anywhere. Have your way with my corpse because I will have rotten by the end of the week.

It’s the dangers that you can see that you need to fear the least.

I’m still the boy with the needles, the punctures have just evolved. They never found the markings because the knife was plastic, you’ll never know my thoughts because this is the closest to honesty I’ll ever come.

Do I know the meaning of “interaction?” Or have I only learned “reaction?”

Every word has been recited to taste more sincere than the mud I swallow for breakfast and tell myself that I’m sustained enough to take a punch.

My head will be on the wooden stake on 2^nd street, but the thing that scares me the most is that the only thing I’d be concerned about is when the wood was last cleaned. I’d request a cup to catch whatever deceit drips from my neck so that you can mix it with your morning coffee to remember what the word “conversation” means to me. It’s about time you felt like swallowing lead too.

If you have an answer for me and can tell me which day of the week the clouds were swallowed by the sun, by all means, shove the truth so far down my throat that I can only breathe through a tube emerging from my trachea.

I don’t deserve to have the spaces filled. My hands were only meant to hold my own throat tight enough to taste my fingers. Is it worse to take a step away from where I should be, or to take a step toward where I shouldn’t be?

The same songs, rooftops, and words still make my knees weak. I think the only thing I fear more than being alone, is the opposite. When did chivalry change from opening a car door to standing close enough to feel the heat of flames engulfing the vehicle that spits up black smoke on a blue canvas? Don’t we all look so familiar now? If my life is not lived within an inch of losing it, then I have become no more than architecture in the chapters of another’s novel. I’m the only one who never asked for this but would never beg for anything different.

I could sleep through the night if I could ever stop asking myself “What if?” and remembering that I fear the answer even more than the question. Running is so much easier, but I’ve never been one to turn my back. I wait until the earth around me turns to molten rock and the air I breathe in through my nose becomes blood that I cough out my mouth. I will not run. Call it courageous or cowardice, but I stand and watch the trees burn. I’d call myself sick, but I love the smell of burning leaves and regret far too much to take my medicine. I’m the one who buries his good memories in the same grave as his worst. I wish I could tell the difference, but I was hoping you’d help me see with your gorgeous eyes what’s still beautiful about my existence. I’m not fishing for compliments honey, just reasons to give us a fighting chance.

The last thing I want from you is the truth.

The twitches you tried to ignore are ways that your body says, “Get some help you sick, sick animal.” But we just keep shaking our heads while shaking your hands, don’t we?

Sebastian drags himself closer to the man wearing stripes. “The sail has been torn from top to bottom, and the bodies of your brothers below have begun to rot. The smell is most unpleasant when preparing our meals.”

December looks down at the severed torso, arms, and head that has dragged itself into his presence, leaving a thick trail of bodily fluids behind him. “The only preparation our meals require, is to ensure that our meat does not spoil. Cut your nose off with broken glass and make us a stew from the insides of the youngest.”

Let’s pretend for a second that any of this is normal. I do not sleep because I know I will beg to not wake up. Last night I drank bottle after bottle of lighter fluid and delivered women to the Entertainer who slaughtered them like pigs for the camera-wielding audience. The lights wouldn’t stop flashing. The music pierced my ears and I couldn’t remember where the door was. I ran through a crack in the wall and found that the VW Bug that I’d borrowed from Bundy had been consumed by the bricks lining the streets. I ran and asked the gypsies for help, knowing that the barkeep would summon the Entertainer to rip out my intestines, because he detests scars and baby, I’ve got plenty of them.

It’s about time I admitted to myself that I swallowed the strings that kept me tied to the floor. I can reach the ceiling and can hear the echo of my voice down the vast, empty hallways that lead to the endless earth before me. Is there ever a trigger for any of this? Is there ever a motive? Or do we just move because our muscles tighten and none of us want to run out of blood?

If you never repeat your name, would you become a mannequin like the rest of them? Would your mouth close up and grow skin across your lips if you finally stopped using it? I just have to dig you up and beg you for an answer, would you remember my name?

Keep walking ladies and gentlemen. This is no more than the house where they died. Aside from the stains on the sheets and walls, the architecture is innocent until proven guilty. Keep the molotovs behind your back, wait until he’s tied up and you’ve seen the whites of his eyes. Never light a man on fire until you’ve looked him in the eye.

This is what vomit sounds like when read aloud. Revolting. Repetitive. Recycled. Welcome to the signature that maintains its shape despite the changing of hands. Are you as proud as I am ashamed?

I watched as the lifeless body danced its final performance. We were connected by the color of the pain she felt and the deformities we both failed to hide. Reality is only terrifying if you admit that you exist within it. Once you realize that you are no more than a vapor that progresses more while asleep than awake, you are freed from fear. We exist apart from the masses because we’ve chosen to separate ourselves from the healthy. This was never expected to replicate your definition of normalcy, because the strings I swallowed have turned to worms in my stomach that feed on the literature I stuff down my throat. The words of wise men taste stronger than the musings of fools, but alas, my words are tasteless. Feed the worms, for they are all you will have left once your mind leaves you.

Jacob had told her earlier that day about how his wife would be gone for the weekend, so it was safe for her to stay the night at his house. Lacy sung her made up songs louder and thought back to the day her and Jacob met. It was a few months back when Lacy first saw him walk through the doors of her workplace. He told her that he was only there to buy a drink, but after a few minutes he was staring at Lacy as if she was meat and he hadn’t eaten in days. His lips dripped saliva onto his shirt collar as he watched the young woman from across the room.

Lacy smiles and giggles to herself as she remembers their awkward first conversations. She told him about dropping out of college and moving into a motel with more rats than tenants. He told her about his newlywed wife who only spoke to him if she needed more money to spend on expensive jewelry to attract younger men.

A large house that was painted the same white as Lacy’s car stands tall and proud at the end of a long dark street lined with perfectly trimmed trees and shrubs. She hurriedly parks across the street to not attract attention from neighbors. Her vehicle suddenly begins to feel extremely tiny and claustrophobic, so she bolts for the large front door of the giant white paradise before her.

She wonders why Jacob would purchase such a large house for just him and his wife so soon into their marriage, but she assumes that’s just what people do with large amounts of money and no children. The wooden door in front of her opens to reveal a man wearing a ruffled white shirt with a stain running down the right side and a small glass cup filled only with ice in his right hand. The man looks from her high heels to the sweatshirt she’s pulled over her dress and lifts his glass to his lips. When no alcohol pours into his mouth, he glares at Lacy for a minute before throwing the left-over ice out the door onto the porch she’s standing on. The abrupt motion catches her off guard and she flinches as the small chunks of ice land at her feet.

“Come inside. I forgot I had said you could come over after your shift ended.” Jacob says before turning his back and walking toward the kitchen, his black leather shoes making a clapping sound every time they hit the wooden floor. “Shut the door and leave your shoes on the porch. I don’t want my house dirty. Take your sweatshirt off. If you want to stay here tonight you’d better start showing a lot more skin than that to convince me to let you stay.”

Lacy immediately removes her shoes and throws them outside. They roll from the porch onto the grass, but Lacy doesn’t even notice. The days she used to worry about only having one pair of nice shoes are over now that she’s here with Jacob.

“I have really exciting news that I found out about at work today.” She follows the path to the kitchen and notices that not a single part of the wooded floor creaks when her bare feet step on it. The house is spotless and empty aside from leather furniture surrounding a large television set that is playing Dawn of the Dead. The screams and growls coming from the movie add an unsettling soundtrack to the conversation. Lacy stops when she notices pictures on the wall of smiling faces full of blonde hair and crooked teeth.

“Are these relatives of yours?” Lacy leans in closely and stares at a picture of three young boys standing together wearing matching baseball uniforms.

“Yeah. My kids.” The deep voice echoes down the hallway from the kitchen. “Are we going up to my bedroom or not? You need a shower. You smell awful and don’t need to take a tour of my house in order to get naked upstairs. You only need to know where two rooms are: the bathroom and my bedroom.”

“I thought you and your wife got married earlier this year. How do you have three kids already?” The sharp sound of an empty glass being slammed onto a marble countertop makes Lacy jump and step back from the pictures hanging on the white wall.

“I didn’t know I needed to tell a hooker my life story in order to get her on her knees.”

Lacy quickly stomps to the kitchen and glares at him as he stands with his head held high and his shirt untucked, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, and look of disdain on his face.

“I’m not a hooker. I’m a dancer at The Shooting Star but I’ve never taken money for sex. Not all dancers at strip clubs are prostitutes.”

The man across from her stares through the glass in his hand and shakes his head. “Whatever. All that means to me is that I get to save the small amount of money I’d set aside for tonight.” He lifts the bottle to his lips and gulps down two mouthfuls of whisky. “Were you planning on talking all night because you’d be much more useful to me upstairs than down here asking questions and educating me on the technicalities of whores and strippers.”

“I’m pregnant. And since I’m not a whore, I haven’t had sex with anyone but you these past few months. I came here excited to tell you because you finally have a reason to leave your wife. We can finally be happy together like you told me when we first met.”

Jacob’s knuckles turn bright white as he grips the empty glass in his right hand and the neck of the bottle in his left. He continues to avoid making eye contact with the young woman as she stands cowering across the counter. The house is completely silent aside from the muffled screams coming from the television in a different room.

“You may not be a whore charging me money, but your price tag just got a lot higher than I’m willing to pay. You need to go now.”

The room begins to spin and the edges of objects in the room blend and bleed together as Lacy tries to steady herself. “I need your help. You have an obligation to take care of it even if you aren’t going to help me raise it.” The girl’s voice begins to shake and her eyes well up with tears. “I need you to pay for the child’s treatment,” she chokes out as tears begin to run down her face, leaving black vertical streaks.

“What treatment? What the hell is wrong with it?” Jacob’s eyes immediately meet Lacy’s and his face wrinkles into an expression unlike anything she has ever seen on his gentle face.

“I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t want you to leave me. We can be so happy together if you just trust me and stay with me.” Lacy covers her face and whispers through her hands, “I’m HIV positive.” Her body begins to shake violently as she sobs silently. “I have aids, Jacob. And our child has a 25% chance of being born with it too unless we get treatment. Then the chances are-“

The sound of shattered glass forces a scream out of Lacy as the pieces of Jacob’s glass fall from the wall beside her head onto the wooden floor. Lacy holds her breath and listens as Jacob forces air in and out of his nose quick enough to turn his face bright red.

“You filthy bitch! Thank God I used protection to keep from catching any of your nasty diseases. A lot of good that did though since you have a disease growing arms and legs inside of you.”

The white cupboards and marble countertop continues to blend together as Lacy tries to get a hold of herself. The light hanging from the kitchen ceiling starts to burn her swollen eyes as tears continue to pour down her cheeks, staining her red dress with black makeup.

“Please don’t do this Jacob. We can work through this. If you cover the cost of treatment our child will be fine and we can spend our lives together. Please.” Lacy walks around the counter to stand next to Jacob and places her small hand on his hairy arm that feels as if it’s wrapped tightly with tiny brown wires.

“I’m not wasting my life with you. No one ever will. You’re good for a few nights when I’m drunk enough to not care what a girl looks like, but I want you out of my life for good. I never want to see or hear from you again, and I hope you die alone in a hospital bed from the disease you risked giving me.” Jacob throws her hand off of him and turns to walk away. “Get the hell out of my house.”

Time slows down in Lacy’s mind and she tells herself that this is one of those moments in life when you can either roll over, play dead and regret it for the rest of your life, or go down swinging and proud of the hell you raised before burning out. All she has to go back to is a rust-covered car, a rat-infested motel, and an HIV positive baby. The young woman admits that her last shred of hope for a better life was just stripped away from her. She wipes her face, smearing black smudges across her cheeks, nose, and lips.

“I don’t need you. No one does.” Lacy reaches across the counter and pulls a large kitchen knife from a wooden block. It feels lighter in her hand than she expected. Jacob’s expression finally changes. His eyes widen and his hands begin to tremble.

“What…what are you doing? Lacy?”

“You won’t be missed.”

The young woman slowly walks toward Jacob as he backs into a corner of the kitchen. “Lacy…please…let’s talk about this. I’ll pay for the treatment. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The girl smiles and stares directly at Jacob. “Well it looks like I already did something stupid and it managed to break a condom and get me pregnant, so I don’t think I can leave here without taking care of that stupidity.”

Lacy turns the knife around so that it’s no longer pointed at the face of the man cowering in front of her. She lifts up her shirt and rests the long shining blade against her soft, pale stomach.

“Go ahead,” Jacob’s voice deepens as a twisted smile creeps across his face. “Kill the disease and make things easier on me. That’ll be cheaper than you having to buy a coat hanger anyway, especially with the income of a filthy stripper.”

Lacy continues to stare into Jacob’s dark eyes, her smile never fading. She stands frozen with the blade pushed against her skin, about to break through and spill her blood all over the fancy hardwood floor.

“Honey! I’m home! The boys finished soccer early today so we figured we’d stop by and surprise you before leaving for the weekend.” The sweet voice of Jacob’s wife echoes throughout the house. “I see you’re watching Dawn of the Dead again. Where are you? And who threw their shoes on our lawn?”

Lacy doesn’t blink. She continues to stare straight into Jacob’s eyes. He begins to open his mouth, but only a hoarse whisper creeps from the depths of his throat. As slowly as Jacob’s mouth opens, Lacy carefully pulls the knife across her stomach. The bright blood, the exact color of her dress, drips onto the floor and forms a pool in between her bare feet. Jacob’s pants begin to darken and a yellow pool forms between his shoes.

“If I die alone in a hospital bed, I’ll make sure that you’re in the bed next to me so that I can watch as the disease we share eats away at your body. The closest thing to paradise I’ll see when I die is your bed surrounded by nothing but nurses who don’t even know your name. Your wife and kids will turn on you like you turned on me, and I will be here to watch it all.”

Just as a blonde-haired woman in a white dress and three blonde-haired boys appear in the doorway to the kitchen, Lacy lashes out with the bloody knife and begins cutting Jacob across the chest and arms as he tries to block the blade. Lacy and Jacob’s blood drips from the blade and forms a pool of diseased blood between the two of them.

“The details are a little foggy, but I remember the gist of what happened,” she says. “I was in a large junk yard surrounded by demolished machinery when I saw him.”

“Saw who?” I ask. “Don’t rely on faces, rely on what you felt when you saw him.”

“It was Greg. He didn’t look like Greg now that you mention it, but I know it was him. He was having sex with a car.”

She stares directly at me so I can see her eyes welling up with tears. She grips the brown leather chair she sits in as hard as I bite my bottom lip in an effort to keep from laughing. I let my eyes fixate on the bookshelf to my left and I think of puppies getting hit by semi trucks. I think of bloated children dying in Africa. I think of how seriously my clients take my facade of a profession, and how much money I can make if I don’t laugh right now.

“You know I don’t do interpretations of sex dreams, Gloria. I told you that during your last session.” She looks at me with the same blank stare that makes me wonder if she thinks in words and sentences or if her mind just sees pictures like a children’s coloring book. This would explain the delay between every time she opens her mouth and the moment sound actually emerges from in between those puffy red lips.

“I know Dr. Salem. This wasn’t just a sex dream though. He was fucking a fucking car! That has to be important!”

I let my mind wander for a few minutes but nod my head occasionally while looking at the green carpet that resembles the color of vegetarians’ puke. Hopefully my client assumes I’m processing the information she’s just told me. In reality, though, when she said “That has to be important,” it brought back memories of the incident that occurred a few nights ago. It still has me shook up, but I can’t think about that now. I’m getting paid for my time with Gloria, not to reflect on my own issues, especially when they have to do with my own dreams.

“Well you’re right, that may be important. What kind of car was it? What did it look like?” I ask.

She fixes her skirt again for the fourth time and replies, “A brand new black Corvette with a thin red stripe of paint down the middle. He was really going at it with one of the exhaust pipes. I started screaming and trying to get to him to stop him, but I couldn’t get through the junk yard in time before waking up. Do you think he cares about his car more than me? He has a beat up Malibu with as much rust as paint on it but that would make sense, right?”

The first thing to remember when charging people money for interpretations of subjective information like dreams is to always make sure they need you. As a self-proclaimed dream analyst, I can’t ever fully agree with my client’s personal theories, because then they wouldn’t need me. I have to dive in deep enough to keep them coming back with a wallet full of cash every time they wake up at 4 a.m. and think, “Well that was a weird dream.”

“It would make sense if you were only looking at the surface. Going deeper, though, is how you reveal the meaning within a dream like this. That’s where I come in.” I smile as honest a smile as I can fake and she slowly nods her head. I just secured at least two more appointments, maybe three. Either way, those will cover a few nice dinners this weekend. Think of Lobster Bisque and Riondo Pinot Grigio

“We’ll get to the car eventually. Let’s start with the setting,” I say. “The junk yard is a picture of how your relationship currently appears to him. Have you had any fights recently that got out of hand?” Always start with generalities. Of course she’s had fights and feels like her relationship is a car wreck; she’s married. Every married woman who steps through my office door thinks the same thing. It all goes back to repeating a formula and growing more specific with every question until I can read them like one of the many books on the shelf to my left.

“Well, now that you mention it Doctor, we had a fight during dinner last week about him getting home late. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but maybe it was to him.”

She’s biting the hook hard, so this is my time to pull in the line. “I think you’re unconscious mind is picking up on things that are happening between you two that you aren’t aware of. It all goes back to Freud and psychoanalysis, but what’s important for you to know is that your dream was referring to aspects of your relationship. The thing we need to focus on next is the car he was…well….fornicating with.”

The dim lights in my office are supposed to help clients relax and recall details of their dreams easier. They only illuminate the eyebrows, nose, and chin of clients with defined facial features like Gloria. She looks even more pitiful in the dim lighting as she wipes her eyes, as if it’s so painful for her to describe the object her husband would prefer riding instead of her. Puppies and semi trucks. Bloated dying African babies.

“Like I said, it was a brand new black corvette with a red stripe. The engine revved when he thrusted. Oh God…” Her voice trails off and she buries her face in her hands. Crying must be painful for her as she shoves the large chunks of gold wrapped around her fingers into her cheeks.

“He most likely has feelings for another woman. She’s probably younger than you, so she seems exciting like a new car, which strongly contrasts the scrap yard he considers to be your relationship. The red stripe down the car and open exhaust pipe in the back give the away the car’s symbolism.”

It’s as easy as telling children that Santa gives out free toys. I’m just giving her the Easter bunny she wants, and that satisfaction is worth every penny she’s paying. “You can’t tell him you know, though, just be aware of it and act accordingly.”

She continues to cry and curse corvettes and the names of any girls she knows who are younger than her. “It’s probably that bitch Charlotte who lives a few houses down. Or maybe it’s Nicole from the cleaners; I’ve always known she was a dirty whore…”

I let her mumble under her breath and tune out everything except the names of the young girls and try to imagine what they look like and how attractive they’d be in short black dresses eating herb chicken and veal with me, paid for by Gloria’s easily preyed upon paranoia.

“What you need to do is go home and show Greg how much you care about him. Try to spice up your sex life and don’t ever mention that your unconscious mind was able to pick up on his feelings for another woman.”

Based on her fidgeting, she is extremely insecure. This lack of confidence probably transfers to her relationship, meaning she views herself as inadequate and will believe whatever I spoon feed her about her husband being interested in other women. After she throws herself at her husband without explanation, the faithful man will most likely increase his own display of affection toward her, resulting in a strengthening of their relationship.

She will believe this occurred because of the power of her unconscious mind and my interpretation of its messages. She will then return a few weeks later after referring her sister, whose appointment will buy me filet mignon on a Wednesday night. Everyone gets what they want and, except for the incident that I can’t get out of my mind, my conscience sleeps soundly every night. I need to stop thinking about that dream, at least while I’m with a client.

“Thank you D. Salem. Once again, your insight has helped so much.”

“I’d like to see you back in a couple weeks to follow up on the content of your dreams after you have worked on your relationship and he has hopefully lost the feelings he currently has for a younger woman. How would two weeks from Tuesday work for you?” Think of smoked salmon with lemon. Think of caviar with white wine.

“Okay. I’ll see you then. Thank you again Doctor.”

Gloria fixes her skirt for a fifth time and stands up, awkwardly extending her hand as a gesture of gratitude for my fraudulent services. I walk her to the door and place my hand on her shoulder as she leaves, imagining her wearing a sliver strapless dress on a Monday night, ordering orecchiette with pancetta and peas.

I return to my chair and let out a long sigh that empties my lungs and mind of unwanted air and thoughts. Silence fills the dim lit room and I sit unmoving for some time until my mind again returns to a few nights ago. As much as I want to avoid it, I cannot get the image out of my head. I rarely remember my dreams and when I do, I force myself to forget them, knowing that they are no more than mental processing of information and emotions accumulated and experienced throughout the day, categorization and transfer between short-term and long-term memory, and random firings of neurons that activate certain images and perceptions of reality.

This dream was different though. This one has stuck with me no matter how many times I try to eject it from my mind. When I close my eyes, I can still see the massive looming wall that was in front of me. I can remember every brick and inch of mortar. I just stood there staring at the red letters as they dripped from the wall to the dirt.

The words were written in my handwriting, but I don’t remember painting them in my dream. The words have been repeating in my head ever since that night, like a scratched CD that repeats the same vowel from a chorus until you remove it and wipe it on your sleeve. It was written in my handwriting. What if I actually believe what it said?

My thoughts are interrupted by the phone in my office ringing. I try to pick up my head but am unable to. I can’t pick up the phone. I can’t even move. I’m paralyzed by the message I see when I close my eyes and picture the painted bricks. The phone continues to ring as I whisper the words I saw a few nights ago in my sleep that are responsible for the sweat currently dripping from my forehead.

“You do not lie to the sleepers. Denial will deceive you no longer.”

My answering machine beeps and I hear a frantic voice screaming through chokes and sobs on the other end of the line.

“Doctor Salem! It’s Gloria. You were right. I went straight home to tell Greg how much I loved him and I walked in on him and Kate, the 19 year old secretary who started working at his office a few months ago. They were fucking like she was that damn Corvette moaning in front of him! The bastard had the audacity to look at me and ask me how I knew!”

“Charlie! Lock up on your way out, okay?” The words are accompanied with a slap on the back that feels like a bag of sausages hitting the small frame of the boy wearing a red uniform and baseball hat. “And let your dad know we’re still on for the 17^th. We haven’t been up to that cabin since we were kids so don’t let him forget again!” The bag of sausages hits Charlie’s back one more time before walking out the automatic doors. A silver convertible with a dent on the right side of the frame is waiting outside with a license plate that reads LAWSONZ. Charlie wonders aloud how it’s possible for people like him to be even more in love with themselves than their toys.

The incessant beeping continues to chew its way into Charlie’s eardrums as he spends the next few hours repeating the phrase, “Paper or plastic?” to people who would pretend he doesn’t exist. No one makes eye contact with baggers. They are the dregs of the supermarket who most customers wish were replaced by computers. Charlie waits until everyone has exited through the glass doors before beginning to wipe down his station in aisle 14.

“Can you do me a favor before you turn the register off?” The voice is soft and timid. The young bagger looks up with his washrag in hand and meets the eyes of a woman dressed in a flowing pink dress and curled brown hair. She smells like apricot perfume and expensive hairspray. “I know it’s late but I forgot to pick up some things for dinner tonight. They’re right here.” The woman dumps a few bags filled with various fruits and vegetables on the conveyer belt and continues to stare into Charlie’s eyes.

“Sure thing Mrs. Lawson. I’ve watched Jodie operate the register so it’s no big deal.” The young boy begins punching buttons on the register that correlate with the barcodes stuck on the plastic covering the produce. He picks up the bag containing six pears and Mrs. Lawson turns to her left to see the illuminated numbers on the small screen. Charlie’s eyes follow up her small wrists adorned with gold bracelets to her arms and shoulders and his gaze slides up her neck to finally rest on her cheek.

The green blotches covering her skin are the same color as the pale pears she’s purchasing. The darkest spots match the plums and the red patches resemble the broken skin of rotting apples. The mark engulfs half of her face and a portion of her neck. Charlie freezes and the rhythmic beeping of buttons ceases to ring throughout the empty supermarket.

Charlie’s eyes drop to the conveyer belt and the quiet woman’s gaze remains on the screen counting the dollars she owes him. “Mrs. Lawson, the pears in your bag are…well…bruised.” The bagger’s eyes remain on the conveyer belt. His left hand begins to shake slightly and his right eye twitches twice.

“They fell on the floor before I got to the register. I was in a hurry.” Every vowel she speaks sounds as hollow and empty as the beeping machine in front of her. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Every time the boy in red moves his arms it feels as if his tendons have been replaced with rubber bands. His left hand continues to shake. His right hand tightens up and goes numb within seconds. “Did you want me to help you…pick out some new fruit, Ma’am? We could go together.” He finally forces himself to look back up and into her eyes. He thinks back to when he was a kid and would watch the eyes of animals at the zoo. He would always try and figure out how they felt about being caged. The look in her eyes makes the hair on his arms stands up and he can’t get the images of animals out of his head.

“No. Mr. Lawson prefers his produce this way. I should get going. I don’t want to be late.” She throws two battered $20 bills at Charlie. “I don’t need a bag. Keep the change.” She turns her back and begins marching toward the dark parking lot where a small white car is waiting for her.

Charlie quickly steps around the counter. “Wait Ma’am! I’d really like you to have it. I think you could use change right now more than I could.”

She stares at the crisp bills in the boy’s hand. “Thank you.” She smiles sweetly but winces and blinks a few times as her face flushes. Charlie isn’t sure if this is out of embarrassment or pain.

The empty room is again filled with a rhythm, but this time the cost is far greater than a portion of a paycheck. The noise echoing throughout all of the aisles of packaged food is the sound of Mrs. Lawson returning to her house and husband while Charlie wipes both his face and the cash register with a rag that smells like cleaning solution and bruised produce.

Eli steps through the oak doorframe and his eyes immediately lock with a pair of baby blues a few feet in front of him, framed by ornate mahogany. The young boy pushes a lock of brown curly hair from his face as the one hanging across the hall from him remains tranquil and silent. “Mom! Home!” The boy yells in an artificially deep voice that grows deeper with each echo that bounces against the ivory white walls. Eli’s gaze remains locked with the blue eyes in front of him as he sees the blood dripping down the cheeks of the face across from his and onto the shoulders of outstretched arms. This is what he has to compete with. This is his standard of comparison, his rival for the sand within a blonde hourglass.

“It’s Thursday. Leave your clothes on the laundry room floor,” his mom replies in a tone that succeeds in sounding both extremely uninterested and extremely preoccupied. Eli walks to his room and replaces his shirt adorned with skulls for one depicting a white goat’s head. A few minutes and one large thump later, a pile of clothes sits beside a white washing machine, topped with a shirt still warm from a sweaty walk home.

It’s Thursday. Identical to a week ago at this time, he turns his phone off and retreats to his room. Passing another pair of outstretched arms and motionless blue eyes on the way to his room, Eli whispers under his breath, “Jesus! Everywhere I turn…”

He’s a large boy, but a love of food is not to blame for his oversized shirts. Based on the sound of his father’s voice bellowing through the other end of a Christmas morning phone call, he pictures him as a large man, and Eli wants to be able to fit into his Father’s clothes once he finally dies. A son will show up to a father’s funeral to meet him for the first time face to face while wearing the second best suit belonging to the man buried in his Sunday’s best.

“Elijah! Every week! You think you’re so sneaky but I catch you every week!” The boy’s bedroom door swings open to reveal a disheveled Ms. Monroe holding a wadded up shirt high above her head as if it were a foul she had just managed to shoot from the air. Skeletal faces printed on the shirt stare up at Eli from his mother’s hand, mocking him, taunting him, congratulating him. “This shirt reeks of smoke! That’s illegal for your age and I raised you better than that! Be sure your sins will find you out!”

The boy sits stoically on his bed, taking in every syllable of every word hurled in his direction. Eli mouths the words “You’re grounded!” in time with the woman who speaks them. Same as this past week, he will come straight home from school as punishment. Despite being in an occupied house for the next few days, though, he’ll have to wait until next Thursday to engage in this long of a conversation with his mother. That is, if he can put up with the taste of cigarettes for another week.

“I’m calling your father! God knows he can put you in your place!” The woman turns abruptly without a single strand of stiff blonde hair moving from its perfectly styled position. Eli wonders to himself if he will actually hear his father’s voice on a day that isn’t a holiday or if his mom will just pick up the phone and sing a song of disappointed insults to the tune of a dial tone.

The boy walks downstairs, placing both feet on each step before moving to the one below it. He passes by his mother as she stares into the large lifeless blue eyes hanging in his living room, muttering prayers about her lost son in between blowing smoke from between her bright red lips.

Eli silently sneaks out his front door, careful to twist the gold handle in a way that keeps it from moaning too loud. He sniffs his shirt collar and lights another cigarette. The smoke throws him into a coughing fit, but he inhales deeper as the voice of his mom rings in his ears, “I raised you better than that!” Another cough shakes his body and his lungs feel as if he swallowed a handful of tacks and washed it down with a mouthful of steaming coffee. He whispers under his breath, “Like hell you raised me…”

Every time I look down from another shingled springboard, I see the empty excuses mocking me with their reasons to not notice my intentions. If only the pigeons forgot how to fly and I had enough glass bottles to shatter against my shins.

Listen carefully, because with each paragraph you can hear faint anthems of breaking bones and dry heaves.

Come dance with me. Let the twine and wine push and pull you where you know you shouldn’t be. I’ll never know who holds our strings but I’m tired of asking the same questions. There are so many layers and veils keeping you from the vines that crawl further and further up your limbs. If you’ve made it this far, then you’ve already decided on the direction of your own journey through my scenery. All of us will forget the familiar forced farce that defined paragraphs one and two. It’s just the chorus. Don’t get comfortable now. Don’t you dare get comfortable. This was never meant to be safe. I was never meant to be safe. If that was the impression you got, it merely means I’m better at my role than the Jester ever imagined.

Now sit back and get uncomfortable while I interrupt your lap dance by vomiting on your freshly shined shoes. I will gut your pompous ideals like filthy pigs and hang the remains above your sleeping children so that the first thing they see when they wake is what’s left of your defiled legacy.

Trust me, unless you want the half-digested remains slithering through your teeth as mine just did, do not take another step. Do not keep walking. Trust me, because I can’t.

You were warned.

All of this explains the barely audible metronome I’ve allowed to keep time with each breath I took. This makes more sense than you realize. The salt water coursing through the branches begs for release.

Let the oceans flood.

Let the oceans flood.

If it were possible to apply enough pressure, swallow enough tablets, or insert enough needles, then this page would be blank. The metronome continues to sing. Her screeching rhythm forces my fingers and legs to twitch without ever offering the solace of silence.

There you are, my friends. I’d thought you had all left for the gallows without me.

“No dear sir. You may have sent us, but your neck is still intact. Guess who has missed being home?” Be strong, children. Let the words bounce from your ears. They mean so much less than you attribute, or at least that’s what the gunman swears as he counts how many blanks he has left. Is it even worth bluffing at this point? Don’t we all know by now that this will not stop until our precious dam lies in pieces, drowning in the piss of infants wasting sounds on words they can’t pronounce?

Let the oceans flood.

Just because you cut the wires and ripped the floorboards from their places of slumber does not mean you hold any shred of righteousness infused with your putrid excuse for valor. Smear the filth that pours from your mouth onto your face so that the townspeople can see the mud you’ve kept inside your chest.

The inferno rages on and grips every remark in its grasp. Winter took this year off, and it’s no wonder why. The men with only bones for fingers fight to suffocate the flames, but their efforts are in vain, much like your own. This is not the last time we will hear the dancing sirens howl louder than we can scream. This is not the last time I will stand where I’m standing this late at night and wonder what it would feel like. This is just one of many, many familiar experiences in which I experience the sensation of living my life on a transparent sheet of ice, watching as those around me go limp beneath the frozen water. Don’t you dare say you expected this. None of us did. I stand tall, not because of strength, but because I met my fate long before those beneath my feet, but my penance is watching bodies float down with the current as I hold their frozen fingers between my own.

Listen carefully, because with each paragraph you can hear faint anthems of breaking bones and dry heaves.

Symbolic meaning has fallen short of intention and I am growing weary as I try to force the bullet back into the barrel. This image won’t run from my mind because it never grew the legs it promised me it would. Its umbilical cord has remained attached to feed off of every combination of sounds that reminds me what’s it’s like to have nerves respond in time to feel more than cold air. It’s.The.Long.Wasted.Breath.That.Makes.This.So.Worthless.To.You.It’s the simple things you’ll notice and spit on so why do I even bother polishing any edges knowing so well what will stand out to you about this while you read it silently to your own deaf offspring as I ask myself if you’ll ever know my intentions. Everything about this is intentional.

You were lacking, but I guess I’m to blame since I hold the pliers and rubber gloves and have been without barriers for weeks now. Come a little bit closer and we’ll determine together which drawer your skin was placed in for safe keeping. You swore that your identity would forever remain your own, so I stole your fingertips and melted them down to a liquid in order to savor the taste. I was drunk off of the only thing that made you unique. I stumbled across the room with a scalpel and wondered how long it had been since I knew what I was doing while wearing this surgeon’s mask. You’ll never know my intentions. You’ll never know my intentions.

If I wasn’t as hollow as my arteries, I’d spread my bones across this field so you could see what I’ve been keeping inside.

So I stand dripping from head to toe in yesterday’s justifications and ask the mangled deformity before my empty eyes, “Who is the Vulture now?” No amount of answers will ever answer that question.

The metronome has stopped singing. My ears are ringing more than they’re bleeding, so I guess that’s considered progress in some sterile rooms across the country.

The oceans have flooded, pouring from the trenches to grip my chapped mouth with puddles of palms. I fall to the wet floor, unable to choke out any farce I prepared to serve as my final paragraph.

You wanted me to raise a work of art, so I mangled its body and used its bones to pick my teeth once I was done chewing on every organ that I didn’t nail to your front door. The artist is only limited by his medium, so I choose to paint with whatever tries to run from my dry brushes.

How’s this for anticlimactic?

-Spero?

Welcome to my middle ground. This is my no-man’s land. This is my purgatory.

Welcome, welcome, welcome to VeraCity, a warm welcome from all of us. Let me show you around.

Don’t mind the clouds. They are far less shy here than in your reality, and they tend to follow new-comers around in hopes that your psyche will crack and spill more water from your sockets than you even realize you drank today. They aren’t cruel; they just wish to grow into Rainclouds. Then cruelty is a word devoid of enough potency to describe them. When the sky darkens in VeraCity, it means one of three things. The first is that a cloud has preyed upon the anguish of the weak enough to piss out any condensation they have accumulated from sources other than swollen lachrymal glands. They become the very sentiments you thought were left in a rusty garbage can soaking up tissues.

We’ll get to the other two reasons that the darkness blankets the streets soon enough. Be patient.

You’ll see the streets are not linear in their construction like your typical mental track. If you wish to visit the great hall in which feathers that have fallen are left and kept to fight the forgetful nature of VeraCity, you must dig between your feet and fall through the floor. You will then break through the roof of the 16^th floor, so you’d better have some rope handy unless you have feathers of your own.

You’ve been here before. You’ve seen these walls before. These textures feel the same and we’re not even out of breath yet. Inhale. Exhale. Slow your heart rate. Be patient.

I already told you, don’t mind the clouds.

If you’re hungry, pick the dandelions. They’ll scream the whole time as you gnash your teeth, but they’re the only source of food here. Years ago, a man came through here, a Gardener. He planted nothing but weeds along the roadside, but never ate a single one. He unremittingly planted weeds until his skin sagged like the white dress of the black-haired dinner date you left standing in the rain while you kissed the neck of the blonde from housekeeping. The Gardener’s hair fell to the roots of the weeds and his feet dragged through the mud as his arms dragged through the soil. His bones sharpened as his skin stretched and ripped. He was last seen with his neck twisted far too far to the left and his ribs reaching for the stars. It is said that the brightest dandelions grow from his organs and their roots hold his body still so that no one can take him from his children.

Come, the boat is here. Do not touch the water. It will seep into your pores and replace your blood until you drip from every orifice. It truly is the most annoying sound to withstand. Imagine that moldy rust-covered faucet you’ve never gotten around to fixing, but the constant dripping is pouring from your eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and…well you get the picture. And imagine how the clouds would flock. You would be the source of sustenance for weeks until they grew tired of the awful drip, drip, dripping coming from your ears and echoing in theirs. VeraCity is so much more than even I want to admit. So please, step away from the side of the boat, I see your eyes contemplating if my tongue speaks truth. The Rainclouds will not ask as kindly as I if you should refuse to listen. Inhale. Exhale. Slow your heart rate. Be patient.

(The Helmsman steering the boat turns toward you with closed eyes. His tall steeple of a brow towers over both of his passengers as he looms over their seemingly small frames. He moves slowly and only when the wind can be felt on your face. His slender tendrils coil tighter around his oar as you stare at the large black swirled and dotted marks adorning both tops of his hands. His eyelids twitch but remain closed, though you feel as if you are both staring intently at identical targets. His oar is an elongated conduit adorned with a large orb that never fully emerges from the water that pushes the boat further from the shore.)

The second reason that darkness would wash over VeraCity can be seen over the mountains to your right. A tall stone spire known as The Lighthouse shines through the mist in the distance. Many years ago, the light burned from its apex and plunged our great city into complete darkness. It was the breed of darkness that left black powder between your teeth and forced your tongue to taste only charcoal. Since that day, though, there has been a fire burning brighter than ever before.

If you ask some, they would tell you that a thatched and burning scarecrow stands tall behind the glass, sacrificing his straw self to wage war against the Shadows. Others claim a leper and a witch lit themselves ablaze to atone for an unforgivable sin. Still others swear that on certain nights, when the water reflects the inferno, you can make out a form within the Lighthouse that gently moves with the wind just as our Helmsman does. They say the source of luminosity is a burning desire buried deep within this swaying shape that refuses to be extinguished. I will let you decide for yourself the source of light, but know that I alone hold the truth as it is etched beneath my tongue for me to always feel but never repeat.

We’ve arrived. This is the gate where you can return to your own perception of reality. Do not think of this as goodbye, exile, or banishment. Instead, see it as the gift that it is. You can only remain in my purgatory for so long before moving on.

Only the Author who paints walls on buildings, doors on walls, and punctuation on doors can spend eternity here as he wanders and wanders and wanders forever.

For the only other reason VeraCity could be washed in black is if he chooses to jump or step. No corners. The side dish of solace I can leave you with, though, is that even if he made up his mind tonight, he still has more feathers growing through cracks in his skin than there are housed in his great hall. His pen still draws ink.

And I shall soar until the clouds can taste my despair no longer.

-Spero