Literary Maneuvers Entry: WechtleinUns
Title: Evaporated Tears (Language Warning + Mature themes)
Who would have given me a funeral? A deal is a deal, no matter how much I wish I could have gone back, and changed my bet. Cleanse the losing horse with fire. This slab is hard. You hear stories about how you can't feel anything, once you've given up the ghost. But my back ached. A marble slab is no place to sleep. The sensations continue, too. The walls are bare, but solid, and the concrete floor is littered with broken glass. It's hard to walk. A force, stronger than gravity, weighs me down. Every time I lift my head, a searing pain runs through my eyes. It isn't due to any bright light. There is no bright light. Just an ink colored--pitch black--darkness. I smell sulfur.
It's getting hard to remember. Images flash through my mind. I am a policeman. No. I was never a policeman, was I? Who are my parents? With each step I take down the stairs, I remember having twenty more. No, a thousand more. Out of all the sea of faces, who are my parents? Was I hit? An image of a dark room flashes behind me, like the ghost of a memory, or the flicker of static on a the telly, during a thunderstorm. I didn't like the taste of him. Not inside my mouth. My mother didn't want me. That was fine. The drugs and the sex were enough. I didn't need her. Daddy gave me everything I needed, anyways.
Wait. I was born a man. Or a woman? Who am I? Dear God, who the fuck am I? The stairs have ended. At the bottom of the stairwell is an old elevator with a copper bar gate, and a well-dressed gentleman as the footman. "Top of the morning, to you, son. Or daughter. If you prefer." He says, with a wink.
My head hurts. Badly, ugly...like someone striking it over and over with a hammer. Like someone spraying lemon juice inside my eyes. I fall to the ground and blow large chunks of blackened tar and coal. So much filth has accumulated on this bottom floor, so much feces, semen, and bodily fluids. So much, in fact, that the whole mess was hardened into a kind of black and white patterned calcite formation. It was smooth and polished, as if somebody had shaved off the rough top layer and applied some sort of lacquer to it, to make it look like onyx or marble. As if somebody had been proud.
"Come, come." The elderly gentleman steps out of the elevator, and puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to comfort me. I can't move. My shoulder blade cracks as he grips my wrist. Whistling, he drags me towards the elevator. "This is always the hardest part, son. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid." He chuckles. But something holds me down. It was a crushing force of desire. A desperate clinging to life. It pushed me into the ground with a horrible crunch.
The elder man swings around and snarls. "Come on--!" He grips my hair, and smashes my face into the floor. He laughs, lightly and gently, and then smashes his boot on top of my skull. The onyx-like feces enters my nostrils, and I can smell methane, and sulfur. Crunch. Crack. Nibble. There was nothing but black, and the smell of evaporated tears.