Phasing in and out of the head, the wobbles throw spins of black towers, as if from the perspective of a coin circling downwards, nearing the drain of a sinkhole. The practitioner wrapped in wires like lights on a Christmas tree or tape around a hostage. The chandelier hangs with a black mass of shadow diseasing its way in every direction out, like a wart. The walls bearing the objects of four additional floors unrecognized, in uncanny clusters of childhood memories felt gut first. Piss rummages down in between his legs with a burning sensation, almost as if it were pulled out of him like a long rope made of thorns.
He is wrapped in current, the sheaths of copper. The clusters of objects kept in piles, they hoard him towards their becoming of monument-scraping, used by the objects he sought. Is his head flanging still?
Shadows across the walls mutter a name without noise, their mouths moving across the walls. They keep repeating his name…
Thorns grow from wire talk, their piercing spawns salty tears out the skin; not blood. There is skin growth sprouting like goosebumps out the pores, and the skin growth becomes tall with thin that leaks a thick ink. The smell of sulfur rot oozes from somewhere. The plumage of objects is sinking him between the four walls of childhood memories replaying. Forty-something now; nothing now.
In the spectacle, the one color stands as a beacon above the desaturating swaths within the burrows of collection: the distant pink box and its fuzzy grey-white trauma shining, and it shines like the fever swarm of the Godly ecstasy in the angel—dust. The black tar coats and garbs the white uniform of tobacco’s attire, its sherman dark instead of green, retired for only a minute rest in between fingers lengthening. The flogging mind is spinning down into the ground as a whirlpool sick of itself, down and out of the folding chair.
The chandelier is more like a ceiling fan… Those clusters are his memories. The reflection finds him somewhere, where he is seen third in person, where he is tired in cables tangling him, and catatonic with a pretzel knot pose. Shriveled up and frayed at differing parts of his living corpse wallows. His tongue drags the wood of floorboards cracked and splitting, where the tongue feels splitting too. Tasting or pain pricks is a distant feeling not his own, yet seen from himself in the far view mirror fallen over.
The television lunges out from its corner of a dresser in chipped and worn white pain. The pink television flies slow like a glitching cloud dream, thudding and bludgeoning into the ground, bouncing once. He watches this all happen from that mirror view, not even recognizing himself or the sound’s origin anymore.
“Somethin’ of—grave—grave!—” Fast staccato, frantic, heard outside of self sayings. The next part is spoken with a stretching sound, an overly emphasized eccentric set of noises, from the slanted jaw sliding almost out of socket, “grave…! Import! Impor—te…? Impor—tant!” Confident talk slurring and stammering into nowhere. He drags the wires up and around without reason, up and above, pushing it around, dragging the TV with it.
“Do you know what that TV is even saying?” the black shadow on the wall speaks, and the figure is seen rolling its hands around itself, knuckles rubbed by a palm while fingers are curling archly.
“What!? Who said that!?” The man runs the eyes back and forth one thousand times, with zero thousand times blinkless. He puffs out his bottom lip lift as his forehead weighs heavy over small pupils from loud eyeballs large as pool balls, before boisterously sliding his babbles of sounds at the room, “Noisy fuck-sir! Say you, come wrestle with the mad dog prince! You would be surprised at his finetitudal—kinestful—faluffal—falufinnings!” He speaks this through teeth grit while his hands gesture with tiny pinches of all five fingers forward, much like a drunk crab. The drugs find him to be a special kind of weirdly, a unique kind of strange.
A leg kicks the pile of garbage high up in a stack, the cause belonging to the shadow, and the avalanche pours. “Fucking hell! Fuck!” The man on the ground screams before he is covered, and he throws a fit about it with muffles of bitter, nothing actually made out by himself or the other.
“You done yet, stupid? I been wanting to tell you something, but I been waiting for your high to wear out again…” says one of the shadow people on the wall.
The man replies with disconnect, in the cold, comical voice of a psychotic sports announcer, “Insult me… and I’ll assault you…!” Still buried in blankets of clutter. He clarifies furthermore, “I’ll show you, clown!” After making it clear, his hand is found held out above the burial, his cigarette that was dipped in tar still lit. He pulls it into the crevice of objects, and the exhale causes a cloud of smoke to escape from a head unseen underneath. A loud heave is heard, followed by the squeal of a pig, and then, finally, the mutters of a confused man gone high.
Abruptly, boxes, empty bottles, clothes, and even used paper towels, they all erupt up and out with the force of a dumb ox, up and away the objects his own fly. “Haha!” The mad man stands tall in a self-impressed stand of grandeur, having escaped the weightful shroud of his trinkets. “Fucking retard! Show yourself!” The man, bald and forty-three, now postures with a stiff body that mimics the courage of rested shoulders and a chest puffed high. The quick actions he made during all this have been dragging the TV by the wire along with him, pulling it across the floor.
The room grows crimson-hued, and the voice finds him. “Now hold still, this will only hurt a bit.” The shock and gasp doesn’t hold inside his lungs, and he deflates, falling to the floor head first, bouncing like the television. He screams and screams, faster and faster, “Thudder! Thudder! Thudder! Thudder! Thudder!” He starts saying it differently, in an almost comical and ironic way, with emphasis at the end, “Thuddering! Thuddering! Thuddering heart beatings!” His neck rolls in stiff twists hard with cranking torque, and the pouring of saltwater spills from his pores, his face reflecting the crimson glow from red lights unfounded.
As the brightness becomes greater, so does the pull coming out from his insides, as if someone were yanking out his heart from his dick, and it cuts a deep path through and out, further still, like prickling bristle points, before churning the outer realm of inside walls as barbwire kidney stones. The stretching gives way to a rupturing pop, like an eyeball plucked, as if delusion packed its bags and moved out.
“Hey, Lucifer!” His head stops when he hears his name, unfamiliar now.
He stairs, becoming stepped, where his lies are built by bitty nothing toys he collected, towering around him in his room, morphing from the mounds of collections. He is caught stairing off and out into nothing. Wee little puppets go in and out of mouse holes, like doors, where the human openings of body become conceptualization. The flesh becomes more like abstract art now, where insects travel through his hole-ridden structure of playground colors, becoming like an ant hill. This ground of theirs made of himself. In surgical remodeling, small woodworkers with tiny hammers are crawling across him like a second Earth, beating parts of him into shapes useless. His million years lived are just a flash of nothings felt a second time.
He darts up and back with a kick heart winding, the alarm shot, like fire and electric, the adrenaline shaking him hard. “What!?” The needle is bruised deep in his arm, and he is twisting and surging across the floor in clonic tantrum spasms over his hospital altar, awoken from the millionth age, now tangled in pumps with blood and water through them. There is a stinging rip that has pulled out through the insides between legs, like a fetus ripped umbilically first from his womb. He looks down and sees, “Oh…” The catheter has been ripped out, and his dick bleeds over the floor profusely, now in the shape of a flower blooming, but the petals are the mandible hangs of his ruptured dick. The inside of the groin’s shaft is completely exposed, where it is now torn apart into multiple petals split open, ripped in every wet limp of direction, downward into the floor’s thick red puddle.
“It must of come out,” he says quietly. The dizziness finds him, and he is almost passing out on the cold tile floor now. He looks down and sees a little baby hanging from the ceiling, bleeding tears from its eyes, adorned in angel wings. The baby looks like a fake varnished doll, its painted smell crossing the cold of air from one side of the room and into the nostrils.
When he rolls onto the freezing floor, he sees a scroll with the wet of black ink rolling down it in a tar-like thickness, where the red tears fall over it, and the vertical fall of script reads, “I am the Antichrist.”
He doesn’t want to open his eyes, his sight stuck under the cold shade of an eyelid hatch closed. The eyelids are heavy shut, wanting to forget. The air turns different, though, the ground feeling different. The pain in his groin is now gone. He takes his chance and cracks open one of his eyelids, and from the sliver of pupil between, he sees the raised stone top, the pumps, the blindfold in the corner, and… The machine angel, his white mask dirty and cracked, a smile shape hole, with an opening that is dark in between. “Christ—Christopher!” The stuttering machine words out. “We aren’t alone! There is someone here with uhh—us! There is a de—de—demon!” The angel continues saying in the same kind of glitch static.
Christopher, on the floor, covers his face with his arm and shuts his eyes, grimacing and gritting. He lets out a long exhaust of stifled weeps escaping from his clenched face hidden by a pockmarked arm. Tears roll down Christopher’s face a bit at a time. “What was that!?” He grimaces at the mouth below his arm still covering, and he shrieks on the ground in a fetal position, crawling towards the raised stone, away from the maiden he fell out of. His face burned by the chemicals inhaled. He drags himself across the floor, scalding the sensitive skin with simple touch. “Who is it!? It can’t be real!”
“The deceiver has broken into the machine, it has taken seed and root in you—you—ou—” The last word spoken by the angel Antony cranks into a repetition before the lights flicker on and off, sparks flying out of old wires like sprays of water spurts from broken pipes. The sound of gears rolling is heard amongst the stutters of fixtures flashing on and off, as Antony’s eyes search the room in vigilance.
Christopher is found in a deadlock stop, his eyes staring… Stairs, familiar somehow; wishing he never knew, he wishes he could escape. His arms that lay on the ground are riddled in the hives of needle injection ports, where the hand and the touch from the surface he lies on grows far and small, drooling and quiet with piss faintly coming on. The stampede of the noises grows quiet with him, and together they vanish in plain sight, without having gone anywhere. He shrinks into a corner called his mind, recoiling into the shell.