Disintegration (6 page)

When I come to I'm bolted to a twelve-foot cross and a sea of eyes gazes up at me. There is a sharp pain in the palms of my hands and when I turn to look, there are spikes through them. I can't hear. Static surges through my head, and glancing down I see I'm nude. My feet are crossed at the ankles, but I don't feel any throbbing in them like in my hands. Maybe that's because I'm numb below the waist. There is a deep gurgling and sound eases in. There is thundering from the audience in front of me, and she crosses my line of vision yelling at the crowd. She leans in to my ear and whispers.

“This is going to hurt.”

I feel the metal teeth of the battery cables as they clamp down on my nipples. I can hear now, vividly, angels shrieking. The music is pounding. Great waves of screaming and moaning rise up to me, and the undulation of the bodies looks like an ocean, black as ink, rising and falling.

She walks in front of me again, a tiny box in her hand. She turns to me, her eyes yellow, feline slits across the corneas, and turns the knob. Electric currents wash over me, and my muscles tighten. My back arches as my eyes clamp shut. Something is burning, and I think it's me. I clench my teeth and it all fades away.

My face, I can't breathe. I cough, a mouthful of fur and hair, I can't breathe. I push up and hear a howling screech. I'm in my bed. Luscious glares at me from the other side of the room, pacing back and forth, her hair matted and wet, chunks of fur missing. My tongue feels like sandpaper. On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and a yellow envelope leaking an assortment of dollar bills. My take for the evening's entertainment, I assume. I guzzle the water without asking any questions. Looking down, I'm half covered by my bedsheets. There are scars on my chest, deep bite marks on either side of my nipples. Thin lines run across my stomach, cuts that are healing, crisscrossing back and forth. Dozens, hundreds, I can't even count them all, and my vision begins to swim. I hold my hands up and they're bandaged. They don't hurt. A quarter-sized circle of blood sits in the middle of the gauze, but I'm afraid to peel it off and take a look under the hood.

Taking a deep breath, I feel nothing at all. I feel clean. I recognize the apartment, the cat, but I can't remember my name. I don't know what city I'm in. I'm not sad but I'm not happy either. I simply am. I lie back down on the bed and close my eyes. I don't need to know all the answers right now.

“This is the Mundelein Police Department, Thirteenth District, Officer Weis calling. I regret to inform you that we need you to come down to the station, there is a body…”

I spend the next three days healing, lying in bed, propped up with pillows, staring at the walls. And sleeping. The sky pours icicles of rain down upon my windows, so I go under, and pray that I will be left alone in peace. My hands, they're better now, scabbing over, the crucifixion almost gone. But when I press my thumbs to the circles in my palms, which I do way more often than I should, I wince, a tingle skittering across my hands, a bitter taste on my tongue.

I worry about the cat. She hasn't shown herself during the downpours, and I fear she may be in trouble. I don't base this fear on anything other than a gut feeling, so I'm probably wrong. She can handle herself, I know that much, so what makes these days any different? The wind is blowing hard against the windows, a plastic bag brushing up against them, twirling in the air and then sucked down the alley, gone. The solitude compresses me, weighs me down, and in the middle of the night, my eyes shoot open, and I whisper names to the dark.

“Holly?”

Nothing. A shutter bangs against the apartment, the wind picking up.

“Luscious?”

A shadow passes across the bottom of the door, somebody passing in the hallway. Nothing.

When the morning comes, I curse the light, a thin film of sweat covering my skin.

No envelope.

I get restless, pacing the apartment, measuring the steps from one side of the living room to the other. I count the water marks in the ceiling as I lie in bed, legs crossed at the ankles, pale and naked, willing the world to move on. I'm unable to go outside, weak and empty, my mattress an island, a floating raft in the middle of an indigo sea.

Every time I pass her food bowl, the tiny bits of dry brown food cling to each other under my squint and glare, and I resist the urge to count them, to hold them in my hand and smell the crunchy tidbits. On an impulse I drop to my knees and grab a handful and shove it in my mouth. I chew. It tastes like dirt and leather with a hint of stale fish. About what I expected, sadly.

Falling asleep on the third night, there is no sign of life. No Holly, no cat. My mind wanders, and I let it. There is a sound at my door, faint, but I know it well. The rustle of reeds in a gentle breeze, a basket floating down a bubbling stream, a faint cry muffled by blankets.

My next assignment.

I will venture out into the daylight today, but only under the cover of an angry sky, dark shadows whipping in the wind. The garbage swirls about in the street, sharp objects skirting by my head. You could get killed by a stray Popsicle stick today—a random soda straw impaling your throat. There is violence in the air and a snarl on every set of lips I pass.

My kind of day.

Cement sprawls out in front of me, and I head up Milwaukee to my destination, needles and ink, parked cars and stakeouts, mausoleums ripe with ivy.

I tighten the dark stain of a wool coat around me, my eyes tucked behind dark sunglasses. I'm hiding inside these trappings and comforts. Blue jeans and combat boots hold back muscle and sinew, black wool running up my chest and neck.

People tend to step aside when I'm on a new assignment.

I have three errands to run today. The first involves a tattoo. The second has to do with the envelope I received. And the third? I can't get into the third right now, but I've been putting it off for some time. Maybe after dark. I want to see them, but I keep blocking out the gray stones and wrought iron fences.

All manner of freak and yuppie line the sidewalks all the way to the historic Flat Iron Building. Dreadlocked white trash with pink ties in her hair, more piercings than I can count, with striped Dr. Seuss leggings. Glass windows are filled with plastic pillars, shiny black panthers ridden by Amazonian women, floral prints left over from the eighties. I can see my path and each footstep leaves behind a large steaming boot print, my legs remembering the way. The pain of the needle drives me on, this supplication a necessary ritual. Past the baldheaded brother with the goatee and square shades standing outside the silversmith, working the purple plaid skintight pants. Past El Chino, where the late night burrito as big as your head is a frequent destination. It's boarded up now, and I'm sad. I was just starting to get addicted to stumbling in there late at night, the steak, guacamole, and Chihuahua cheese the surefire cure to whatever ailed you. I pass a skeleton that reminds me of my wife, leaned up against a storefront, her legs splayed out below her, a cardboard box with a smattering of change, and I toss in a wad of money. Buttoned-up blue oxford, khaki pants, and maroon loafers complete with shiny pennies, holds the arm of the pink cardigan, beige skirt, and sensible shoes. A glimmer of eye contact, and I know she's been here before, she has the look of the lower back tattoo about her, a sly grin made of ruby-red lips.

Ink. What to get?

How do you honor the pedophile in your life? What symbol echoes that depravity? The moss-green door is upon me already, mesh wire peeking through the small square of glass. Time to see the man.

Up and up and up the stairs, around and around until I see the blood-red walls and the panels of glass. A triple rap on the glass door, Tatu Tattoo, and staring back at me is the solitary eyeball with wings afloat, and I slip the canvas bag over my head.

I don't know his name and he's never seen my face.

The door opens and a soft red glow emanates from the shelves filled with candles, sheer drapes of gold and merlot drifting in the snakes of smoke, sandalwood, and musk—sweet and yet sickening.

“Sup,” he says.

He's skinny with a shaved head, sleeves of tattoos up and down both arms. A stained white wife beater is loose on his emaciated frame, a faint smile with metal on his teeth.

I hand him the envelope, which he sets on a small round wooden table covered with magazines of ink, music, and porn. A skull is the centerpiece, hollowed out and filled with flowers, a flash of brightness, in yellow, green, and pink.

I nod my head and wander around, the bag over my head like the Elephant Man, eye holes cut out so I can see. I slide my coat off and drape it over a retro dining chair, chrome legs and a cream leather seat.

I wander the tiny space looking for a symbol and find one almost immediately. If this was a Rorschach I'd probably fail, but to me it's outstretched arms, curved up to the sky, a bowed head touching his chest in the center, legs below, long and thin. It's an angel in hiding, a child buried in the shadow, a wingspan of hope, tarnished feathers dripping with truth. I place my finger on the image and start to undress. The ink shifts and it's a face, an empty skull, eyes lowered, brow furrowed.

“Quake. Nice choice. You a gamer?”

I shake my head.

“It's cool, I dig it for the simple lines and white space. Where you want it?”

I sit down in the ancient dentist's chair and point to my right upper biceps, where it will frame a star, next to a coiled snake, and a string of rectangles that run all the way around.

“Cool. You want a drink or anything, bro? Beer, whiskey, weed?”

I shake my head. I want to feel it all. The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol, a cool sting on my arm, and I hear the buzz, the needle starting up, and I honor my dead today. I mark my skin with a shape-shifter icon, eyes closed, the nipping at my flesh, and I'm back at the art gallery, flattening his pasty-skinned nose, running the knife through his quivering torso. A phantom skeleton floats free from my body, ascends to the heavens, and I hear their voices. There is a flash of light, and I'm momentarily blinded as the metal and plastic is torn into pieces, end over end, the shattering of glass, and quiet. Blood echoes in my ears, and my soul trembles into the air.

I'm on the street, fresh air in my lungs, and the throbbing at my arm is a welcome companion. There's a rattle of keys in my coat pocket, new metal, and I scan the street for the plain white car. There are different instructions with this assignment, something new. I have wheels it seems, and a place to be. No name or face this time, just a make and model, Illinois license plate XJL 2338. A beige Camry, 2001, shouldn't be hard to find in a sea of fucking Camrys.

I sigh.

There to the right sits my new ride, just as calm and cool as can be, a vision of loveliness. It's every undercover cop car I've ever seen, faded white paint rusting at the wheel wells, balding tires, silver spotlight on the driver's side, and the keys are dancing in my hand. Good thing I have the badge already.

Trunk, the note said. Trunk first.

I ease over to it, already feeling like a cop. I scan the street, up and down, a sharp wind whipping at my coat, the air running up and under, turning my skin to ice. I pull the large metal ring of keys out and insert one into the slot. The trunk springs to life, mouth open, a cavernous space. Inside is a young blonde, in black lace panties and bra, her pale skin a spotlight in the shrinking abyss, blood seeping from her ears. I slam it shut and shake my head.

“No. No, that can't be right. Play nice, Vlad.”

My mumbled words are lost in the wind.

I try the key again, and this time it's empty. A small black book bag sits in the center of the trunk. I pull it toward me, and unzip it. Inside it is a portable flashing light for the dash of my new ride and a small silver handgun with a silencer attached. I put the gun back in the bag and stand up straight. A deep breath and my ribs ache.

Shit.

I don't like going in blind. I like to have a face. I can take one look at that face, and decide who they are—murderer, rapist, thief; abusive parent, drug-dealing misanthrope, pervert. It's what I do, what I have to do. Turn them into nothing more than bags of flesh waiting to decompose, wasted breath and tainted meat. I take them out, because if I don't, they'll spread their filth to everything they touch, infecting the weak, the pure, the children, without remorse or regret.

I grab the black bag and slam the lid shut. Big trunk. This car might come in handy. Vlad's good. I go around to the driver's side, insert the key, and with a flick of the wrist I hop in. I have a destination, a place to sit and wait for my prey. But it's early still. Plenty of time. So I think I'll move the third errand up. Time to go pay my respects.

“…New York Super Fudge Chunk. I have the cellphone, call me if you get home before we do. I miss you, honey, you've been working too hard…”

Three gray hunks of stone mock me from the dying earth. I stare at the chiseled names, hands buried deep in my pockets. I have become one with the tombstones. A slow drizzle mists my skin, and in the distance the sound of a train fills the air, chugging down the tracks as a slow bellowing horn fades in the night. The light has dimmed as I've stood here shivering, and suddenly the day is gone.

A flash of headlights, the squeal of tires on pavement, and the windshield of my car is filled with the sun. Metal screams and glass tinkles the air, I'm a feather drifting in a slow-moving current, I'm a fragile egg, cracked on the counter, shell splintering into tiny jagged pieces. The muted mass of the minivan in front of me is gone from my vision in the blink of an eye. Nothing remains. It's all gone. A kaleidoscope of gray and white, slices of red and pinpoint pain scatters across my body.

“Hey, guys,” I mutter to the graves.

My face threatens to cave in on itself, and I'm reminded of why I don't come here anymore. How can I be dead inside, empty and gutted, carved up and left to rot and at the same time filled with so much exposed emotion, wrapping me in these memories like a newborn child?

I am fractured.

The harder I try to push it away, the more it beats me down. I drop to my knees as my eyes overflow, covering my face with these cursed, shaking hands. I sob in the darkness, my lungs burning, throat constricting, and I miss my family with every fiber of my being. I can't simply stare into the darkness. My knees soak through with water, a sour taste filling my mouth.

I see crayons and love notes, action figures and baseball gloves, hear every name of every goddamned stuffed animal they ever had, lined up one after another: Sweetie Pie, Mr. Eelio, Funny Bunny, Batty, Professor Wigglebottom, Poochie, Max, Murphy, and Snaky. I miss every stupid one of their fluffy little heads. I miss the bedtime stories, their favorite part of the day, the requests for water, and declarations of love. The Eskimo kisses, butterfly kisses, goldfish kisses, and don't forget sniffy puppy.

It's too much.

A dog barks beyond the iron gates, and the tiny windows fill with the monotony of their empty flickering lives. A thousand voices whisper in the dark. Great oak trees line the cemetery, swaying back and forth, sighing in the breeze. Exhausted limbs twitch, as my eyes roll up into my head, and I tip over onto my side, depleted.

Cars rush past, oblivious, their wheels gripping the road with a strength we couldn't muster.