Disclaimer: The work below is presented in a rough, unedited form, and is in no way a reflection of a finished work

Copyright 1995, Brian J. Lauvray

The flesh of his arm opened to the edge of the razor. A stream of blood flowed out. He recoiled back at first from the pain, but then he enjoyed it. The blood ran the length of his arm across a hundred scars, over his wrist past the barbed bracelet mixing with the blood that ran from the fresh cuts the barbs of the hard wound steel wire had caused. It ran over the back of his hand and divided when it reached the metal bolt that stood like a guardian out of the center of his hand. He laughed with delight as the blood spilled between his fingers and at last fell into a lake of crimson that had stained the hardwood floors.

He screamed. His head shook; his eyes looked upward into his skull. He collapsed withering on the floor. Then he was unconscious. When he awoke he laughed for hours, calling out, crying, and shouting 'Elizabeth, Elizabeth' over and over again.

'I let her die,' he thought, 'it's my fault. If I would have been there she would still be alive. I left her alone.' He cut his arm again; making sure the razor scraped against his upper arm bone. He clinched his fist around the steel bolts that were pierced through his palms. It burnt his skin; it always did. He laughed and passed out.

He woke up hungry. Standing he brushed his cut arm against an end-table. Pain covered it like a shroud. On the window the closed curtains glowed an eerie blue, it was day. He walked to the refrigerator and opened it. Inside all that was left was three slices of cold cuts and a half loaf of bread. He ate it quickly. Pain always made him hungry. After his meal he showered and dressed. He came back to the front roam and sat on the coach. He could hear the workmen below in the freezer warehouse. The apartment was a mess and was cold. They let him stay there for fifty bucks a month; it was good, because he had little money and no job. Rather than pay more, he had agreed to keep an eye on the place, like a live in night watch. For the first few weeks he had done a good job; then he decided that no one was going to rob a freezer, and had slacked off.

On the wall hung one decoration, a picture, of himself when he was nine and his sister who was a year younger. She had blond hair, and a strait-toothed smile. He stared at the picture for a long time, remembering her, remembering the pain.

"You stay there, Liz. I'll be right back I'm going across the road to Brad's house. Don't leave the house." His job had been to watch her for a few hours while his mother was shopping.

"I want to come," Liz said.

"No, you stay here and watch your show. I'll only be a minute."

"You should wait until mom gets home. I'll be scared if you leave me here all alone."

"You'll be all right, I will only be gone a few minutes. Besides I'm just going across the street. "

"Okay, but don't take too long." Liz sat done, folding her arms over her chest; Her stare fixed on the television.

He had left. Brad had been his best friend. The combination of Brad being his best friend and him only being ten caused him to stay for longer than he planned. He had left Brad's just as Liz had come out of their house. She had gotten to their front yard just second's before he had gotten to Brad's. He looked up, but it was already too late.

"Liz, go back." He was running toward her, but her eight year old body was moving too quickly toward him. "No, Liz I'm coming stay there." He ran harder, trying to persuade her to stop.

The semi-truck hit her without slowing. Liz's small body disappeared beneath its wheels, as the driver hammered the brakes. The truck slid; the next time Liz was visible she was no longer human, she had been replaced by a blood soaked pile of meat. The meat flew in the air behind the trucks' tires and fell to the road just seconds before the trailer tires caught it. The trailer tires flipped the meat again in a symphony of black. Liz stopped, lying behind the truck as it slammed into a pole, finally coming to a stop.

He ran, hard to the crumpled pile of flesh and blood that had been Liz. He collapsed in tears. Nothing was left that showed she had once been human. In the flesh he could see the white of three teeth, connected to part of her jaw. He forced himself to reach into the mound of flesh and remove them; hiding them so no one would know that he had taken them.

His parents had never gotten over Liz's death. They had never forgiven him. He had never forgiven himself either.

He reached into his shirt, running his fingers over his sister's teeth. His eyes moved from the photograph on the wall. He stood pulling his jacket around him, and walked out of the apartment.

He walked down the street to the left. He stopped at a set of gray steps leading to a door beneath the street. Above the door a burnt out neon sign advertised "Tattoos and More". The door's handle was red with rust; its frame covered in dirt. It opened easily and he entered. The man behind the counter was familiar. A homemade airbrush of a Chinese Air Dragon hung behind him on black velvet. He smoked a cigar and was reading a pulp magazine.

He looked up at Jake as he walked in, "Hey, Jake how's today." He didn't seem to notice the dried blood that caked Jake's hand.

"I need another one. I want a face and hands that looks like its ripping out of my chest. You know like you see in biker mags."

"Sure thing, you got the cash? Sorry man but I can't spare no credit your way today. The rents up and the old lady acts like she has a broom stick up her ass."

"I got it. Do you have time to do it now, or do you have an appointment coming in?"

"I got shit all day. How many colors you want?"

"Just black."

"You sure? I said I couldn't float you one, but I'll throw in some color for the same cash. The old bitch will never know that shit."

"No, just black."

"What ever you say, man. Let me get my needles and I'll get started."

Tattoos used to hurt him. Jake sat and watched the needle prick his skin. Each time the needle went in he watched the ink stain his flesh a faded blackish-green. It took three hours to complete the entire picture. The scar tissue on Jake's chest caused problems for the tattoo artist and his dirty needles.

"It's done, that was a bitch. How the hell did you get all that shit over your body? Car wreck or something?"

"Yeah. How much?"

"For you, man, I'll make a deal. Seventy bucks. Sorry but that was one big draw. And, after all its one of my best. It's worth a lot more, but since I know you, what the hell."

Jake pulled a pile of stained and wadded green bills from his coat. He counted off three twenties and a ten, and threw them down. He counted off another thirty and handed it to the man."

"Thanks man. Where the fuck do you get this kind money, you dealing dope or some shit?"

"No," Jake left.

The settlement had been big after the accident. He had been the only heir. Fortunately, his father had forgotten to remove Jake from the will before he died. After the funeral expenses and the auction Jake was left with over two hundred thousand in liquid cash. His father had been a miser, saving each penny and only giving it up in death.

He had hated his father since Liz had died. His father had returned his hate spitefully. But his father made mistakes too, and was happy that his father's biggest mistake had taken his life. He felt sorry for his mother. She had gotten over her anger at him, or at least she had tried to act as though she had. Even if she had blamed him, she had never ceased to love him and try to help him when she could. She had been a gentle woman. Most of his memories of her were good. He thought it better that she had died. The world had been pain for her and she never deserved it.

Jake looked down his shirt as he walked. The black demon escaped his chest and he smiled. The alcohol burnt the small pin pricks. He smiled again, at the relieving tickle. He rubbed his hand over the demon. The bolt in his hand stirred irritating him. Lunch came from a corner deli. By eight o'clock he was back at his apartment. Inside he flipped on the television. The light from its screen basked him in color. He lay back on the couch and wished he had some hard drugs. He always wished that he could be a junkie or an alcoholic, it would make it so easy to escape. Drugs were for the weak and he was not weak, he told himself that ever time he thought about it. After several minutes of quality TV entertainment he was asleep.

He woke up at ten twenty. Standing on wobbly legs, he pulled his coat over his shoulders. His nostrils filled with his odors: alcohol, leather, and blood. He left the apartment again, walking through the streets until he came to a small door in a back alley. "Welcome to Hellhole" was carved on a metal plate to the left of the door. He pulled the door open, meeting a familiar face, this one nameless. The bouncer didn't seem to notice him. It had been a long time since he had stopped asking for Jake's ID. Jake made his way down a set of steps under a red light hanging from a taught cord out of the center ceiling. The light swung in the air current from the open door. The motion caused devils to play on the walls. He could hear music; it grew louder as he approached the bottom.

He smiled to himself; the music was good. It meant he could relax and dance. At the bottom of the stairs a green curtain hide a doorway. He pulled it aside, walking through. Inside people danced, dressed in black and leather. Before the dancers a band played. Jake recognized the song playing, 'sick boy' he thought, 'a great fucking tune.' He moved toward the bar, watching the women. All of them were dressed in leather; their clothing revealing. A man walked by with a large ring in his nose; a dog collar around his neck. A chain swung from his collar at the other end a woman with long black hair held the chain. She kicked the man on the leash; they both laughed. Jake couldn't focus his vision anywhere except on her. Women like her were the reason that he came to the 'Hellhole'.

He had tried before to convince some of them to go home with him. Once he had succeed. The night had ended early, with her shooting up, then throwing up when he removed his clothes and revealed his blood stained scars. He never tried again. Now he came here to watch, and fantasize. He moved to the bar and found a seat. As he sat, the bar-tender approached him holding a glass.

"Good band tonight, huh Jake. How's life? Haven't seen you in the last few nights. You missed a damn good band. Two nights ago, we had this Exploited cover band in here called 'cop cars'. Sounded just like them. I would have bet my ass it was Wattie singing himself." The bar-tender set the Coke down in front of Jake and continued his monologue.

Jake flipped two ones down and taking his drink tuned the guy out. Every few minutes he would say 'uh-huh' or 'yeah' so the bar-tender wouldn't know he had stopped paying. He finished the drink and turned back to man. He had gone to get a drink for another customer. Jake was glad he was gone. He hated small talk, especially with bar-tenders.

Jake left his chair and walked into the crowd, gathered in front of the stage. The band wasn't playing, instead they were talking socio-counscious bullshit. Jake ribbed a guy to the left of him hard.

"Let's dance." Jake said.

The guy's lips curled upward as the music started. He hit Jake in the jaw. Jake slammed his body against the man and kicked him in the groin. The man collapsed to his knees. Jake smiled and kicked him the face.

"Fucking looser," Jake said.

The man fell over; Jake forgot him. He moved to the most dense part of the crowd and lost himself in the violence of the motion. The crowd moved as one, jumping in a mass. The one was self destructive. Sweat and blood rained from the dancers and they danced harder. The band played faster and they danced faster. Jake was tossed about inside the stormy human sea. The cut on his arm reopened and a crimson rivulet formed down his arm and over his barbed bracelet. He hit another guy, letting the base of the bolt hit and the edge of the barbs deliver the impact. His fist and wrist exploded with sensation and it recoiled. He would never get used to the feeling of the metal driving deeper into his hand. The man on the receiving end backed away, startled with pain. Jake smiled and left the bar.

On the street he watched the prostitutes. He thought about hiring one, but decided against it. He had tried that before, but her fear had been more than he wanted. He had paid her and told her to get. He didn't want sex from someone who was afraid of his scars.

He got home just before dawn. He liked it that way. The freezer workers never had to see him, and he had a few hours of darkness and near-light left. He entered the apartment and went to the couch. Sitting he stared into the darkness. In it was Liz. She walked toward him just like she used too. They had been close. She laughed as he played a trick on her, she cried when he told her she couldn't go to school with him. She was dried blood and bone on the road. He used to scream, but now he just sat. He reached into his shirt and caressed her teeth and jaw bone.

The razor found his hand. He began to carve making the flesh of his arm his canvas. He tried to cut 'Liz' in scar on the flesh, but the tissue was too distorted to notice. He removed his shirt and began to dance. The blade moved in his hand cutting his body, whenever it got close. He couldn't open his eyes until she was gone. Then he collapsed. After full light he woke up and crawled to his bed.

The second time he woke in mid-afternoon. His body was caked in blood. The smell was rancid so he decided to shower. After he cleaned he dressed. He was hungry so he ate some peanut butter and bread from the cupboard. As he ate he read, one of the pleasures he still allowed himself. Two hours passed. At first dark he left the apartment.

He walked the street, leaving the low-income area and entering the art section. The store fronts changed from thrift shops to dinner theaters and private galleries. Jake continued until he found 'Pierce', a small shop smashed between two galleries. He entered; they ushered him through a red bead curtain into a cubicle.

A man came later. Jake wasn't sure of his name, but he had meet him before. It was French he thought, PierrŠ, or something like that.

"Today, what will it be for you?"

"Pierce me." Jake said.

"Pierce you where? I can not just pierce you."

"Here." Jake pointed to his stomach.

"You would like your navel pierced?"

"No the fat. I hate the fat. Pierce it." Jake pulled up his shirt, underneath he grasped a handful of flesh and pulled so it was as thin as it could be stretched. "I want one a bolt, like in my hand." He held his hand up for the man to examine.

"I, do not believe I can do such a thing."

"I'll pay you. What ever it takes."

"I will do it, but it will cost you thirty dollar." the man reached for his needle.

The needle was long, like an old fashion hat pin, but thicker. He cleaned it, heating it and dipping it in alcohol. The man stared emotionless at Jake and then reached for his stomach. Jake released the fat to the artisan and the man took it in his hand. He pulled it tight, and brought the needle into place.

"Are you sure you would like the fat pierced?" he asked.

"Do it."

He pushed the needle, it entered the flesh slowly. It stopped and would go no farther. He pushed, but it would continue because of the scar tissue. After several minutes of pushing and turning the needle broke the tissue and started to descend through the fat. The man pushed it; blood welled up around the point of entry. It made a crimson stream run over the side of Jake's stomach and onto his leg. The man watched it, careful not to contact Jake's blood. Jake thought he looked afraid of his blood; it made him laugh.

The other side it didn't cause the same trouble. The pierce took over ten minutes. During the time Jake's only emotion was his laugh at the man's fear. The man removed the needle, pushing the bolt through the opening. He screwed a nut into place and wiped the blood up.

Jake stood wincing.

"Thirty dollars." The man said.

Jake reached into his coat and pulled out his wad of bills. Counting out four tens he dropped them on the counter. "Something there for you," he said as he left.

As he walked home his jacket rubbed against the bolt in his stomach making it burn. It was the next morning before he noticed the cream liquids seeping from the pierce. Getting out of bed he looked behind him. The sheets had developed scars of their own. Lines of dried blood and puss snaked along the valleys formed by the creases. He pulled the sheets from the bed and threw them in a pile on the floor. Crossing the room he entered the bathroom. He examined his stomach over the sink careful not to let any of the off-white liquid drip onto the floor. It looked bad. A large blister had formed over the top of the bolt. His body was healing itself; growing new flesh over the bolt. He rubbed at the bump, trying to get the skin to peel back and reveal the metal. It didn't work. He realized if it was going to heal properly, he would need to remove the skin from the top and watch that it didn't grow over again. He reached into the medicine cabinet above the sink and pulled out a fresh razor blade from his shaving supplies. He held it and squeezed the blister. It didn't open, so he squeezed harder and pushed the razor tip into it. Cream squished out like a smash donut, falling to the floor in large drops. He squinted his eyes and kept cutting. The razor moved through the thin layer of fresh skin without trouble. When he was done the bolt could be seen. He used his fingers to push the flaps of flesh down around the bolt. He tugged the bolt loose, spinning it several times and dumping a bottle of rubbing alcohol over it. His stomach recoiled as the clear alcohol ran the length of the cut. His body convulsed. He squeezed the wound again. Infection spurted out of the wound like a fountain. He continued to squeeze until the fountain was dry.

As he tried to leave the bathroom He stumbled. His head spun with motion. He reached the couch before he passed out. Several hours later he woke up. His stomach throbbed, but he ignored it. He was hungry. He got up and went to the cabinet. He ate bread and peanut butter. It made the sensation pass. He lifted his shirt and looked at the bolt. The white infection still seeped out, but it had not swelled. His skin was dry from the alcohol and was caked with blood and infection. He wiped what he could off and let his shirt fall back over it.

"I need medicine," he thought aloud. "If I don't get some this goddamn infection will kill me."

'Why don't I let it? I am not weak, and suicide is for the weak,' he thought. He ended his thoughts by swing his fist toward a lamp on an end-table. His arm impacted with it hard and it fell, gliding across the room. The lamp shattered, pieces of glass littering the floor.

"Fuck," he said.

He kicked the remains of the lamp against the wall. He could feel his face growing red and his ears began to burn. He slammed his fist down hard against the end-table; it shook with the impact. The bolt in his hand moved and he screamed.

He reached for his coat, and left the apartment. On the Stairs he could hear the workmen below him. He tried to avoid them.

"Hey Jake," a voice called to him.

He turned towards it; it was Mark the guy who rented him the apartment.

"Yeah," Jake replied.

"Hey I just wondered, since your up, if you want to go with us down to 'Arlington's' to get a couple of drinks. We're going after the shift."

Jake kept his head to hide his face. It didn't work.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to your face? You in a car wreck or something?" Mark examined him.

"Yeah, a car wreck awhile ago." Jake replied.

"You been seeing a doctor? How about a lawyer? I got a good one I can refer you to."

"Yeah, I've seen both. I doubt shit will come of it though." He had to play it through. If he wanted peace, Jake had to convince Mark that it was just an accident and everything was okay. Otherwise Mark with would try to help him.

"Well I hope you get over it."

"I will. Thanks for your concern." Jake didn't give a shit about the man's concern. He thought he needed to be polite and friendly, if he wanted to keep the place. He had the money to move but if he had to pay higher rent it wouldn't be enough to live very long on. A few years maybe, but then he would have to work. He knew work wasn't an option. If whores wouldn't even sleep with him, no respectable place was going to hire him.

He walked on past Mark. Keeping his face hidden so the other workers wouldn't question him. He could feel the blood and infection wetting his shirt; he was glad that it was black rather than white. He reached the street and turned left toward the shops. It took him a few minutes to reach the drug store. Inside he found some anti-infection cream. He bought it and applied it on the street in front of the shop. By the time he got back to his apartment the seeping infection had soaked his shirt.

That night he stayed in for the first time in ten months. He lay on the couch and basked in the kaleidoscope of the television. Through the night he watched the television and fell in and out of consciousness. His stomach bleed until the couch and him where covered in crimson. By morning he had trouble keeping consciousness for longer than an hour. His body convulsed from the pain. His eyes had trouble focusing, and he could no longer walk.

He had tried once to get to the cabinet for some food, but his legs had been unable to support his weight. He spent his time lying on the couch applying the ointment. By the next evening he was not able to keep consciousness longer than twenty minuets. He no longer had the strength to roll into a different position.

His dreams where strange. In them Liz talked to him, and they played together. They were three years old again Then they where four, five, six, seven, then she was dead. He relived the day of her death a hundred times, without moving from the couch.

A day passed.

He lived in the scenes of childhood. He no longer tried to move to relieve the pain, and he no longer screamed aloud. Reality became the dream and then it disappeared. The truck tore his sister apart again before him. He screamed without noise. He called out to her, she smiled and the trailer truck hit her.

In his head the truck rolled a final time. It was different this time; he was no longer there. Relief flooded through him. He smiled, realizing it was no longer his fault. 'My penance is over,' he thought. He reached into his shirt and removed the teeth. He kissed them like a Rosemary and let them fall onto his chest.

A pain shot through his body, as he felt the infection oozing out. He couldn't focus on reality so he let his mind slip back into his dreams. There was no Liz there now, no truck. His dreams were empty. Devoid of the focus of the last fourteen years, he could no longer fill them.

A spasm shook his body like a California earthquake. He screamed in his final breath. The dreams ended like the reality, and with them the pain.

END

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