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Authors: Michael Aronovitz
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and a hurl of momentum threw me against the back of the tub. Shampoos and conditioners that had been perched on the edge rained down on me and hot clouts of pain swarmed my left hand in an angry rush. On the other side of the tub my thumb was dancing a bit in the air, doing small twists and pendulum swings from its chain. It looked alive and I looked away. I curled my mangled hand in to my stomach and crawled to grab hold of my lighter.
I am not going to bleed to death in my own bathroom. I have to cauterize the wound.
I glanced back at the clock. Twenty seconds.
I flicked the lighter's dial to the highest setting. I gripped the towel in my teeth a second time and thumbed up a flame. Slowly, like a mad chemist, I brought the flare to the gaping wound.
There was a fusion of fire, torn flesh, and bone. My eyes blurred over and I shrieked myself silent as the gash was burned burgundy black. It popped and sizzled and I forced myself to keep the flame in place for a full five seconds.
I dropped the lighter. There was a hard pulse of anguish between the area of my recently evicted thumb and my forearm, and I wanted to curl to a fetal position to cradle the hurt. But my time was almost expired, so I heaved myself out of the tub, fell on my face, and made a three-legged shuffle for the door.
The timer went off as I was half through the archway and I gave one huge lunge.
I fell to the carpeted floor of the foyer and sobbed at the ceiling.
"Was it good enough, you bastard? Have I come clean? Did I get out in time? Fuck you!"
I heard something strange, a sound quite loud and out of place. At first I thought it was the mad ringing of the timer in my head, but it was not. It was a car horn honking and honking outside of the house. It sounded close enough to be coming from the welcome mat. I got up as quickly as I could, stumbled down the stairs, and threw open the front door.
My car was backed up on the front lawn, almost to the door, and rocking back and forth in Tina's flower bed. The Reaper was in the front seat and laughing in a broad display of rotten enamels.
"Wouldn't it be funny if everyone lost the mask?" he said. "Wanna see what that would be like? This is going to be fun!"
He melted. Bone and black cloth merged and swam like a mass of cartilage tornedoed in a slow-motion blender. The wet lump shifted, cracked, and made sucking sounds as it reformed.
It became Thelma.
"Hi, sweet thang." She gave a parade wave that jangled the many silver bracelets on her wrist. Then she spun the tires in a harsh, rubbery roar that kicked up dirt, mulch, and small stones to pepper the walls and shutters. I half closed the screen door and took cover behind it as she tore donuts into my lawn, sending up a confetti spray of grass, tulips, bulbs, and lilies to the warm summer breeze. Just before her sharp turn across the sidewalk and over the curb, she ran down Tina's flowering fig for good measure.
A horde of children had been watching and the weird event made them go mad with glee.
No masks!
It became a dirt-pile free-for-all as they infiltrated and began sliding, stamping, kicking, and rock throwing. I still had not moved. The pain was too close, the visual chaos outside too surreal, like the symbolic representation of something I could not quite put into focus.
I snapped out of it when they started to break my windows. Two small boys in OshKosh B'Gosh overalls aimed for the panes upstairs. A girl with pigtails and horn rims walked the plowed up garden and stamped her Mary Janes down on the flowers that remained standing. The bigger boy who lived across the street hefted a large cornerstone and waddled it over to the wounded flowering fig. He dropped it and broke the small tree at its base with a wet snap.
The sound of it was similar to my thumb's last words, and I marched outside. Children scattered. The woman across the street was standing in her doorway and shaking with laughter.
I strode down my soiled walkway and broke into
I am not going to bleed to death in my own bathroom. I have to cauterize the wound.
I glanced back at the clock. Twenty seconds.
I flicked the lighter's dial to the highest setting. I gripped the towel in my teeth a second time and thumbed up a flame. Slowly, like a mad chemist, I brought the flare to the gaping wound.
There was a fusion of fire, torn flesh, and bone. My eyes blurred over and I shrieked myself silent as the gash was burned burgundy black. It popped and sizzled and I forced myself to keep the flame in place for a full five seconds.
I dropped the lighter. There was a hard pulse of anguish between the area of my recently evicted thumb and my forearm, and I wanted to curl to a fetal position to cradle the hurt. But my time was almost expired, so I heaved myself out of the tub, fell on my face, and made a three-legged shuffle for the door.
The timer went off as I was half through the archway and I gave one huge lunge.
I fell to the carpeted floor of the foyer and sobbed at the ceiling.
"Was it good enough, you bastard? Have I come clean? Did I get out in time? Fuck you!"
I heard something strange, a sound quite loud and out of place. At first I thought it was the mad ringing of the timer in my head, but it was not. It was a car horn honking and honking outside of the house. It sounded close enough to be coming from the welcome mat. I got up as quickly as I could, stumbled down the stairs, and threw open the front door.
My car was backed up on the front lawn, almost to the door, and rocking back and forth in Tina's flower bed. The Reaper was in the front seat and laughing in a broad display of rotten enamels.
"Wouldn't it be funny if everyone lost the mask?" he said. "Wanna see what that would be like? This is going to be fun!"
He melted. Bone and black cloth merged and swam like a mass of cartilage tornedoed in a slow-motion blender. The wet lump shifted, cracked, and made sucking sounds as it reformed.
It became Thelma.
"Hi, sweet thang." She gave a parade wave that jangled the many silver bracelets on her wrist. Then she spun the tires in a harsh, rubbery roar that kicked up dirt, mulch, and small stones to pepper the walls and shutters. I half closed the screen door and took cover behind it as she tore donuts into my lawn, sending up a confetti spray of grass, tulips, bulbs, and lilies to the warm summer breeze. Just before her sharp turn across the sidewalk and over the curb, she ran down Tina's flowering fig for good measure.
A horde of children had been watching and the weird event made them go mad with glee.
No masks!
It became a dirt-pile free-for-all as they infiltrated and began sliding, stamping, kicking, and rock throwing. I still had not moved. The pain was too close, the visual chaos outside too surreal, like the symbolic representation of something I could not quite put into focus.
I snapped out of it when they started to break my windows. Two small boys in OshKosh B'Gosh overalls aimed for the panes upstairs. A girl with pigtails and horn rims walked the plowed up garden and stamped her Mary Janes down on the flowers that remained standing. The bigger boy who lived across the street hefted a large cornerstone and waddled it over to the wounded flowering fig. He dropped it and broke the small tree at its base with a wet snap.
The sound of it was similar to my thumb's last words, and I marched outside. Children scattered. The woman across the street was standing in her doorway and shaking with laughter.
I strode down my soiled walkway and broke into
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