Read Online Sloughing Off the Rot by Lance Carbuncle - Free Book Online
Authors: Lance Carbuncle
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the bottoms of the sternums. The scars, red and feverish with infections, stood out in contrast to the purple bruising around them. John understood that he was responsible for the women’s anger. He understood he caused their injuries. The urge to jump up and flee flooded him, but his body refused to cooperate and remained immobile, glued to the spot in front of the burning bush.
And he shook his head to clear the images. The naked, faceless, scarred females backed away from him slowly, shaking their heads back and forth, and a new scene in the eyelid-picture-show replaced them. More faces, tinted in greens and blues and oranges from the flames beating against his eyelids. Faces tainted with desperation and resentment and bitterness. Grudges and repulsion dripped from the slobbering mouths of those rabid with hostility at John. And then the face of Three Tooth, a tear rolling down his cheek, appeared before John. “This is your influence. These are the people you drained and used. These are your family, friends, and acquaintances. Some of them were poisoned by simple contact with you and nothing more. You made them into this. These are your sins.”
The blaze of the thorn bush flared and erased the images from the backs of John’s eyes. “Those were your people. And these are the feelings you felt in your other life.” A lava flow of despair rushed toward and buried John. His gut cramped. The scar on his side screamed. The thumping of his heart in his head felt like it would blow off the top of his skull and spew out the blood and the evil and a torrent of anguish. He welcomed the possibility of a cranial blowout to purge himself of the creeping rot that he felt inside. He welcomed the cleansing. He embraced the possibility of death because he could bear the agony no longer.
John screamed, “Stop it! Stop this madness or I will end it myself.” He struggled to get to his feet but his strength failed him.
His eyelids cleared of the images and all he saw was the flicker of the flames. His pains waned and the psychic wounds quickly healed themselves, returning John to the bland feeling of confusion and emptiness. His eyes opened. He stared into the flames, feeling his skin tighten on his cheeks and around his eyes. “What does this all mean?” he asked the bush. “It’s awful and utterly depressing. And if that is what I felt before, then I’d rather be here. What could I have done to those people to cause such hate? I don’t feel like I’m that despicable.”
“The specifics of your life are irrelevant at this time. It is the feeling, the sense of your self that is important. What you are is what’s important. What you can do about it, that’s what is important.”
“I still don’t get it,” said John. “I do want to know why I felt the way I just did. You need to tell me…”
“Silence!” boomed the voice. “You do not order me to do anything.” A neon red halo flashed above them in the sky, and preceded a cluster of reddish-orange lightning, its tendrils shooting down and surrounding John and the burning bush. The flashes of the lightning and the flare of the fire forced John to close his eyes again.
“Keep your eyes closed,” ordered the bush. “I have much more to show you.”
The stroboscopic eyelid-movie resumed. John saw himself lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and emaciated. A nurse changed bandages on his side. She pulled away the dressing and uncovered a gangrenous wound. The nurse looked away from the injury and buried her face in the crook of her arm, seeking shelter from the stench of the infected flesh. A man in a uniform stuck his head in the door and asked the nurse something. She waved him away and returned to tending the wound. The pain in John’s side lit up briefly and excruciatingly.
“That is now,” said the bush. “That is you. You are there. You are here. And you are split. Your experiences and habits, your likes and dislikes, your knowledge, your history,
And he shook his head to clear the images. The naked, faceless, scarred females backed away from him slowly, shaking their heads back and forth, and a new scene in the eyelid-picture-show replaced them. More faces, tinted in greens and blues and oranges from the flames beating against his eyelids. Faces tainted with desperation and resentment and bitterness. Grudges and repulsion dripped from the slobbering mouths of those rabid with hostility at John. And then the face of Three Tooth, a tear rolling down his cheek, appeared before John. “This is your influence. These are the people you drained and used. These are your family, friends, and acquaintances. Some of them were poisoned by simple contact with you and nothing more. You made them into this. These are your sins.”
The blaze of the thorn bush flared and erased the images from the backs of John’s eyes. “Those were your people. And these are the feelings you felt in your other life.” A lava flow of despair rushed toward and buried John. His gut cramped. The scar on his side screamed. The thumping of his heart in his head felt like it would blow off the top of his skull and spew out the blood and the evil and a torrent of anguish. He welcomed the possibility of a cranial blowout to purge himself of the creeping rot that he felt inside. He welcomed the cleansing. He embraced the possibility of death because he could bear the agony no longer.
John screamed, “Stop it! Stop this madness or I will end it myself.” He struggled to get to his feet but his strength failed him.
His eyelids cleared of the images and all he saw was the flicker of the flames. His pains waned and the psychic wounds quickly healed themselves, returning John to the bland feeling of confusion and emptiness. His eyes opened. He stared into the flames, feeling his skin tighten on his cheeks and around his eyes. “What does this all mean?” he asked the bush. “It’s awful and utterly depressing. And if that is what I felt before, then I’d rather be here. What could I have done to those people to cause such hate? I don’t feel like I’m that despicable.”
“The specifics of your life are irrelevant at this time. It is the feeling, the sense of your self that is important. What you are is what’s important. What you can do about it, that’s what is important.”
“I still don’t get it,” said John. “I do want to know why I felt the way I just did. You need to tell me…”
“Silence!” boomed the voice. “You do not order me to do anything.” A neon red halo flashed above them in the sky, and preceded a cluster of reddish-orange lightning, its tendrils shooting down and surrounding John and the burning bush. The flashes of the lightning and the flare of the fire forced John to close his eyes again.
“Keep your eyes closed,” ordered the bush. “I have much more to show you.”
The stroboscopic eyelid-movie resumed. John saw himself lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and emaciated. A nurse changed bandages on his side. She pulled away the dressing and uncovered a gangrenous wound. The nurse looked away from the injury and buried her face in the crook of her arm, seeking shelter from the stench of the infected flesh. A man in a uniform stuck his head in the door and asked the nurse something. She waved him away and returned to tending the wound. The pain in John’s side lit up briefly and excruciatingly.
“That is now,” said the bush. “That is you. You are there. You are here. And you are split. Your experiences and habits, your likes and dislikes, your knowledge, your history,
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