The Art of Self-Destruction Read Free Page B

threads.
    And he is watching all of this, standing
right next to her, blocking the light. A bubble of blood erupts
from her mouth as she parts her lips, oily like soap, popping
suddenly and splashing her face with drops of red.
    "See," she gurgles deeply,
"no...mistakes."
    "I guess you're right," he mutters, shifting
back and forth in front of the window, the light eclipsed. She is
engulfed in a wave of his sadness, despair and hopelessness so
strong that she would have fallen to the ground shuddering if she
could move.
    She tries to speak, to tell him to stop the
fluid movement of his body, but is unable to move her tongue. The
pumping from her neck slows, her pupils constrict, and the room
begins to grow dark. She watches him move from the side of the bed,
across the slash of light from the window, walking across her field
of vision and disappearing into the hallway.
    She hears the door creak open slowly-somehow
without a door knob-and then click shut. Her periphery is gray,
melding together into the absence of color. However, right above
her, staring down like burning stars are two red lights, constant
and glaring. Watching her and waiting.
     
     
    The room folds into a singularity. She is
awash in electrons, fading into the binary, machine language
invading her mind. And she is no longer on the bed. No more blood
and soaked Egyptian cotton, flowing through the pure numbers and
contradictions of code, coursing through circuits that eventually
are broken, stored in memory, silent and cold.
     
    #
     
     
    Everything dissolves and blends into the
darkness of the small room. Before him is a scratched metal door
glowing sickly brown from the single halogen hovering over it, the
only source of light. Whispers and moans careen outward from the
black perimeter echoing across riveted aluminum siding. Charcoal
darkness.
    Points of red splatter outwards, pinpoints of
color punched into black. Colored eyes leering or instrument
panels; either is a bit sinister. Matthew rests his hand on the
cold metal of the door in front of him, scanning his lower body
with his eyes, looking for any signs of blood or secretions. There
will be none, of course, all fluids disappearing into an electronic
net hidden in silicon. But he cares.
    He is missing a sock on his left foot. He had
removed it inside, with her; had thrown it haphazardly across the
room. It should be sitting in front of him, existing as a real
object. No. Gone. Like a fog. Just gone. His shoe, however, is
there, a sickly tint of brown absorbed into the leather. It used to
be black.
    Matthew slowly bends down and picks it up,
lifting it to his nose. He sniffs before peering inside. The hole
is gone. Strangely, besides the new color and the intense odor of
foot sweat, the shoe is like new. He slips it on, sockless.
    The whispers grow louder around him. Someone
far off moans either in ecstasy or in a masochistic shudder of
painful pleasure. Next to the door is a hook for hanging unneeded
clothing. He grabs his dull black overcoat and slips it on.
    The light above the metal door stutters
erratically; off, on, off, on. He flips open a small metal case
embedded in the door, revealing what looks to be something similar
to a hotel key card: white, dull around the edges, smudged from
multiple finger prints. Matthew grabs the exposed edges, removing
it from the slot.
    The red lights grow brighter, floating toward
him, moaning, howling, sighing, whispers of torture and death and
hatred and bloodletting that is deserved and reaching inside of her
to grasp the warmth buried below skin, pulling it out for her to
see the decay, the darkness, the rot, and the scraping of metal
against concrete, door latch clicking, and the smell of cinnamon
bubble gum mixed with discarded chicken tikka masala.
    He is outside next to the vending booth. The
woman inside raises her eyebrow. The pink orb pulsating from her
mouth explodes. Cinnamon.
    The woman wears a long, flowing black skirt
with the numbers "0" and