The After Math

The title is very deliberately NOT called "the aftermath." Mark that.

One plus one equals two, our two bodies pressed together so tight in our provisory passion that even your insincerity couldn't fit in the space between us. Two plus two equals four, as in my two legs straddling yours, your two lips grappling mine, and each pair eyes averted from the other's all the while. Five plus five equals ten, the way our fingers twisted together - fixedly, like they forgot for a moment what this actually was. I learned addition when I was just a child, so it comes as no surprise: One plus one equals two - two alone, not me and you. And that ryme isn't half as bad as the joke of my hope of being that perfect one when our bedroom arithmatic was over. Two minus one equals me sitting alone in my bedroom while the sheets cool, feeling a hell of a lot like zero.

Good Behavior

Oooh lookie. I wrote something that ISN'T Raze for once. What it is, I'm not sure. Nothing particularly good. But its uh, a post?

Twelve years. Twelve years I've patiently paced this cage, carefully studied the definition of "good behavior," learned to swallow my pride and perfectly mimic a lamb's gentle nature while watching the world through a lion's eyes. Tomorrow, I return to the wild, where the world makes sense, where there's predators and prey and no bars between them. Freedom.

I'm so much more open minded than these compassionate liberals who manage to stare down their nose at me while saying they're proud of how "reformed" I am. Their hollow pontifications about killers still being people, people they've arrogantly deemed "sick" and needing "help," would be so much more convincing if they could look at me without their face twisting up like they just smelled shit. Me? Well if you told me that you were going to go out and beat a father of two to death with his son's own baseball bat, I'd smile and tell you to send me a postcard. I'd love to come but I'm elbows deep in entrails.

Poor you, so very sick. No. Cancer is a sickness. This? This is just me. His daddy must have hit him, his mommy must not have hugged him. Is that easier for you to swallow than the possibility that some of us are just like this? That it doesn't take a tragic backstory? That two parents held and kissed and loved a murderer the same way you do your kids? Or is that a little too close for comfort?

I don't need your pity. When I split a person open like the Red Sea, all you can see is the mud and the worms on the ocean floor. I let those beautiful red waves wash over me, feel the salty spray in my face, and walk through that moment with all the confidence of Moses. I pity you.

I've spent the last twelve years sharpening my fangs on these bars, and when they set me free, I'm going to feast on this city's underbelly until the starved beast they've kept caged is sated.

Welcome to Haven (Part 1)

This is part one of however many entries I opt to make it. And yes, this is the beginning of the "Gargoyles in the world of Raze!" silliness I've been blathering about for days now. Didn't edit this at ALL before posting, so if you see glaring typos or all around poor writing, sorry. I'll come back and tweak it later.

I arrived at the gates of Haven not long after night had fallen, the sky still more navy than black. The building was unremarkable from outside, a squat one story brick structure with a sprawling footprint, steel gray metal roof, and none of the artistic flare typical of modern architecture. It was too sizeable to pass for a house, but lacked the large showcase windows and idenifying signage of a business. It seemed like the type of place that might serve as a headquarters for something very menial; offices of the Department of Waste Management for a podunk town, or something equally humdrum.

Only the fence gave the building any air of importance. Heavy-duty chain link stood ten feet tall, a wicked curl of razor wire coiled at its top like a serpent lying in wait. I would later ask Lia what purpose the fence served when the greatest threats to Haven could fly. She told me that humans were the second greatest threat.

"Besides," she'd added with a playful wink, hoisting the double barreled shotgun clutched in one massive, clawed hand, "bullets can fly too."

One thing that struck me out of place upon viewing Haven's cold, institutional exterior was something I noticed before I even exited my car: peacocks. My arrival was announced by a shrill chorus of alarm cries, the birds noticing me well before I could spot their night-time perches in the two maple trees framing the entrance. Their long tails hung from the boughs as dense as spanish moss, a great flock assembled on the property. When I questioned the presence of the exotic birds, I was told that guard dogs frightened the pigeons. Very little of that reply made sense before a full tour of the facilities.

With such a noisy reception, ringing the buzzer was unnecessary. I heard the beat of vast, leathery wings only moments before Lia swooped down before me. Though she stood only five feet tall, she was a formidable sight, head lowered to display wicked horns, frill fully extended, mouth agape and crowded with sharp fangs. The claws would have been threat enough, but the shotgun clenched in her leathery grip was leveled with my chest just in case. Wings spread to give the impression of greater size, the gargoyle glared from beneath a heavy brow with eyes that appeared blood red from a lack of pigmentation.

"State your business," she growled, her voice a rich baritone despite her small stature.

I fumbled in my pocket for my MIPS identification badge, finally catching it between two fingertips.

"Trent Wiktor, Missoula Institute for Preternatural Studies," I displayed the badge, trying to sound official. "I spoke with Catalina about documenting the work being done here at Haven?"

The gargoyle contemplated me for a moment before giving her best approximation of a human smile, something made crooked and hideous by her curved tusks. She lowered her gun and unlocked the gate.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Wiktor. I was expecting a h..." Across the street, a man was walking his dog, and she changed the course of her sentence. "Well, your complexion is not very Polish."

Preternatural confidentiality; I liked her already.

Lia pulled the gate open, gesturing me inside with a sweep of her four fingered hand.

"Welcome to Haven."

An Obvious Metaphor

Ever wonder what Sreya was probably like in high school? Apparently I did.

"She paces the corridor nervously with wide, rolling eyes, hobbling on swollen, calloused feet. Her toenails are overgrown, toes twisted with arthritis. Flies swarm the feces smeared down the backs of her legs, her knees are bruised and begrimed. Her hair hangs in a wild, tangled mat over protruding shoulder blades. Swollen breasts, inflamed and irregular with infection, hang loosely over her too-visible rib cage. Her belly sags in a paunch, once cradle to seemingly countless infants, now barren with age and abuse. This is why she is here; there is no use for a woman who can no longer bear young.

Lice and ticks worry her skin, and she attempts to scratch them free, but without nails it is a futile effort. Her fingertips had been cut off at the last joint when she was a baby; when crowded, children tend to bicker and scratch at one another, after all. This and the confinement that has softened her constitution keep her from being much of a threat to the workers who stick canes through the bars, jabbing at her ribs and buttocks to prod her towards the chute.

She lets out a pathetic, braying cry of fear and confusion, attempting to turn away from the din of the auction ahead. A rod strikes her across the bridge of her nose, seperating flesh and fascia as a bruise instantly swells beneath her skin. The woman falls to her knees with a shriek, the -"

"Ok, that's enough."

Sreya raised her eyes to meet her instructor's disapproving gaze.

"Excuse me?"

The man looked over the rim of his glasses, bushy eyebrows shadowing the steel gray glare below them.

"I realize that I requested you create a piece of writing around a metaphor, but don't you think the analogy of humans to animals is a bit obvious?"

Sreya contemplated her teacher's question for a moment, and a fierce smiled appeared on her young face.

"It ought to be, shouldn't it?"

Keep Off The Grass

Some more Lucas and Claire. I really like this pairing, if you can't tell yet.

"Come on, we'll be late for Trent's presentation if we don't hurry," Lucas extended one hand and stepped out on to the lawn.

Claire started after him, then paused, one foot floating over the soft, verdent grass as though testing hot water. Her eyes flitted to a "Keep Off The Grass" sign glaring up at her with silent reproach from the ground a few feet to the left. Her bottom lip curled beneath clean white teeth, and she wrung her hands tensely. Lucas regarded her with a soft smile, trying to meet her lowered gaze.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Claire pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears as she always did when she was nervous. It had become a familiar gesture to Lucas.

"I don't feel right, walking on the grass, I mean."

Lucas considered her for a moment, then errupted into a burst of laughter that startled the woman.

"Well isn't that just civilization in a nutshell?"

Claire met his comment with a perplexed frown. He reached out and gently tilted her chin with one hand so that their eyes met.

"How can you possibly feel guilty about something as simple and natural as walking on grass? I feel guilty about walking on pavement - it doesn't belong there."

Claire laughed too then, her brilliant smile flashing before her hands hid it as always. Lucas offered the crook of his elbow.

"Shall we, then?"

She nodded quickly, looping her arm through his, and they set off across the lawn together. Even with her graceful strides contrasted to his hobbling lean against the cane, it was obvious who was actually supporting who.

Immortal Goldfish

You know what I'm in the mood for? Some totally unproductive writing, first person, from a character that doesn't even show up in the series until Vol 3. In fact, let's write about her before she was even a wereanimal. Yeah, that's a good allocation of my time. I give you Claire.

Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.

For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.

When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.

Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.

I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?

One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,

"Why are those fish so sleepy?"

I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.

"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.

"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.

"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.

"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"

I stopped, taking a deep breath.

"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."

Sated, the child smiled.

"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.

I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.

The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.

Snippets: Vol 1 & 2

I've been working on Vol 1 & 2 the past few nights, and while I don't want to post anything substantial, here's some (obviously unedited/unrefined) tidbits of what I've been up to.


Vol 1. - Faster Than A Speeding... Oh Wait, No.
Therianthropes, even in their human form, are fast. I launched forward with a snarl, a single bound closing more than half of the distance between us. But therians are not faster than bullets. The man’s eyes opened wide with surprise, but he leveled his handgun and pulled the trigger. He fired only one shot, that certain that he could kill me. The bang resonated through our small kitchen, deafening, and my forward momentum simply… stopped. I think Estelle was screaming, but the sound was almost completely drowned out by the ringing in my ears. I stood dumbly, not even feeling the bullet yet, and like every asshole in a made-for-TV movie, I stared down at my chest with surprise. Watched, like I had all of the time in the world, as the tiny hole in my shirt became wreathed in red.

I looked up, my field of vision already narrowing, and staggered a few clumsy steps forward. The handgun discharged again, and this time I felt it; as the bullet ripped through my abdomen and out my lower back, it felt as though it was simultaneously stabbing, beating, and burning its way through my insides. I yelped like a wounded animal, my legs giving out as I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness from the shock of the pain. Crumpling against the kitchen floor, I begged every god I didn’t believe in to please, please not let me lose consciousness without ensuring that Estelle was safe.

Vol. 2 - Lost Dog
Scrape, scrape scrape. A high pitched whine. The clatter of claws as a tight circle was paced. I sniffed the air and stood in dumb shock for a beat; Elise? And one moment later, I caught another scent: my neighbor Mrs. Roberts. Shit. Her Pomeranian erupted into a rapid-fire series of high pitched, territorial barking. God damnit. I opened the door to see Elise looking over her shoulder in a startled crouch, ears pinned and hackles rising. This could get ugly fast.

"What should I do, should I call animal control?" gasped Mrs. Roberts, eyes wide and wrinkled lips pulled back in a fearful grimace.

"I think it's just a lost dog," I bluffed. "She was clawing at my door to come in."

"Come in to eat you maybe. By God Mr. Wiktor, I've lived in Montana long enough to know a wolf when I see one!"

I did my best to muster an insulted frown to mask my growing dread.

"M'am, I am a wildlife biologist. I think I'd know a wolf if I saw one." I crouched down to Elise's level. "Hey girl, you lost? It's ok, c'mon." I silently willed Elise to wag her tail and play along. She only looked at me uncertainly.

"It's ok girl," I urged. "Good dog, do you want to come inside for treat?" My voice lilted at 'treat' for effect, but I'd emphasized 'come inside' as well, and she finally got the picture. Tail lowered and wagging, she licked my outstretched palm and whined, then curled in a sit leaning against my side. It was an applause-worthy performance. Mrs. Roberts breathed an audible sigh of relief as I scratched behind her ears then rose to open the door. Elise padded through the doorway.

"See, no problem. I'll call around and see if anyone reported a missing dog; if not I'm sure someone will give her a good home." I faked a noble and compassionate smile then fought every urge to hurriedly slam the door shut behind me as I returned inside.

You Could Stay.

I officially suck. Not only have I failed to produce ONE finished novel, but I have been dashing back and fourth between Volumes 1-3 of Raze. I worked out an entire plotline from Trent's poorly constructed character background for Vol 1 and began writing it, only to think "Man, Vol 3 is going to be SO MUCH FUN. So, here's some Volume 3, towards the end of the novel no less.

"You could stay," she said, squeezing my hand. Her finger tips looked so pale and dainty across my knuckles. I remembered how her hand looked in mine the day I'd slipped the ring over her finger, the day she said "yes."

"I can't, Estelle." I stroked my thumb across her skin then raised my eyes to meet hers. "I'm not the same person you once... knew." Saying "loved" may have been more accurate, but it stung too much to verbalize.

"Trent.. back then, I was young and stupid and scared, and I'm sorry, I truly am. But I don't care what you are."

I cracked a small, sad smile.

"What I am isn't the problem. It's who I am, who I've become... the things I've seen, the things I've done..." I got to my feet, pulling my hand gently from hers.

"What could you possibly have done?" She folded her arms over her chest, stubborn and insecure all at once. "Despite all this talk, when I look in your eyes I still see you. You look sad, you look confused, you look desperate, but you still look like the man I fell in love with."

I flinched at hearing her say that word.

"Looks can be deceiving," I replied quietly. "Estelle... you have a good life here. You have a steady job, a beautiful home, an ambitious future. I have..." I looked down the hallway, towards the bedroom where Gabe and the others were resting or at least politely pretending to. "I'm not part of the world you live in any more."

"You could be," she said. "Or I could be part of your world."

I let out a bark of incredulous laughter and for a moment was angry at her, irritated that she could be stupid enough to think it that simple.

"Part of my world? My world? The last time I dragged you into my world, a man nearly killed you. Or have you forgotten that already?"

Estelle went very still, and her eyes revealed that her mind was somewhere else, a darker place. When she returned, she looked me very squarely in the eye.

"I haven't forgotten. Not a day goes by that I don't remember that night," she took a step forward, defiant. "But even when he was tearing my clothing off, even when he had that gun pressed to my temple, do you want to know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about you, lying on the floor, dying. The thought of losing you was scarier than anything he could have done to me." Her eyes dropped. "The sick irony is, he didn't take you away from me that night. I sent you away. And ever since that day, I've wondered how things could have been different if I could have just accepted you."

The look on her face was strong, but her voice was faltering. I reached out to gently brush her cheek, then tilted her chin up to face me. She looked at me with those clear, beautiful blue eyes, her expression almost begging.

"Oh Estelle." I smiled. "How could you, how could anyone possibly accept me? I don't accept myself."

Powder Kegs

Oooh, well this is rare. I'm posting something from an actual book in progress. Fancy, huh? This is from Raze Vol 3, enjoy.

I find that most old flames are suited only for lighting powder kegs. So it was probably stupid of me to come here at all. And yet...

It almost looked as though time had stopped when I'd left. She hadn't moved out of our old place. The simple one story building hunched in the shadows of the ancient oaks towering above, a perfect image of the way I'd left it. I'd half expected the gutters to be full, the lawn overgrown, her small Dodge in the driveway to be growing rusted. But everything was maintained to perfection, and I suppose I should have expected no less from her.

This was not to say that things were no different, only that they looked the same. She had gotten another dog since Rhett had died. It must have been indoors, but I could smell its territorial pissings from the tree line. The scent of the place was different; it didn't smell like "us" anymore. I doubted she had a stable companion, but there were old traces, masculine wans lingering behind. A stupid part of me felt jealous about this, like it couldn't remember the nearly seven years that had passed since I'd left.

One window was illuminated an incandescent gold, a rectangular beam of light stretching across the lawn outside. This used to be our dining room. If I craned my neck, I could see that she had replaced our large mahogany dining table with a more personal, modern-style table for two. With her parents having moved out of state while we were together, and mine estranged by my disappearance, she didn't need a seating for family gatherings any longer.

The quiet house suddenly came to life with movement. First, a big, bounding dog - some kind of shepherd mix - bounced enthusiastically past the window in the direction of our - her -kitchen. If I strained, I could faintly hear her laughter and the soft, cooing tones she used to address the dog. I smiled, tail thumping between my legs; she'd always had a way with animals. The jangle of a leash, however, swept the smile from my face. Many dogs reacted to therians the way they would to any large predator: territorial, aggressive, warning. Up a tree for a good vantage point, I was a sitting duck.

Frantically, I began to scrabble down the trunk, only to hear the front door creak open. Almost immediately, the loud, booming barks of the dog filled the silence of the night air.

"What's wrong, Boomer?"

What an amusingly apt name.

"Boomer, no! Hey! Get back here!"

Pounding paws, jangling metal, and the slithering of something dragging through the leaves: that would be the sound of a dog yanking its leash from its owner's hand and dashing off in pursuit of a werewolf. I jumped to the ground just in time for the dog to reach the tree line and erupt into furious, rapid-fire barking as it closed in on its target. I realized with a growing sense of dread that with the dog already at a full run and me just regaining my footing, I couldn't run away fast enough. If the dog attacked me as I fully suspected it would by the familiar aggressive tone to its vocalizations, I was going to end up killing it in order to defend myself and escape. I sighed, then began the undignified climb back up the tree trunk, where I hunkered in the densest boughs that would hold my weight.

The dog stood at the base of the tree, neck craned upwards, teeth bared and pelt standing on edge. He barked, one loud, sharp note after the other. I imagined in dog he was saying something to the tune of "Hey, Estelle! I've got your ex up a tree! Come and look!" which was of course precisely what was going to happen as I heard her clumsy human footfalls drawing ever nearer. Finally, her pale skin was visible through the trees, and she addressed the dog in a stern, scolding voice that made me want to submit.

"That is very bad, Boomer! Very bad!"

The dog let out a low whine, ears drooping and tail hanging slack, but didn't move from the base of the tree nor remove his fixated gaze from me.
Estelle stopped a few feet away.

"Come here."

The dog's eyes flicked her way and he whimpered, sitting down, but continued staring upwards.

"Boomer! I am talking to you, now you come here. You're a very bad dog!"
Boomer stood up, prancing from paw to paw and groaning. He looked over his shoulder at her, then back up the tree, and let out a whiny bark. Estelle heaved a great sigh.

"Ok, what have you got up there? Raccoon again?"

Not quite.

She strode over, squinting upwards in the darkness. Her weak human vision couldn't spot me, and I held still, barely daring to breathe. Perhaps she would lose interest and take the dog back inside... nope, there was the flashlight. Well, fuck. The beam of light snaked up the tree trunk, and I attempted to hunch lower among the branches, vanish into the bark. It was a futile effort; the light bounced off of my feline pupils, and Estelle let out a short gasp. Her brow furrowed deeply as the small circle of light offered tiny pieces of a larger puzzle: a long, canine snout, a thick striped pelt, a humanoid forearm garbed in fur. When the light finally caught the dense mat of dangling dreadlocks at my nape, however, her eyes widened and her lip trembled.

"Trent?" She called out softly, her voice barely a whisper.

My pulse began to race; I hadn't heard her speak my name in so long. Did I dare to reply?

"Trent, is that you?" she said a little louder, focusing the flashlight on my face. I squinted at the brightness and turned away with a huffing sigh.

"Well this is embarrassing," I finally replied, aiming for mirth but a distinct sadness tainting each gruff, barely human syllable.

Estelle let out a long, rattling breath. Her dog let out a confused whine; I heard his tongue lapping against the palm of her hand in a gesture of comfort.

"I'm going to take Boomer back inside... promise me you won't leave?"

I didn't respond.

"Trent, please. I think you owe me as much."

I sighed, ears drooping.

"I won't leave."

But Christ, did I ever want to.

Peace

I have a massive folder stuffed with papers of little tidbits I wrote at various points over the past year. This was in there. Before anyone throws a hissy fit, yes, I am well aware that self injury is NOT an indicator of suicidality. However, since it is concurrent with such a wide range of psychiatric conditions, it isn't unreasonable to think that someone with an SI history might also suffer from suicidality. That being said, if you have an SI history PLEASE do not read this as it may be triggering.

"Fuck!" I shout to no one in particular, slamming both hands against the steering wheel before veering off hard to the right. The undercarriage of my Chevy protests as the tall grasses and lumpy, uneven earth scrape close. Stopping the car about a hundred feet into a barren winter cornfeild, I kill the ignition and sit in silence, head tossed back and eyes closed. My breaths rasp heavily from my lungs, and even my own nose wrinkles at the alcohol reek on my lips.

Gazing skywards through that strip of tint the old cars like this always have at the top of the windsheild, the moon and stars are cast in blue. They look so cold without their natural soft yellows, uncaring voids in the desolation of space. I feel like that gibbous moon, barren and empty, half obscured in shadows, always chasing some warm glow I'll never be able to hold on to.

My Guiness beckons and I grab the half-empty bottle to take a swig. It slips through my sloppy drunken fingers, hitting the hard plastic of the cup holder just right - or just wrong, depending on how you look at it - and shatters, spilling its frothy contents across the passenger seat. I wail like a wounded animal, rubbing my hands over my face and dropping my head to the steering wheel. Even my escapes are failing me.

Fighting back tears, I look down at the shimmering shards of broken glass, glinting razor-sharp in the moon light. That urge, that obsessive urge like a ravening hunger, wells up inside of me. I pick up a green glass daggar, rolling up my left sleeve. In the dim lighting, the shadows play off of the scars, turning slight abberations of my flesh into nightmare landscapes of ragged pink gorges and lumpy white ridges. I trace the surface of my arm tentatively with my fingertip, the glass clutched in my hand running gently and cooly along my flesh like a promise of what was to come.

I hate it. I hate this. I hate the persistent tick-tock in my chest. I hate waking every god damned morning knowing that I've fucked up for good, that the rest of my life is just damage control from now on. Grazing over the thick blue veins peeking out from behind the pale flesh of my wrist, I wonder if I can go through with it. After all, isn't that what all these scars are? Practice?

I press the glass against the underside of my forearm, feel the sensation of the skin straining, straining, breaking. Feel the epidermis split, feel the fascia part, feel the muscle tear. Blood is already welling, making the shard slick so that I have to grip it tighter, make it bite into my palm to maintain grip as I drag it downwards. Closer and closer, it inches towards my wrist, the sound like shredding pantyhose but heavier somehow. The flayed flesh hangs open like a gutted fish in the moonlight. The blood looks black in darkness, like I am full of rot - and who's to say I'm not?

No good. Not close enough to any vessels. Is there nothing I can do right? Forget the slow stuff, foreplay is over. Steeling my arm and clenching my fist, I drive hard and fast against the skin, a puncture-then-pull motion meant to do major damage like a wolf's fangs worrying an elk's gut.

Suddenly, I'm not making a fist any more. My hand unfurls like a flower in sunlight, limp and exposed. Shit, I've hit a tendon instead of a vessel. So much for slashing the other wrist; better make this one count. I palpate the throbbing artery deep below the surface, beat skipping excitedly from the pain, leaving perfect rubicund prints behind just before I force the glass straight through it. Pain, sudden intense pain, then pulsating. Staring at the chunk of glass embedded a full half inch into the slickened flesh of my forearm, I see thick rivulents of blood welling up in a steady cadence all around the makeshift blade. No going back now. I drag the shard with gritted teeth, listening to that wet-fabric ripping noise of tearing flesh, then withdraw. The climax, my blood flowing out in big horror-movie gushes, begins to stain the upholstery.

I lean back in my seat, useless hand hanging low in my lap. The car is getting cold, and it's not just me; I can see my shuddering breaths rising in tiny white clouds before my eyes from the frigid temperature. I shiver a little, from the night air or the blood loss or both, and reach out with my right hand for the lever to recline. It slips from my slick grasp the first few times before finally letting the seat down. I fall back, letting out a long tremulous sigh before rolling my gaze skywards to the ceiling of my car. I wonder if this is what being in a coffin feels like.

Outside, crickets chirp and distant cattle low. No cars rumble by on the rural dirt road behind me; I am truly alone. It reminds me of how the sick barn cats on my grandpa's farm used to walk off into the woods to die. I never got it as a child, but I definitely understand right now.

Everything is getting cold now, the world fuzzy and dark around the edges. I'm not worrying about work or school, about relationships, about how I'm going to survive the next day. I'm just listening to the chorus of crickets fading in the background, feeling the warmth fading from my body just the same, the steady gush from the wound growing weak and erratic. I have no hope, no ambition, no plans for the future. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I finally feel...

Peace.