This Human Flesh

Aug 25, 2008 - 22:00 PM PST

I bought an eighth of smoke for sixty bucks, “kush” or whatever. So the prices were whack. I can’t seem to get high and stay high anymore. Perhaps I have reached a new low.

“I smell something burning.” My father is a tough guy. I am not lighting everything, but he knows I smoke so he likes to harass me for it. Yes, Daddy? I’m sitting Indian style on my bed in the dark. In my underwear. Remember when I was a little girl and I used to beg you to sleep with me? He might knock on my door and demand that I open it. To which I likely will respond that I am in the nude or something, or taking a nap. But sometimes, depending on what mood he is in, he’ll demand that I immediately open my door. He is practically standing on top of me. I wish I could slap him. And the feeling is probably mutual. He’ll say that he knows what I am doing in here. What I have learned from dealing with my father is that you always deny everything. This is a family of lies, and only as long as we continue to brush things under the rug will I get out of here alive. I smell something burning. I smell something burning...My mother is zonked out on the couch in front of the television screen. It is the smell of rotting flesh.

I want to smoke, but the thing is, every time I try something new goes wrong. The weed fumbles from my shaky fingers, or my bowl breaks. My lighter has run out of fluid, I have only one matchbook. It has been going on like this all morning. And I must’ve smoked a gram, in a single morning. Please extinguish the fire in my throat. I have no money and since my piece broke, I have been rolling joints. This is a cry for help. I tried making a water bong. I dismantled a hollow pen, reconnected it to make a bowl by heating the plastic, shaped it into a cylinder with my tweezers and then melted it to the pen. I shoved the pen in the side of a water bottle. Except it won’t fucking work because there are holes in the pen, and the hole in the water bottle isn’t airtight so water is creeping out.

I heard a knock on the door. It's about time. I have been waiting.

“I smell something burning,” he said.

He’s so doped up on pain medication he talks to himself anyway. I wish that I wasn’t so angry with him because now that he is so old and feeble I hardly recognize him. Plus, some light went out in his eye a long time ago; he mopes around half dead. Oh I wish I could throw my arms around his neck like when I was a little kid. But I could never imagine it happening now. Our relationship is tarnished, no matter if I forgive him. I don’t know how it came to be this way, and he would tell you the same. One day my body became hypothermic and my heart turned to dust. I drink my tears. Though I don’t know for whom I am crying. Once, I thought I could heal myself with perpetual tear baths. I’d survive if stranded alone in the desert on my tears. Now that I am older, I know that it is impossible. Tears eventually dry up. Then one day you can’t cry no more, or you try to force yourself but can’t. Instead, you begin to forget things. It is our way of trying to remain innocent, I suppose. We can forget the things that caused us so much pain. Or forget about the times we hurt another. There is nothing left for me to do, but lower my head.

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I found the nub under my bed, thank goodness. I decided that I could use an apple, or potato. We don’t have either of these, so I tried using a nectarine to no avail. I couldn’t get the pen through the pit to create an airway. So I collapsed into my wicker laundry basket and stared at myself in the mirror. I cannot get any gratification, all my efforts are in vain, and everything is futile. There is nothing left for me to do but watch the seconds tick on a clock. Other than the moving second hand, I cannot tell if time is passing or standing still. I am invariably alone. My parents will be leaving soon, and then I will invariably smoke myself silly. They could be going to church, I don’t know exactly. All the days have meshed into one since I’ve left school. They go to church like it is a chore. But I don't tag along. They want me to meet a nice Christian boy, so they say. I am convinced never to return. I watch the bruised sky go from black to blue to black again. I won’t budge from bed. Soon I imagine my father will need an oxygen tank just to get around. I can hear him breathing at night from my bedroom. Perhaps I am ill, I wouldn’t mind puking my brains out. It would feel detoxifying. If only I could purge the evil thoughts from my mind, or had a friend to call. Anyway, everything this morning is in multicolor. I am thankful to be alive. Although I mutilated a perfectly delectable, healthy snack. The light has died on me. I count to twenty-five. I’ve experienced worse, once my bible fell on my piece and it shattered.

It is a blazing summer afternoon. I love to smoke a joint. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Bodies decompose under our feet as we tread. The sky is blue. Smoke is everywhere, intoxicating me. Joints produce a large proportion of smoke. I am avoiding the past because it pains me to think of it. I’m lying in bed. My life can’t be over already, can it? I am holding my cheek like my tooth aches. As of right now I am still breathing, I think I detect my chest rising and falling. Alas, there are two sides to every coin. I am still living but there are others who have not made it. Yet, the birds frolic in the air. There is no saying how much longer we have. I can hear the wind in the palm trees. I should be happy. I am happy, but somehow I am not convinced. I mutilated the nectarine like it was a pumping organ within my body. I penetrated it over and over with the pen, like it was my voodoo doll. Then I massaged the severed soft remains in my palm like a newborn kitten. Find your happy place. I live in this room like I am chained to it, fetch me a mini fridge and a chamber pot and then I’ll never be forced to leave this spot. I could lie like this forever. I have no past. One morning I merely bloomed into being. Everything comes to fruition; some too early, some are a little late, and some wither quickly and die. I often think about everyone I know being placed into a single building, and then that building being demolished as if all the people I have loved are nothing. Including myself. Human beings destroyed like ants in a farm. Like nothing matters, including what we might have been. And there is no God. My forehead wrinkles. The dismantling of all illusions. Heaven is a mirage. I have lost people that I have loved, but they will be waiting for me at the pearly gates. When I enter, everything will dissipate and I will not know the difference. God help me. Slipping into eternity, I am practicing for death as I sleep. I am smiling. There is nothing left for me to do but drift away like a lapse in memory.

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This is where my story begins. The music stops here. When I am not working, I pull down my shirt. Smoking in my car. I’m on my way to my dealer’s house. I think of all the people I see everyday and how little we know of each other. They don’t know that this is the type of place I go, and thing I do on a late Saturday night. The place where I stay early into the morning. The men that I encounter. A gun to my head, despite that the guys want to screw me they won’t cut me a break on the cost…only if I smoke with them. They’ll smoke me out all night. But I detest these drooling buffoons. If ever they tried anything I’d elbow them in the gut, kick them where the sun don’t shine, spray their eyeballs out. Make them wish that they were dead. I have my pepper spray. Okay, I especially loathe two of the guys in particular. They are obnoxious dweebs, but not the scrawny type. Although they are obviously pussy deprived. One of them, his gut protrudes out the bottom of his T- shirt. He grunts once for hello, twice for goodbye. And you don’t even want to catch a whiff of him. I doubt any of the men living in this house have ever had a relationship with a woman. Everything is pussy to ‘em. Plus, no chick wants to date ‘em. Therefore, they are forced to go to Vegas and pay for a companion. They are so gay, but way closet. They are trapped in the stage of homophobia, they’ll likely never admit to themselves their feelings for each other. Their interests include: hot chicks in bikini’s, fast cars, videogames, and pizza. They leave empty pizza boxes all over the house, and use the cardboard for firewood in the winter. It is summer, so they are saving the boxes now. We live in southern California. Once, the prick pursed his lips at me. He and his friend were coughing and I asked them if they were sick. To which he responded, “I’m sick in the head.” Glorious, I said. I am being facetious. Their conversations go something like this:

“You know Cindy?”

“Allen’s sister?”

“Yeah, she’s a stripper, that’s how we met.”

“You know when Marvin Gay begins to play, you wrap up the dance.”

“I’d fuck her.”

“Dude, she went down on me.”

“When Al Green begins to play you know that is your cue to split.”

At this point in the conversation anything is possible, they are liable to butt chests, or high five.

“Yeah, I’ve popped a lot of cherries.” My dealer said.

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I am driving west on the 118 to get to their house. The car goes vroom. Nobody knows where I am. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to witness it, does it make a sound? They know a little bit about me, these hound dogs in human form. I don’t bother to knock anymore, they never lock the door. What do you expect? This is like a frat house except a home for men ages thirty-five plus, and still living off the support of their parents. Upon entering I discover my dealer lighting candles in the dining room. His friends in the next room playing video games. I can hear the sound of machine guns and explosives, the men are shouting. It is a contest, to see who can shout the loudest. It is some shoot ‘em up video game. They must enjoy that. My dealer plugged in the lava lamp, but it is not working just yet because it needs time to heat up. He’s not into videogames.

“What do you think of my friend?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“He was crazy ‘bout you last summer, before you chopped off all your hair. Now he just thinks that you are crazy.”

“I know.”

“I like crazy.”

“Oh?” What can I say. I am speechless, but not in a good way.

“If you want me, don’t hold back.”

There is a playboy lamp on the table. They slung a playboy blanket over the sofa. And a playboy bunny chair is loftily located in the corner of the room. And the matching pillows. These boys went all out. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Very sophisticated. So that we can dim the lights, said in a whisper.

“Pass.” I pointed to the joint.

“Just kidding.” He scratched his tit. He lifted his armpit to do it.

He sat next to me on the sofa. I felt so weak from the previous week. He inched his way closer to me, as I inched away. He placed his hand on my knee, but only for a second before removing it. His legs shook convulsively, which made me nervous. I asked him to please stop, and he apologized and temporarily desisted from jiggling his leg. He seemed to be working me into a corner. In the other room, the boys put in the movie The Silence of the Lamb. The house was dark and I could hear the screams from the T.V. in the next room. The lights were dim. My dealer disappeared into the next room, and then returned with some hot tea. Although he is trying to seduce me, I am just glad that I managed to avoid the company of his friends. I detest the way they stare at me. And they are perpetually hacking as if they are diseased with the whooping cough, or grabbing at their pecks like some STD infects them. Twice I considered jacking some of his weed when he left the room, but I refrained. I do not want him to walk in on me trying to refold his zip lock baggie. Plus, I think I saw him weighing it earlier? His fat, stupid dog is snorting and drooling on me. I am a contortionist or something because I can make myself very small.

He moved closer to me and I curled my legs towards my chest. His dog jumped on my lap. I was literally sitting on the arm of the sofa. Yet, he continued to move closer towards me and he managed to touch me intermittently throughout the conversation. He spoke with wild gestures, and would grab my wrist or ankle for example at various pauses within his speech. He tried giving me a neck massage. I stopped him. He wanted to press on my pressure points.

“DO you want me to crack your neck?”

“No thanks.”

I lie here to die, and melt into the sofa. This is the hustling room, equipped with the appropriate playboy decor. I cover up my cold legs with the playboy blanket.

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“Give me your hand. It is cold.”

“I have poor circulation. They are always cold. I remember my father used to warm them.”

His fingers crept toward my leg. Inside my blood vessels were freezing cold, and my hands were trembling. I wondered if I would be able to drive home alright. In order to get from the couch to the front door I must pass a room filled to the ceiling with junk. The centerpiece, which lies on the pool table, is a real, stuffed boar’s head. It is about the most repulsive thing in the world. I can smell it. I can see the fibers of its hair follicles as I pass by it, although I try not to look. I have yet to look it in the eye. One of them shot it. These guys own every single video game machine imaginable. They have a room to store it in. More games than I have ever seen, from the origins of the systems. I could steal one and sell it, but I’d never be able to figure out which wires belong to which machine. Nor would I be able to carry it out under my shirt or something. I am merely contemplating it because my dealer left me alone in the room for what seemed ten minutes. When he returned with his friend he spoke so enthusiastically I thought that they were going to grab me by the shoulders. His phalanges were flailing in my direction like tentacles on octopi. He was on one side of me, his friend on the other. I was so stoned, I made a double take. Everything seemed surreal. They moved closer, and I felt weak. I almost surrendered to the idea of them restraining me. I checked my purse for my keys, and weed. Then I secured my fist in my pocket, clutching my pepper spray as they spoke. Writhing in my own flesh primarily because I haven’t been touched in ages. I was biting my nail. Stop struggling, lie back and allow these men to suck the life from your soul. Perhaps even encourage them with false displays of ecstasy. They talk as I zone in and out, I hardly notice their body language. I thought I heard my dealer exclaim:

“I’ve popped a lot of cherries.”

“That’s nice.” I said.

I pulled every excuse from I have a headache to I forgot to feed my cat. First they would hold me down, and after they each had a run, they’d wear the boar’s mask as they finished me off. They are at least double my size.

I have brown eyes, I can barely keep them open.

“I burned my finger.” You should hear the dumb things I say when I am nervous.

“Which one?”

“The one you’re touching.”

“How?”

“I can’t remember.” I would not want to feel this burning sensation in my eyes.

He released my finger and I imagined him stumbling to the floor as I sprayed his eyeballs out with my concealed weapon. I was safe, unless he concealed a weapon. I mean, other than the one between his legs. But if these guys were to fuck me, I don’t think that it was a premeditated criminal act. I mean, my dealer might have had a premonition that he’d like to bend me, but perhaps he could not foresee himself enacting his fantasy until the opportunity actually arrived. If he were to walk his hand between my legs, I know not how I’d react. It’s devastating. I am liable to passing out. I am closed for operation. I believe cobwebs are forming up my inner thigh, my bodily tissues are rotting alive. My lips have been seared shut with needle and thread. His hands are so strong I imagined him rubbing my clit. I tried to shake the thought from my head. I have to touch myself or something, due to the frustration. In the other room, I can hear the noises of The Silence of the Lamb. He could press it so hard into me I will not recognize the sound of my own screams. I am floating above my body, and I feel no pain. Only, I hear my shrieks. But I am not sure that it is even my screams that I am hearing. It is coming from the T.V. I imagine that they’ll roll me onto my belly, and do me from behind. He’ll test me with his finger first, scraping my interior walls with his wormy index. The lava lamp is warming up. It resembles a disfigured fetus. Like the one I’ll eventually abort after these men rape me. I could lie down and fall asleep, let them conspire over my languid body. Let them tie me to the bedpost and eat my brains out.

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The moon in my womb.
The lava lamp a drooping ovarian egg.
Hell is freezing over. Time is ripe.

I am waving my hand and humming to myself. I think I am ovulating.

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“Punk.” My dealer’s voice shook me from my waking slumber.

As far as I could tell, he was nicely petting the dog until he abruptly clenched his teeth down on its neck as a means of punishment for I know not what. The K9’s flesh was in my dealer’s mouth, fur was in his teeth. The dog yelped in agony. I felt disturbed. He is a carnivore, I thought. Then I couldn’t help it, I told him to stop. The dealer began to ferociously pet the dog, rubbing its ears and shoulder blades like a madman. It was whimpering. His friends were bored and hungry, they wanted to cook a fat steak.

“He loves this.”

“It looks like you’re hurting him.”

“Nah.”

“You can’t punish him and then praise him right after, otherwise he does not understand why he is being punished.”

“He is a dog.”

Save some crumbs for the mice. That is what I always say.

“Let’s light another bowl?”

I was unsure at this point whether or not I could stand to walk. A guy was sprawled out on the couch watching the film. His large belly exposed, he looked about ready to pop a cap. This is the same guy that likes to feel himself in public because he thinks nobody can tell. Not to mention, all the men here unremittingly pick at their crotch. I didn’t say hello as I passed by him. Once I finished up, I could see the shadows of many scattering feet outside the bathroom door. I heard footsteps, it sounded like the boys were thinking on their toes. My heart rate hastened, and I kept my hand on the door handle until the shadows dissolved, and it was quiet again in the hall. It’s time to face the music. I rolled up my sleeves just in case. I knew that I shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom, and I should have already left. I saw his friend watching me out of the corner of my eye. Afterwards I walked back into the deserted dining room. Where’d everybody go? I muttered. I never know how many men are here at one time. I’ve counted up to fifteen in a single room, but they are perpetually coming and going. Which means that they are upstairs, maybe conspiring. I have no idea what the boys are doing. Why is everyone running around? I asked myself, and then turned around and walked out the front door like I was being chased by something. One of the guys followed after me, but his behavior didn’t seem to suggest that he was trying to force me to stay, and I wondered if I was off my rocker.

“I have to go. Tell him bye for me.” Once outside I ran to my car. I immediately locked my door after me, and was gone before my dealer even found out. I was scared out of my wits. I imagined that my dealer would jump out in front of my car or something, or run up to the window and bang on it. I suppose my behavior is erratic, I’m sure of it. And as if my dealer didn’t have any funny ideas before, I predict that my odd behavior gave him a funny idea or two. I was trying to think of excuses in my head. My mother called. I left the kettle on the stove. I need to wash my hair. I couldn’t think of any good excuse so I just left. Plus, if I could duck out without him noticing, then I wouldn’t have to endure him walking me to my car, and trying to hug me goodnight into the starry, black sky. I told myself that I won’t go back there, but I keep going back. I don’t need to make any excuses. I am alive the next morning to roll a joint.

Save some crumbs for the mice, that is what I always say.