Too much skin, slathered on the couch
sweatsnottears sliding out the corners of her lips, coagulated fibres of jizzed up blonde hair and hairspray. Delirium written on the backs of her eyelids as she rolls back to see them, ripping up suspensory ligaments.
Mascara bleeding out from her chloroid into of the whites of her empty stares, eyelids flutter, electricity buzzing through nerves.
Cigarette burns on her neck.
‘Baby, I need the couch,’
‘Get the fuck off the couch,’
DNS server error.
‘Get the fuck up, bitch,’
Floating down the couch, intermittent stutters of fabric being ripped apart.
The infinitesimal splinters of damp floorboards thrusts through the nylon of Chantal’s vest, neon pink to match her glitter lipstick and nail polish, and for one moment there she doesn’t know whether she’s feeling needles or what.
Plastic glamor so fake she gets shunned to bottom.
Through the dark of her Ray Bans, light filters through, spins. Chantal’s hand reaches for the source but her arm refuses to move. Deep bass throbs in the belly of her eardrum, senses dulled. Chantal groans, the slips of her iris sliding slow motion against glass, closes, then slides back open. The world alternates between focus, unfocused, then back. Heat sinks from the center of her body to her back, soaking through skin through nylon. Senses prickles fizzing with electricity of CAN’TFUCKINGSTANDIT.
Chantal sits up. Heart pounding so fucking erratic. White spots at the periphery of her vision. Her Ray Bans slide off the bridge of her nose and she lets it, as she collapses back, both herself and the floorboards groaning at impact. For one moment she marvels at the fact that she’s alive and goddamn, some three hundred pound drunk fucker should’ve stepped on me and I should have been pulverized into shapeless goo without me even knowing it, but then, what is life worth?
A gram of pure coke and a rolled up dollar bill, give or take.
The disco ball spins overhead. Chantal looks up, momentarily transfixed by the way the fragmented light transverses the sardined shack, sliding over copulating couples hands and tongues fitting in all the wrong places, teenagers so stoned they would be dead by the morning and punks drunk to the toenails, spitting reckless words. Shying away from the light but utterly unaware of the light. Senses fucked.
The DJ in the booth utterly oblivious in the middle of the turmoil and tapping to the beat in his chunky earphones.
As the scattered fragments of light shimmies over her face, she doesn’t falter, holds it there, there, aritificial but incandescent. She wonders if not seeing light would turn her living habits vampiric because she doesn’t remember the last time she’s seen light and plus it makes her lethargic.
The strobelight synchronized to the beat. She wonders if it’s pure coincidence or intentional.
Get the fuck out of here.
Down the dark hallway, Chantal swears and kicks off her heels as it clatters to one side, the semi-severed segment gaping forlornly in the semi darkness. Some peace and fucking quiet. Techno threading inbetween floorboards and infiltrating deep into the bellies of the house. The clatter of her nails against the railing stand out in a strange clarity but in a way that’s alarming. The hallway is dark, dirty brown rust weeps down the walls, dirt freckles scattered on water prints. In diluted tungsten yellow she can vaguely make out the door at the end of the corridor, and she drags herself through, toes dragging against the floor not feeling the wet, some sort of condensation or leakage from a rusted pipe. Her faces glides vaguely over the surface before the wetness disperses against her toes –
Slamming against the door –
‘Shit, Jimmy! What the fuck – ‘
At the doorway, Chantal watches the blood slowly seep out of the wound, the body stripped naked and pale and almost holy illuminated in the shaft of light sliding in from the ventilation window. A murdered Jesus. She watches the flies orbiting at his hips to devour his cut wounds, intestines tangled up and spilling out from his abdomen. The faint outlines of bones tracing out the frail geography of his body.
She doesn’t step inside the pool of blood to examine the body.
In the basement of 3 Sanskrit Lane, Sam sprawls on the sofa on his side catlike with a cigarette hanging on his lips, another hand scratching an itch. The boombox stacked on a pile of playboy magazines vibrates as The Pixies emanate from the speakers.
Lines of coke haphazardly lined on the table.
The thin clink of a cigarette lighter in the dark. The smokecherry carving out the dips and planes of Chantal’s face as smoke curls up in skinny ribbons, dispersing in the darkness.
‘Do you know who killed Jimmy?’
‘Pass me a rolled dollar,’
‘Not until you tell me,’
A puff of smoke wafts out of her puckered lips as she exhales, momentarily obscuring her face.
The way she holds her cigarette, fingers loosely securing the smoldering roll, palm turned backwards, exposing the pale fishbelly insides of her wrists.
Unperturbed, Jimmy rolls one himself, staring at the lipstick print faintly outlining thing frail ghosts of threaded glycerin lipprint on the stub as she stubs her cigarette in the tray.
‘I’ll tell who killed him on one condition,’
A malevolent smile tugs at the corner of his lips,
‘We fuck, then I tell you.‘
In the small of the bathroom, fingers pressed onto the frail skin of the sternum, the nervous chattering of the heart. Outside the door: are you done yet? Almost. Descend in altitude, counting the mountain range of ribs that ripple down the expanse of skin. True ribs. False Ribs. Floating ribs? Inhale. Exhale. Ribcage moves outwards and upwards, thoraxic volume increase as air rushes in. sharp ridges of the clavicle, and valleys beneath deep enough to hold wine. What is taking you so long? I’m almost done. The yellow tungsten flickers. She unscrews and water cries out of the tap. A pause before she pools water into her hands and washes her face, hair cloaking her cheeks as she leans down. Then stop. Her body leans against the sink as she breathes against her reflection, dark pits of dark pupils staring back. Is this you? Have you gone? Hello? I’m coming out. Hands smoothing out the knots in her hair, wringing them back. Deep breath. Deep breathe.
I’m coming out. I’m coming out.
In the living room, soft shadows cast on the empty walls, Jimmy draws a finger against her cheek, curving down to lips, tinted blue. Words are exhaled. Jimmy tries to kiss her but she turns away, I’d rather you fuck me than kiss me. No matter. Teeth, small and even, creeps down the bra strap. Sharp inhales. Say you love me. I love you. Say it like you mean it. I, you’re smothering me… warm callused fingers that crawl around the base knob of Chantal’s spine, crawling down into the elastic garter of her underpants, feeling the curve of her ass and the wetness underneath. Jimmy rips off his shirt. Soft flesh that dimples between ribs, he’s only a boy. Fingers fumble at the catch of her bra. You are getting a kick out of this. How do you know? I just do. Who killed bob? Let’s not bring this up. Lips on breasts, nipples. Kissing. Kissing. Applying pressure, there, hold it there. The way she bites her lip. Jimmy shimmies out of his jeans. I love you a whole lot more than that Bob fellow will ever love you. Just fuck me. You really wanna know?
Her pale body pressed against the wall, blood going out of her lips. Jimmy thrusts. A jump of electricity in skin and low moans. Chantal’s cheeks are flushed, blood running close to the surface. Thrust. Thrust. Thrusting. Chantal is throwing back her head, hair and all.
You really wanna know?
Dark running close to the surface. Pinpricks of black. Stop it, STOP IT. SHIT, IT HURTS. What hurts? What’s that sound? What? FUCK THIS SHIT IT HURTS. The beeping, like some sort of time bomb. Oh god, what the fuck –
Chantal shrieks and falls to the floor. Jagged continents of dark red stains on the wall. Blood gushing out of Chantal, a million black spikes exploding out impaling her skin, eyeballs exploded plasma organs intestines spinning out in impact. Jimmy yelps, heartbeat jacked and jumps back.
‘what…what the fuck…?’
‘Bob implanted the detonator in your vagina.’
‘No way….no… he can’t have…’
‘Now…now you got what you want…’ Chantal says, ‘who did it?’
‘Why can’t you love me?’
‘just say it… just…’
‘you did, Chantal, you did it yourself…i…I thought…’
‘but Jimmy…I never loved you…;