gesture that matched her lyrics. When she pulled her hands away though, she revealed the reality of the gesture. Tears pulled eyeliner down her cheeks as she sunk the metallic tips into the flesh above her eyebrows. Her voice tilted off pitch and then vanished as she dragged her talons through her skin, up her temples and then down. Struggling, as if cutting tough steak with a butter knife, she tore her left cheek off and tossed it to the stage floor. She gave up on the right, letting the flap of skin hang limp. Blood trickled from the wounds, brighter and wetter than her red lips.
She stared at her bloody hands, at the skin bunched up on the underside of her nails and opened her mouth as if to scream, but remained silent. The crowd did not. People rose to their feet, looking at each other, confused. Perhaps they thought this was part of the show. The security guard who held Chelz didn’t. He undid the headlock and ran, muttering, “Fuck this,” on his way to the exit.
From deep within the diva’s scratched face, eyeballs fought their way through muscle fibers, struggling to find a spot on the surface. Dozens of them, some as small as peas, others as large as baseballs, emerged, their matching green irises expanding and contracting like heartbeats. From where Chelz stood, her skin appeared to be boiling.
Her nose swung to the side and then dropped off. Eyes took its place, popping from the nostrils. Framed within her teased blonde hair, eyes took over her face. Only her lipless mouth remained. Whimpers emerged from between her too-white veneers, barely audible over the crowd’s screams.
Chelz had forgotten how horrible the process was. He wished he could stop it. This wasn’t some whore of a B-movie actress. This was someone he had spent time with, someone who supported his art. He cursed the pig and he cursed himself.
Leilani scratched her face again, raking the rounded points of her nails through the eyeballs, knocking some loose, cutting some open. From these gashes, more eyeballs bubbled to the surface, wet with pus. She fell to her knees, crying louder now, tearing out curls of hair that stuck to her hands amidst the blood and flesh.
Stage managers and members of Leilani’s crew ran back and forth in a panic around Chelz. Some yelled into cell phones. Some cried as Leilani disassembled herself. Eyeballs rolled free as she plucked them from her face, slicing and digging with her nails, making room for more to rise to the surface.
When she finally collapsed, Chelz gathered himself, pushed his loss aside and calmly walked onto the stage. Nobody noticed him as he pulled a garbage bag out of his backpack and scooped up as many eyes as he could. Nobody noticed him as he took out a butcher’s knife and chopped off the diva’s hands, nails still intact.
He had liked Leilani. He had liked her a lot.
Chelz entered his studio, his home. He breathed in the chemical smell of beauty. Another scent infiltrated his nostrils, one he didn’t like nearly as much. Kicking off his shoes, he wandered into the room that held his trade secret. The pig smelled like breakfast left out for days, bacon and eggs festering on a crowded kitchen table. He wondered if he should hose the pig down. It had never smelled like this before. Maybe he was too late. Maybe the pig was dying and this was the scent of death. Although the thought came with a sense of relief, Chelz wasn’t ready to let the pig go yet.
He reached into his bag and grabbed a handful of eyeballs. The pig caught their scent and its body rumbled in ecstasy. Its sideways slash of a mouth opened, revealing teeth like smashed cinder blocks. The pointed pink tongue slithered past them, reaching out to Chelz. He tossed an eye and the tongue snatched it out of the air. Instead of pulling it into its mouth and swallowing it, the pig used its tongue to crush the white orb against the front of its teeth. The sphere collapsed and its yellow juices trickled down the tongue into the pig’s mouth. It made a wet purr.
Chelz tossed a handful of eyes directly into the pig’s mouth. The flesh tubes swelled. When they began oozing, he put a bucket beneath each and left the room.
He took Leilani’s right hand out of the bag and put the other, along with the rest of the eyes, in his refrigerator. In the kitchen sink he washed the blood off the hand. He used a vegetable brush to clean the flesh from the undersides of the long nails. After he toweled the hand off, it looked as good as new. Cold, but still soft, still beautiful. He took it into his bedroom.
Dropping the severed appendage onto his bed, he took his shirt off. Slowly, he climbed in beside Leilani’s hand— a lover sneaking in after a late night. He lay on his back and pressed the hand against his bare chest. Running his fingertips over hers, he touched those long gorgeous nails, the nails he had made gorgeous. He should have felt good, but he didn’t. He wanted more.
That didn’t stop him though. He opened his mouth and inserted her index finger. He tickled the back of his tongue with the tip of the long, curved nail while he licked the underside of her finger. Pulling it out, he rubbed the slick surface of the nail against his bottom lip. He did the same with each digit until he reached the pinky, which he sucked for a moment before pausing. For once, he wished he had a whole body to play with, Leilani’s body.
Oh, well, he thought. He had known he would have to make sacrifices.
He licked the diva’s palm and unzipped his pants.
BLACKOUT
Kenneth Whitfield
They say if you stay long enough, sooner or later, you will hear someone tell your story. I listen to sincere people telling serious stories in a general way about how it was, what happened, and how it is now. People genuinely grateful to have kept an addiction at bay for days, weeks, months. Even years.
The ones who have been sober the longest usually tell the most general—and frankly, boring—stories. But the newcomers, the ones yearning to be free, to be indoctrinated into the sober and sane society - they tell the best. Most seem to participate in a “Listen to this, mine’s worse!” round robin sort of thing. Sharing tales of desperation, depravity and darkness.
Me? I seldom share anymore. It’s all been said and done in one form or another. That’s what the old timers have figured out. Nothing new under the sun.
So it was just another routine meeting. Nothing special.
And then she stands up.
Newcomers do that from time to time. Stand up. Look at me! But she would have attracted attention even if she hadn’t stood up.
She wasn’t particularly pretty. Dull blonde hair cropped short. Very skinny. Washed out white skin. But she had
I liked the way she looks. Familiar. And to me, sexy. Another thing is her large brown eyes. They smolder as she opens pouty, cherry red lips and says:
“My name is Michelle and I have a problem.”
“Hello, Michelle,” several soft voices fade out as metal folding chairs creak; people lean forward, wanting to hear her tale. Should be juicy. Whispering crosstalk in the back, two ladies pass around a pamphlet among other ladies, soliciting phone numbers to give Michelle for support. The chairman silences the whisperers, bidding Michelle to continue.
“I think I may have gutted a man during sex.”
She has my attention.
“After doing the usual, drugs, alcohol, whatever was at hand, we moved to the sex part. You all know what I’m talking about.”
Several knowing nods and smiles.
“My recollection is foggy. But I remember I kept a fillet knife under my pillow. I was in a paranoid time. A bad place emotionally. Thought
More knowing nods and smiles.
