concrete pylon of the church memorial.
I can't say anything, but I just keep breathing.
'So of course you'd never want sex. You'd never want sex because every time our mother had another child,' Adam says, 'they made you sit there and watch. Because sex to you is just pain and sin and your mother stretched out there screaming.'
And then he's said it.
The smoke is so thick I can't even see Adam.
He says, 'By now, sex must look like nothing but torture to you.'
He just spits it out that way.
Truth, The Fragrance.
And at that instant the smoke clears.
And we crash head-on into the concrete wall.
In the beginning there's nothing but dust. A fine white talcum powder hangs in the car, mixed with smoke.
The dust and smoke swirl in the air.
The only sound is the car engine dripping something, oil, antifreeze, gasoline.
Until Adam starts screaming.
The dust is from the air bags protecting us at our moment of impact. The air bags are collapsed slack and empty back onto the dashboard now, and as the dust settles, Adam is screaming and clutching his face. The blood coming from between his fingers is black against the talcum white coat.
In one hand, Adam holds the statuette smeared with blood, more of a devil now than ever.
With his other hand, Adam grabs at the ground beside him and drags an open magazine across his mutilated face. The magazine shows a man and woman copulating, and from under it Adam says, 'When you find a rock. Bring it down on my face when I tell you.'
I can't.
'I won't let you kill me,' Adam says.
I don't trust him.
'You'll be giving me a better life. It's in your power,' Adam says from under the magazine. 'If you want to save my life, do this for me first.'
Adam says, 'If you don't, the minute you go for help, I'll crawl away and hide, and I'll die out here.'
I weigh the rock in my hand.
I ask, will he tell me when to stop?
'I'll tell you when I've had enough.'
Does he promise?
'I promise.'
I lift the rock so its shadow falls across the people having sex on Adam's face.
And I bring it down.
The rock sinks in so far.
'Again!' Adam says. 'Harder.'
And I bring the rock down.
And the rock sinks in farther.
'Again!'
And I bring it down.
'Again!'
And I bring the rock down.
Blood soaks up through the pages, up to turn the fucking couple red and then purple.
'Again!' Adam says, his words distorted, his mouth and nose not the same shape anymore.
And I bring the rock down on the couple's arms and their legs and their faces.
'Again.'
And I bring the rock down until the rock is sticky red with blood, until the magazine is collapsed in the center. Until my hands are sticky red.
Then I stop.
I ask, Adam?
I go to lift the magazine, but it tears. It's so sodden.
Adam's hand holding the statuette goes slack and the bloody statuette rolls into the grave I dug to find something solid.
I ask, Adam?
The wind carries smoke over us both.
A huge shadow is spreading toward us from the base of the pylon. One minute it's just touching Adam. The next minute, the shadow has him covered.
Ladies and gentlemen, here on Flight 2039, our third engine has just flamed out.
We have just one engine left before we begin our terminal descent.
The cold shadow of the Creedish church monument falls over me all morning as I bury Adam Branson. Under the layers of obscenity, under the Hungry Butt Holes, under the Ravishing She-Males, I dig with my hands into the churchyard dirt. Bigger stones carved with willows and skulls are buried all around me. The epitaphs on them are about what you'd imagine.
Gone but Not Forgotten.
In Heaven with their mistakes may they dwell.
Beloved Father.
Cherished Mother.
Confused Family.
May whatever God they find grant them forgiveness and peace.
Ineffectual Caseworker.
Obnoxious Agent.
Misguided Brother.
Maybe it's the Botox botulinum toxin injected into me or the drug interactions or the lack of sleep or the long-term effects of Attention Withdrawal Syndrome, but I don't feel a thing. The insides of my mouth taste bitter. I press my lymph nodes in my neck, but I only feel contempt.
Maybe after everybody dying around me, I've just developed a skill for losing people. A natural talent. A blessing.
The same as Fertility's being barren is the perfect job skill for her being a surrogate mother, maybe I've developed a useful lack of feeling.
The same way you might look at your leg cut off at the knee and not feel anything at first, maybe this is just shock.
But I hope not.
I don't want it to wear off.
I pray not to feel anything ever again.
Because if it wears off, this is all going to hurt so much. This is going to hurt for the rest of my life.
You won't learn this in any charm school, but to keep dogs from digging up something you've buried, sprinkle the grave with ammonia. To keep away ants, sprinkle borax.
For roaches, use alum.
Peppermint oil will keep away rats.
To bleach away bloodstains from under your fingernails, sink your fingertips into half a lemon and wiggle them around. Rinse them under warm water.
The wreck of the car is burned down to just the seats smoldering. Just this ribbon of black smoke flutters out across the valley.
