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I lay motionless, my back propped up against the head of the bed. The linen sheets were soiled with a mixture of blood, urine, and fecal matter. The cam was still recording, its glaring red light burrowing deep into my eyes. The pain was extraordinary, but the fact that my assistant hadn’t bailed already was a vital source of comfort. I wasn’t alone.
I couldn’t speak, but I could very well imagine my obituary as much as taste the paper on my lips. Water sprang from my mouth at the thought of eating once again, and it stung the core of my infected tongue. I tried to dispel it, but I couldn’t resist. There went my daily meal—the maggot feasting on my gums. Scrumptious.
Not a week ago, He had decided what He was going to do with his life. He had ran out of cards to play (families were always rising and falling in America). In a matter of days, He had crawled back to siphoning his family’s money. He had to think of something to get Himself back on track. There was a time limit, too. Mounting pressure was piling up on Him, and it was clear He simply couldn’t deal with it. He came up with this idea on the fly.
Ultimately, He sold His body, soul and heart to science.
They sought to prove the doctrine of reincarnation, His mother being a devout Hindu. The acceptance of death and His masochistic tendencies finally aligned themselves. He was going out with a bang.
That maggot served to both prolong His life and to exact all the more pain on Him. A godsend in all aspects of its existence.
He crushed the head in one go and leisurely worked away at the surface, taking His time. His jaw muscles began to ache, so He pushed it in-between His upper and lower sets of teeth, holding it in place. The innards slowly seeped out and lolled about His tongue. He spread the juice across His tongue, soothing but the sharpest pains of His hunger. It slid down His throat with ease. For hours, He sucked and gnawed (given enough strength) on the maggot in the vain hope of staving off the hunger in order to live longer. In that way, each meal lasted that much longer.
He wasn’t one to endure.
Drool rolled off the corners of His mouth as He looked at the monitor displayed overhead, which showed His current state. The crimson splotches against the stale grey were breathtaking. His assistant told Him she could install a gun to the bed with a string attached to the trigger for easy use, but who would want to forgo such a panoramic view?
His assistant must’ve seen the content look on His face, since she adjusted the screen to a more comfortable position. It stung His eyes all the more, but it was worth it.
The assistant took the camera and panned over His body, zooming in at the various wounds covering His body. What the screen showed was glorious, deep-seated agony He couldn’t help but smile at. His third canine fell out. He chewed on the nerve as He gazed on, a willing slave to His own desire. In His derelict mind, every sprouting tree; every child at play; and every rippling wave could not compare to the beauty He beheld.
If His Achilles tendon hadn’t been severed, He surely would’ve ripped Himself from bondage and ran out of sheer joy.
And if He had enough strength in His lungs, which were on the verge of collapse.
A terrible pit of emptiness had situated itself there. Ever since, the air He inhaled was unnaturally heavy, and carried a strong, lingering metallic taste. He constantly had to keep His mouth open. He was fairly certain that was the cause of all the filthy smut hardening in His throat. It itched something terrible, and if one were to cut it open, it probably would’ve been colored red underneath the motes of dust and other foreign objects caking it. Various times during the experiment, something or other lodged, and He began choking, almost suffocating to death.
I suppose I was always on the verge of death in that respect. Everybody was.
Even deeper down, there were the usual pangs of hunger that resonated throughout His body. Every now and then, there would be a collection of air bubbles that slid down His throat, bursting in unison and spewing bodily fluid.
Apart from the maggots, He took up habanero peppers. Nothing more. The juice had gone and eroded away the surface of His tongue, opening the door for nasty infections. Maybe gallbladder stones will form if he lived long enough.
The daily pains were negligible, no matter the intensity and volume. The external properties are the subject of today’s reflections and contemplations. Beauty is purely superficial and, therefore, relative only to what the outward appearance beheld. Humanity is incapable of reaching a level of expansion wherein they challenge the variables beyond the warped façade that they judge now.
An existence with that superior conscious is what composes His ideal world.
He thought about why He decided to go through with this. At this rate, this world will never realize awareness quite like that. It would have by now. And maybe if it had, He wouldn’t have been such a fuck-up. Ultimately, He took a risk. Passing the point of no return meant one of two outcomes.
Whatever claims me, be it eternal oblivion or a second skin—I send my truths and ideals to the beyond.
He felt a heavy force on His back. Winded, He sank back into the cushiony metal spring. His vision failed, succumbing to a milky white before becoming a pitch black. Soon after, immense pain overwhelmed Him; an assault on the senses not like anything else He had ever experienced. Something was resolute in burrowing its way out. His eyes popped out, one after the other. The cause? Insects that His assistant had implanted in a gash on His abdomen.
He was moved to tears, for He was deprived of all sources of comfort and warmth. No more could He gaze upon His beautiful form. From somewhere within him, a voice called. The deep black void within intensified.
He lost His will to live.
How He wished for that pistol.
Uncontrollable bawling ensued. The tears eroded away at the remaining skin on His face, burrowing deep into the tissue and rejuvenating it with life’s free water. His blood chilled, coursing through His veins like molten rock.
He quaked and quivered. His brittle joints creaked and cracked, separating and rejoining. Finding the pressure unbearable, He clawed at His throat in a mix of sheer desperation and hope for the future. And while He only managed to make a dent, blood-red ice ruptured and spilled forth. The effervescent froth coated His chest.
He felt something tear in His cavity;
His heart had simply given out.
Reborn again. A new dawn awaits…
I lay motionless, my back propped up against the meaty walls of my prison. It has a leathery consistency to it. I cannot breathe without taking in my urine and feces. I can't tell if my deformed kidneys are an illusion or not. I have to make sure. I reached out—
Reborn again. A new dawn awaits…