gurgle, a prayer to Saint
Anthony, the liberator of prisoners:
Tear down my prison walls. Break the chains that hold me
captive. Make me free with the freedom Christ has won for me. Amen.
She prayed to Saint Leonard, the patron Saint of captives,
slaves, and all those held against their will:
Pray for those like me in prison, St. Leonard. For those
forgotten in prison, pray for them. Amen.
Gloria prayed for herself, for her own plights. She prayed
for someone to grant her the courage. She prayed for deliverance, for rescue,
for something to break her free of the cycle in which she’d long been trapped.
She prayed that she could do it all over again, that she might head west and
live in a small town, find a different job, a good man, try once more to start
a family, to have a child or two or four. She prayed and prayed the same
prayers, her words running out, forming small loops, memorized verse, begging and
begging for release as she circled that tree, bumping into so many others, but
giving little thought to them at all.
15 • Michael Lane
Michael’s balancing act came to an end, his good leg chewed
away by the shotgun blast. He tipped forward, stumbling on the flopping lower
half of his shin, which bent and twisted until his foot was pointing backward.
His face struck the pavement, his discombobulated arms fluttering uselessly by
his side, too uncoordinated to break his fall.
He waited for death. He waited for unconsciousness. His
sister was there, bending down, reaching out a hand to him—but it was the fever
of sobriety. It was a construct of the pain.
Screams came out as gurgles, bloody drool dripping onto the
pavement, a flashback to a thousand nights spent hugging a toilet, the taste of
bile in one’s mouth, the smell of urine, realizing he’d wetted himself in his
stupor.
A new low. This was always his thought, every weekend in
college getting smashed and regretting it, every Monday morning hung over in
class, promising he’d never do it again. By Thursday, such promises were
forgotten. By Saturday, he hated himself once more.
Michael’s limbs stirred. He screamed internally as hot steel
was pressed to a dozen unnatural joints in his legs. His dumb physical self was
trying to stand. His unthinking body was telling the rest of him, a friend who
knew better, that he was good enough to walk.
Propped up on his arms, he felt the ravenous puppeteer that
had a hold of his will command his legs forward, foot twisting unnaturally, the
sensation of his skin being tugged as it was the only thing holding him
together.
Several times, his body tried to get his mangled feet
beneath him. Each time was a new height of sensation, bones like shattered
glass grinding together, the crunch and pop of thin shards giving way, a dull
roar reaching his ears that he vaguely recognized as his own voice. He was
unable, even, to mercifully pass out.
Eventually, his drunken body learned what the brain could
not tell it: walking was out. It would never happen again.
Michael lay still a moment, appreciating the end of the
struggle, the throbs and electricity soaring and coursing through his body.
This could be the end. Please, let this be the end. There would be no more
regrets. No chance at anything regrettable. Come for me, darkness! he
screamed in his mind. And he could hear it. He could hear that reading voice
that used to pop in his mind when he was forced to stare at books, that ability
for the talking side of his brain to send signals over to the hearing side.
Fucking die! he yelled to himself. He yelled it so
loudly that he could hear it in his mouth, in the depths of his throat, like a
swallowed whisper.
He thought of his sister. His mother, whom he carried inside
of him. He was losing it, but this time to clarity. He laughed madly and
silently at the thought of his mother carrying him inside her belly, and now
she was inside his, a mystical torus, a fucking Möbius strip of mother and son
in each other’s
Anthony, the liberator of prisoners:
Tear down my prison walls. Break the chains that hold me
captive. Make me free with the freedom Christ has won for me. Amen.
She prayed to Saint Leonard, the patron Saint of captives,
slaves, and all those held against their will:
Pray for those like me in prison, St. Leonard. For those
forgotten in prison, pray for them. Amen.
Gloria prayed for herself, for her own plights. She prayed
for someone to grant her the courage. She prayed for deliverance, for rescue,
for something to break her free of the cycle in which she’d long been trapped.
She prayed that she could do it all over again, that she might head west and
live in a small town, find a different job, a good man, try once more to start
a family, to have a child or two or four. She prayed and prayed the same
prayers, her words running out, forming small loops, memorized verse, begging and
begging for release as she circled that tree, bumping into so many others, but
giving little thought to them at all.
15 • Michael Lane
Michael’s balancing act came to an end, his good leg chewed
away by the shotgun blast. He tipped forward, stumbling on the flopping lower
half of his shin, which bent and twisted until his foot was pointing backward.
His face struck the pavement, his discombobulated arms fluttering uselessly by
his side, too uncoordinated to break his fall.
He waited for death. He waited for unconsciousness. His
sister was there, bending down, reaching out a hand to him—but it was the fever
of sobriety. It was a construct of the pain.
Screams came out as gurgles, bloody drool dripping onto the
pavement, a flashback to a thousand nights spent hugging a toilet, the taste of
bile in one’s mouth, the smell of urine, realizing he’d wetted himself in his
stupor.
A new low. This was always his thought, every weekend in
college getting smashed and regretting it, every Monday morning hung over in
class, promising he’d never do it again. By Thursday, such promises were
forgotten. By Saturday, he hated himself once more.
Michael’s limbs stirred. He screamed internally as hot steel
was pressed to a dozen unnatural joints in his legs. His dumb physical self was
trying to stand. His unthinking body was telling the rest of him, a friend who
knew better, that he was good enough to walk.
Propped up on his arms, he felt the ravenous puppeteer that
had a hold of his will command his legs forward, foot twisting unnaturally, the
sensation of his skin being tugged as it was the only thing holding him
together.
Several times, his body tried to get his mangled feet
beneath him. Each time was a new height of sensation, bones like shattered
glass grinding together, the crunch and pop of thin shards giving way, a dull
roar reaching his ears that he vaguely recognized as his own voice. He was
unable, even, to mercifully pass out.
Eventually, his drunken body learned what the brain could
not tell it: walking was out. It would never happen again.
Michael lay still a moment, appreciating the end of the
struggle, the throbs and electricity soaring and coursing through his body.
This could be the end. Please, let this be the end. There would be no more
regrets. No chance at anything regrettable. Come for me, darkness! he
screamed in his mind. And he could hear it. He could hear that reading voice
that used to pop in his mind when he was forced to stare at books, that ability
for the talking side of his brain to send signals over to the hearing side.
Fucking die! he yelled to himself. He yelled it so
loudly that he could hear it in his mouth, in the depths of his throat, like a
swallowed whisper.
He thought of his sister. His mother, whom he carried inside
of him. He was losing it, but this time to clarity. He laughed madly and
silently at the thought of his mother carrying him inside her belly, and now
she was inside his, a mystical torus, a fucking Möbius strip of mother and son
in each other’s
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