“Do you promise?”
“I promise you, my king.”
“Okay, good man. Give me your hand.” The man reached up with a euphoric look on his face.
The look quickly dissolved.
One quick hack of the king’s machete and the bones erupted from the back of the man’s hand like cigarette butts. The king walked him up into the cradle like that, then swung the machete north through the man’s eyes to his temples and kicked him off the back.
We still stood like wrong magnets.
We still stood like wrong magnets.
“Now the sun is fed. Tomorrow we will have brightness.” He pounded the railing twice more and the parade moved onward.
Behind streamed a procession of music or what they must have thought was music but music to me was always the music in the mobiles above our beds, with the slaves. They dragged a net filled with vacuum cleaners and computer keyboards, smashing them with baseball bats like it was music. And the broken machines they left behind them were like footprints and the broken man like a glove you take off of your hand.
The blackness I carried home with me every night became a comfortable shadow to drag beside my own shadow. It was who I was. Soon I stopped missing anything because it was easier. In two months I was no longer an escaped slave but a regular person; I was this way forever. I’d already paid rent twice, and I liked paying it. The money was always there as long as I gave myself to it.
There was a night back in my old life when the conversation ended and I was the last to stop talking. Sleep came gently, so I thought it was there when it’s not, and the sound of a screw being turned loose somewhere happened in my head as a bucket being drawn to the top of a well. When it got close enough to lift out, the bucket was full of breathing. I turned it upside-down to drink the water I thought was there and the breaths passed into my mouth. They became mine, I started breathing like that. I woke up from discomfort and tried to get calm, and nothing changed. Then I realized the breaths didn’t belong to me.
Clyde was sitting like a monk with his head bowed and his arms upturned over his legs, holding the loose screw. It looked like he was writing on himself, pausing to dip the screw into the ink of quick breaths becoming unhidden moans. Soft, like the skin of a peach cut into. And the juice dripping out.
“Clyde?” His suppressed sounds cracked into a high-pitched gasp, then he couldn’t stop making the tortured whine like an unfed dog. He’d clear his throat as if to talk and get louder. I didn’t understand then, but I know now. “Clyde?”
“Shut up!” he whispered shakily. You could hear him swallow this far away. “Shut up” (and his voice was steadier and not a whisper) “You’ll wake up the rest of them.”
“They never wake up. Nobody wakes up once they’re asleep.”
“You did. Now shut up. Shut up .”
“What are you doing over there?”
“Shut up!”
“What’sa matter?” Abe asked, in the kind of voice that says I’ve only returned for a moment.
“Nothin’, Abe, hit the sack again.”
“You okay, Clyde? You havin’ one of them nights?”
“Yeah, a little, but it’s nothin’. Go back to sleep.”
Abe propped up on his elbows and tried to get used to the dark so he could see. “Boy, why you sittin’ up like that? You get back under the covers.”
In the dark we could see him shuddering because it made the dark shudder too. Then he was sobbing and nothing was hidden. “I’m sorry, Abe. This isn’t for you. This isn’t for any of you.”
“What isn’t, Clyde?”
He was crying so loud it seemed to make a new candle in the middle of the room. All of us woke up. Mark turned in the bed beside him and said “Shit, kid, keep it down! Why do you think pillows were invented?” Then a moment later, “Let me see your arms! Give me your fucking arms!”
Clyde turned quickly facedown so his cries became something the bed drank. He had folded his arms up
“I promise you, my king.”
“Okay, good man. Give me your hand.” The man reached up with a euphoric look on his face.
The look quickly dissolved.
One quick hack of the king’s machete and the bones erupted from the back of the man’s hand like cigarette butts. The king walked him up into the cradle like that, then swung the machete north through the man’s eyes to his temples and kicked him off the back.
We still stood like wrong magnets.
We still stood like wrong magnets.
“Now the sun is fed. Tomorrow we will have brightness.” He pounded the railing twice more and the parade moved onward.
Behind streamed a procession of music or what they must have thought was music but music to me was always the music in the mobiles above our beds, with the slaves. They dragged a net filled with vacuum cleaners and computer keyboards, smashing them with baseball bats like it was music. And the broken machines they left behind them were like footprints and the broken man like a glove you take off of your hand.
The blackness I carried home with me every night became a comfortable shadow to drag beside my own shadow. It was who I was. Soon I stopped missing anything because it was easier. In two months I was no longer an escaped slave but a regular person; I was this way forever. I’d already paid rent twice, and I liked paying it. The money was always there as long as I gave myself to it.
There was a night back in my old life when the conversation ended and I was the last to stop talking. Sleep came gently, so I thought it was there when it’s not, and the sound of a screw being turned loose somewhere happened in my head as a bucket being drawn to the top of a well. When it got close enough to lift out, the bucket was full of breathing. I turned it upside-down to drink the water I thought was there and the breaths passed into my mouth. They became mine, I started breathing like that. I woke up from discomfort and tried to get calm, and nothing changed. Then I realized the breaths didn’t belong to me.
Clyde was sitting like a monk with his head bowed and his arms upturned over his legs, holding the loose screw. It looked like he was writing on himself, pausing to dip the screw into the ink of quick breaths becoming unhidden moans. Soft, like the skin of a peach cut into. And the juice dripping out.
“Clyde?” His suppressed sounds cracked into a high-pitched gasp, then he couldn’t stop making the tortured whine like an unfed dog. He’d clear his throat as if to talk and get louder. I didn’t understand then, but I know now. “Clyde?”
“Shut up!” he whispered shakily. You could hear him swallow this far away. “Shut up” (and his voice was steadier and not a whisper) “You’ll wake up the rest of them.”
“They never wake up. Nobody wakes up once they’re asleep.”
“You did. Now shut up. Shut up .”
“What are you doing over there?”
“Shut up!”
“What’sa matter?” Abe asked, in the kind of voice that says I’ve only returned for a moment.
“Nothin’, Abe, hit the sack again.”
“You okay, Clyde? You havin’ one of them nights?”
“Yeah, a little, but it’s nothin’. Go back to sleep.”
Abe propped up on his elbows and tried to get used to the dark so he could see. “Boy, why you sittin’ up like that? You get back under the covers.”
In the dark we could see him shuddering because it made the dark shudder too. Then he was sobbing and nothing was hidden. “I’m sorry, Abe. This isn’t for you. This isn’t for any of you.”
“What isn’t, Clyde?”
He was crying so loud it seemed to make a new candle in the middle of the room. All of us woke up. Mark turned in the bed beside him and said “Shit, kid, keep it down! Why do you think pillows were invented?” Then a moment later, “Let me see your arms! Give me your fucking arms!”
Clyde turned quickly facedown so his cries became something the bed drank. He had folded his arms up
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