Body of Immorality (22 page)

What about his other foot or an entire leg? The opportunities were endless. Maybe his ears? He could play the role of the famous artist. What could he do that would make Mary leave?

The idea puzzled him. He felt some force was working against him. No matter what he did, it would only prove Mary’s devotion. If she had a mission, a will of her own, it was to prove he needed her, that she was
supposed
to be in his life. Nothing on Earth would change that.

Reginald was determined, however. He wasn’t about to give up. His mission, much like Mary’s, was to make sure he proved his worth, his
worthlessness.
She would see him as he really was. She’d have no choice. Sooner or later, she’d
have
to leave. God or no God. Love without song. Mary would see the light. Reginald was not a man worth spending time with. Reginald
must
be abandoned. Sooner or later, she would have to leave. Sooner or later, she would see the truth.

*

He had another idea. If she wouldn’t leave after he cut off his foot, maybe he could scar himself some other way. Maybe he didn’t have to sever appendages at all!

He would write a message to Mary on his body, something hateful she would see every time she looked at him. If she saw something on his chest, or better yet—on his face—she wouldn’t be able to look at him, let alone
want
to be with him.

What was the best thing he could do? ‘I hate Mary,’ was too simple. Maybe he could carve a pentagram on his chest, something diabolical, evil. He’d never been one to believe in hell or demons. He didn’t even believe in God. But he knew Mary did. She didn’t go to church
every
Sunday, but she found solace in the Bible, even prayer. He needed something that would scar her brain forever. He laughed. The idea of putting a girl’s name on his chest appealed to him as well, a name other than Mary’s. He could see the humor in that.

“This is my house, and I’m not leaving!” he said.

Reginald hobbled his way to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and peeked inside. He found a few stray razor blades lying next to a can of deodorant and picked one up.

He knew the pain would be intense, nothing at all like his foot had been. A razor blade was a perfectly sharp instrument, providing the cleanest cut. In that, he was safest.

He took a deep breath, put the blade to his chest, and began to carve the letter M.

Blood and hot, wiry pain were instantaneous. He’d have to be a warrior to keep this up. He’d never thought of self-mutilation before, but he was holding up pretty well under the circumstances. Blood quickly covered the hand he wrote with.

He’d better stand in the tub before he got blood all over the place, he thought. His chest was already an electric current of heat and searing pain. Something about it made it satisfying. Didn’t the Lord help those who helped themselves? If that were the case, he was
sure
to be rewarded!

He stepped into the tub to finish the message.

The M was finished, and he moved to the letter A. Blood was everywhere, on his hand and forearm. His chest was a blanket of gore and pulsing, throbbing fire. Spidery trails of blood meandered down his chest, his waist, his knees, and covered his feet.

It was a task to spell, to write upside down, and backwards at that, and he grew faint at times. He must be losing a lot of blood, and he had to make sure he cut deep enough to leave a scar.

In some miraculous way, he finished what he wanted without passing out. He felt light-headed. The pain in his chest was enormous.

The worse part was yet to come. He turned the cold water on. He let it beat on his chest, cleaning the blood off. Somehow, this was more painful than the arduous task of cutting himself, but the water was cold; it had a way of numbing the pain.

On his chest, he wrote,
Mary made me do this.

He grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around his chest.

The thought of needing stitches hadn’t occurred to him. What would they say when they saw the message? After the situation with his foot, questions would arise. A part of him was still surprised he hadn’t been committed to an asylum. Maybe that would come in time.

The light-headedness began to take over. He was going to faint and soon realized he was.

His legs gave out. He crumpled to the ground, but not before cracking his head on the edge of the bathroom sink.

*

Mary was standing over him. He was on the couch and saw the world coming together, the living room. A sudden shriek of pain lanced over his eye where he must’ve collided with the sink. Then he realized the pain in his chest—like live wires embedded in fire. How must this look, he thought, lying on the couch without a foot, a knot rising on his head, and the bloody message carved into his flesh?

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Mary asked.

He looked at her vacantly, as if she weren’t there. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She didn’t reply. Maybe it was finally sinking in. Maybe it was working now, he realized.

“I got the bleeding to stop,” she told him. “But I don’t think you should move.”

He looked down and noticed she’d gauzed him up pretty well. His entire chest was wrapped in bandages.

“I want you to stop doing this to yourself,” Mary said. “Please. If you don’t, we’ll have to put you in a hospital, so that you don’t hurt yourself. Do you understand me, Reggy?”

“If you’d just pack your bags and go, I wouldn’t
have
to keep doing this to myself. Do you understand
that,
Mary?”

“I can’t leave you alone now. You’re dangerous to yourself.”

He was weak. Anger rose inside. He wanted to reach up and slap her.

“Please,” she said. Her green eyes pleaded with him, a curl of dark hair falling over her eye. Mary was beautiful, but it was something he could live without. “Please don’t do this anymore.”

She looked frightened now, the look in her eye. She was scared for him. Obviously, you didn’t mutilate your body without something going wrong upstairs. But he felt fine. Except for the headache and the searing in his chest, he didn’t
feel
insane.

“Would you like to watch some t.v.?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long time.

“I want you to go away,” he said, quietly.

“Okay.”

“Permanently,” he corrected himself.

She gave him a lopsided grin. He’d never wanted to slap her more in his life.

*

Reginald was worried. If he did
more
harm to his body, what might she do then? Would she have him put away? She couldn’t be serious. Maybe she was trying to prevent him from mutilating himself further. And if he
did
, how would he be able to enjoy his life?

The cost was high. That was what he told himself. It would be worth it to be blind, to be severed, literally cut in half, if that were the case. As long as he could get her out of his life, the smallest trivialities didn’t matter.

Another thought swept through him. He could sever his tongue, cut out his eyeballs. That would
have
to do the job. It might still be enough where he wouldn’t need a doctor. The foot was one thing, but this would be something else altogether. He could make himself go blind, sever his tongue.

That was exactly what he would do.

*

Mary was at work. She wouldn’t be home for another hour.

If he jabbed an ice pick into his eye too far, he might kill himself. He’d have to be careful. Perhaps he could burn them. That seemed a suitable idea. He could do the same to his tongue once he cut it in half. Then, if he had the strength, he could cut off one of his arms, go into the garage and put his arm into the band-saw. That would
have
to do it, he thought. He was running out of ideas.

Reginald got up with the help of the cane and hobbled into the kitchen. He looked for a pack of matches and found some in a kitchen drawer. He’d better do the tongue first, he thought. That way, he could still see what he was doing. He had a welder in the garage. He could cauterize himself, saving a trip to the hospital, no questions asked. He’d just have to endure the pain, if the pain didn’t send him into shock.

He pulled the scissors out of the knife rack, the ones they used to cut fat off chicken. He grabbed a candle from another drawer, put it in a candleholder, and lit the wick. He grabbed the scissors, bent over the sink, and stuck his tongue out as far as it would go. He put the scissors to the edge of his tongue, braced himself, and closed his eyes.

Savagely, he snapped the handles of the scissors together. A blinding light of pain exploded into his brain. The scissors weren’t as sharp as he’d thought. Part of his tongue still dangled from his mouth. He hadn’t severed it completely. Blood poured over his lip, down his chin, and into the sink. He jumped up and down. A siren wailed in his mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes. He kept his mouth open, his tongue dangling stupidly from his maw. He put the scissors to it again and snapped them together. His tongue, red and plump, plopped into the sink like a skinned mouse. Blood poured into the sink. Reginald started screaming. He thought about the candle and put his tongue to it, keeping his mouth wide, feeling another, different pain wail through his head. He shrieked hellishly and gagged at the same time. What the hell had he done to himself? The madness of the situation was starting to sink in, but it didn’t outrun the will he had.

Reginald ran out into the garage with blistering pain and blood spilling from his mouth. He got the welder going. He set the torch off to the side. He had to do it all now in one shot. It as the only way. He couldn’t take individual steps anymore.

He started the band-saw, pin-pricks of light going on and off in front of his eyes. It was amazing he hadn’t gone into shock yet. How come he hadn’t passed out? Perhaps he was growing more tolerant with each macabre experience. His head was ablaze with fire and pain.

With the band saw whirring to life, he stuck his left arm in up to the elbow. The saw ripped into his flesh, tugging him further into the destructive blade. Flesh pelted the air. Blood splashed his face and chest. Fragments of bone sporadically hit him like pellets. Another tidal wave of pain exploded through his body.

Sickness came, but he willed it away…

He grabbed the welder with his good arm and applied it to the wound. Pain and agony ripped through his body, so much pain, so much intensity, he was amazed he was still cognizant. He knew he
must
go into shock, somehow, become traumatized. He could feel it coming on. His arm hissed and cooked in the welder’s bright blue flame. The smell of boiling blood and burning flesh rose to his face in a black cloud of smoke. His heart raced, running with maddening speed in his chest.

He still had more to do. He fought the fainting spell. Mentally—like a miracle—he grew stronger than his lack of blood, the titanic wail of pain, forcing unconsciousness to take a time out, if only for a few seconds…

In another lunatic breath, he grabbed the welder and applied it to his eyes, making sure he kept them open. After the heat, the searing voltage of
more
pain, Reginald saw a blinding
red
light, then a blinding
white
light, then the permanent darkness of blindness. This all congealed. It came together around him and awoke a new level of horror to his existence. He had a strange realization about life in those moments.

Then the darkness was not only behind his burning, melting lids, but in his brain, too. For a moment, the sirens came to an end. He gathered speed, moving into another realm of nightmare. He didn’t die, but he was traveling through a hellish existence he hadn’t thought about before. When he woke up, he would find out what that was…

*

When he awoke, terror engulfed him. He knew he was awake, but he couldn’t
see
anything. He
must
be dreaming. He could feel the bed he was lying on. He heard strange voices around him. When Reginald tried to speak, a terrible sound came from throat:

“
Gaaaaaaa!”

The voices stopped. A hand touched his good arm, soft, caressing. Mary. He didn’t feel any pain now, only an overwhelming numbness. He was in the hospital, he realized. They had pumped him full of drugs.

“Don’t talk,” the darkness that was Mary said.

“He’ll need some time here to get well,” another voice said. A male. A doctor? “We’ll make sure he’s under constant surveillance, so he can’t harm himself.”

The words sounded strange. Was that the drugs? He felt swirly (was that a word?) like water in a drain. The words had the same affect. They moved all around, swirling together.

“
Gaaaaaa!”

“Please Mr. McDonald. Don’t try to speak. Just relax.”

“
Gaaaaaa!”

“Janet, give him another shot.”

Footsteps approached, a rubbing on his arm, a needle he barely felt.

“We can operate of course, Mrs. McDonald. But the procedure will be long and painful, for both of you.”

Words paused. Silence. Or was that sleep? He went under again.

*

Some time later:

“He obviously needs mental attention. That’s just something we can’t do here. The choice is up to you, of course. Whether or not you feel that’s right. But there are nurses who can help him if you decide to go that route. You can find someone to help you with him at home. He’ll still be able to move around, go to the bathroom, even bathe himself. But he’s done considerable damage to his body.”

No reply. Just the darkness. Perhaps a nod. He could smell Mary, the same, simple womanly odor of soft perfume.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

Had he failed again? Was there something he hadn’t realized? He’d heard about it before, but never believed it. He didn’t think people were actually that way. He’d seen it in movies, read it in books. But that was all he thought. After all,
he
wasn’t that way.

“Well, we’ll keep him here for a while,” the doctor said. “He needs to be stabilized. But we’ll let him go home with you eventually, Mrs. McDonald. It was a good thing you came home early and found him when you did. That probably saved his life.”