Body of Immorality (36 page)

She wasn’t confined to the shower alone. She came when he least expected.

Once, after he’d woken up, she’d been lying next to him in bed, the pillow under her stained a moldy black. Spiders crawled across her face and over the pillow.

Once, on his way to work, he saw her standing on a street corner. She’d been waving at him.

“Hello, Richard.”

I am near. Always near. Always to you.

He would wait to prove his dedication, his loyalty. He was a valiant soldier. He could do anything as long as she was near, as long as she was in his life. He wasn’t meant to live in the demented darkness alone.

Richard nursed the child inside, the boy clinging to hope. He wasn’t weak. He could resist. He could quit drinking, he told himself!

I can stop loving you anytime. I can be who I’m supposed to be.

*

Trying only made him realize how tired he was, exhausted. He couldn’t run anymore.

Take it all,
Richard thought.

He realized he’d been dead since the beginning of time. Sometime about the beast…

He tried not to think about it and took a chug. Funny how the drunken haze sometimes
lifted
the fog.

Why don’t you stand up! Let in some air, for God’s sake! Open a window! Fresh air will do you good, boy! Sunshine is the heart of you! Sunshine will cure that element of derangement.

Colored shapes, all different sizes, came to life in the apartment. For a second, Richard thought they were dragons.

Was this
her
doing as well?

Distorted, sinister faces emerged, prevalent monsters gaining tangibility. A gold demon sat on a stool by the kitchen and inspected a coffee mug. A black demon sat chuckling on the windowsill pointing a massive claw. A dark blue demon, lying on the couch, held its belly, laughing so hard tears streamed down its distorted face. Massive feet kicked in the air.

“Hey!” Richard said, seeing double. “This alcohol isn’t for you!”

Diabolical laughter echoed around him.

Let them have their fun. He didn’t care. He closed his eyes, trying to will them from existence. Smiling, Richard ignored them. When he opened his eyes, their forms began to fade. Laughter quieted to a whisper.

Richard didn’t understand it, of course. Meaning didn’t exist here.

He smiled, closed his eyes, and thought about drifting. Turbulent waters of a strange ocean came together above his head. A galaxy of stars emerged, pinpricks of light. He
belonged
in the dark. He belonged with demon laughter.

Naked in the shower isn’t you anymore. You may
think
it is, but it’s not.

Richard tried to stand. After a time, he managed to get to his feet. He staggered to the window, taking the bottle. He knocked over the lamp along the way. The bulb fluttered and died. He opened the curtains, letting in what remained of the evening light.

Seeing double—wavering by the window—gathering clouds covered the sky, a red stain to their underbelly. A deep rumble of thunder issued. Rain poured, drenching the neighborhood streets.

For a second, he thought he was going to be sick. The people on the street below, opened their mouths, turning their faces toward the sky.

Sure,
Richard thought, letting the curtain fall across the window. He walked in a staggering line back to the entertainment center and sat down.

Let us drink. Nothing left but drink. We accept everything. We are born again. We make sense out of our lives.

Outside, rain continued to pour.

*

It was the best idea he’d had in a long time…

You can be free if you want to. Nothing is holding you back.

Too many years. It was time to let go. He’d lived long enough under the confines of alcohol. How many years now? Richard had forgotten.

He had to think about it for a minute:
flight to the swimming pool, no elevator, south side of the building…

Do you know what inspiration is? Have you ever felt this truly inspired?

He
was
inspired. After all, he’d never used the pool, and to
hell
with Mr. Fyuesterman!

Inspiration suddenly made him want to run and dive
into
the pool. Ah, the embrace of cold water! He’d have more fun swimming than lying here in oblivion, he realized.

“Yeah,” he said. “All you have to do is get to your feet. Try standing, boy. Make it to the door.”

He thought about Mr. Fyuesterman, what he would do if he ran into him…

“Those aren’t shit stains on my carpet,” Richard said. “That’s
vomit
you’re looking at, buster.”

Richard cackled in delight. He didn’t care if he ran into Mr. Fyuesterman. He’d been through enough already.

“I’m not hiding from you anymore!” he shouted. “I want to be free!”

He didn’t know to whom he was talking. He’d made up his mind.

A-swimmin’ he was a-goin.’

But when he tried to stand, he forgot how to operate his legs.

“Oh, come on, Rich,” he said. “Don’t let your
legs
get in the way.”

Free forever? Shackled and chained no more? It was worth the risk. Maybe he’d find out she’d never held sway, never been a
part
of his life.

He paused.

“You can’t be serious?”

He wavered, still drunk, halfway to the door. He burst out laughing, catching the joke.

“That was funny, Rich,” he said. “That was
really
funny.
Not
a part of your life, when she is the
only
part of your life!”

He paused again.

“I am in control! Not
you!
Do you hear me?”

Richard fell over and crashed to the floor. The room swayed up, then down again. He curled into a ball, laughed, then rolled over. A bottle of whiskey lay in front of him. He grabbed it, unscrewed the top, and stood up. The bottle—once he was up— slipped from his fingers, and spilled (
glug-glug-glug
) into the carpet.

A feeling of loss moved over him. The living room shifted when he tried to grab the doorknob. The furniture was spinning out of control again. The couch danced in circles with the recliner.

His body quivered. He tried to focus, bringing it all together. He blinked several times. The furniture slowed for a minute, then gathered momentum. He reached out, trying to steady himself, but grabbed empty air. The carpet moved again, a living sea, tugging at his ankles.

Richard finally grabbed the doorknob and steadied himself. The room had stopped spinning. It slowed, shifted, then spun in the
opposite
direction.

He closed his eyes, shook his head, opening them a second later. He grabbed the deadbolt and gave it a turn.

This was going to take some amount concentration, focus he didn’t have.

Richard put his head to the door and closed his eyes again. He wondered if he really had the strength for this. Blood rushed loudly between his ears. Or was that water? He opened his eyes. The furniture was spinning still.

I’m really normal like everyone else. I have a wife and kids, a good job, a nice car. We have a dog that plays in the yard. We have barbecues with the neighbors. We all get along and love each other and have a happy life. It’s like a Dickens novel.

Richard laughed out loud.

His concern was to open the door without falling over. He could make it down three flights of stairs, he told himself. Someone needed to put in an elevator.

He pulled the door wide and stepped into the hallway.

The world spun out of control. He braced one hand against the wall, steadying himself, and tried to focus.

The walls were an antique shade of white. Framed pictorials of mountainous landscapes lined both sides of the hallway.

But the end of the hall seemed miles away. There was a door down there somewhere, a stairwell leading to the first floor. Now, if only he could find it…

“Just push me down the steps when I get there,” Richard said, and chuckled.

Was that whispering behind each locked door, or the voices in his head? The tenants were conspiring against him. They didn’t like him because he spent all his time alone. He was stuck-up, selfish, arrogant.

You licentious prick!

Was he
supposed
to sacrifice his time for everyone else’s loneliness?

“See the way he looked at me when I gave him that pie!” he heard Miss Dall say.

“The nerve of that guy paying his rent on time, looking better than everyone else!”

A new world came to life. Richard was listening to a universe of violation, secrets distinctly audible. Behind one of the doors, someone pleaded:

“
Please...she rips...she
tears...”

Behind another door, the cries of a violent orgy. No, not an orgy, he realized. Torture and pain made those pleas. He heard the sound of a heavy instrument repeatedly bludgeoned into someone’s gut: loud, squelching noises. Screams issued from the far end of the hallway. A little girl’s voice erupted in song. The cackle of an old woman materialized just next to his ear. Stifled sobs emerged behind apartment 32.

“
Crazy like a fox, love. So mad, my little lamb, you make me want to cry.”

“Ah, you’ve been drinking too much,” Richard said. “Your mind is bound to play tricks on you when you’ve been drinking.”

He continued down the hallway, holding the wall for balance. The stairwell still seemed miles away.

Tortured voices assaulted him from all sides, the girl singing again. Something huge and scaly breathed in the dark, coming to life.

After a time—trying to ignore it—he managed to find the stairwell door. Richard opened it and stepped inside. The door closed quietly behind him, cutting off the lunacy from the third floor. He wavered and looked over the railing.

“Man, that’s a long way down,” he said, his voice hollow in the stairwell.

He wouldn’t have to worry about swimming if he broke a leg at least. What did he care?

Shadows flickered across the walls. The sound of a cage door rattled, something trying to break free. The smell of thick, animal hide hung in the air. The sound of throaty breathing echoed from below, the stench of bad breath like second carapace. Shadowy apparitions—bulbous in shape—materialized, then diminished.

He started down the stairs, careful not to hurry in case he slipped. A broken leg would do him no good now.

After some amount of concentration, he made it all the way down. It seemed to take forever. He opened the door leading to the first floor hallway, similar to the one he’d just come from: the same color carpet and pictures on the walls. The pool to his left was through double-glass doors at the end of the hallway. Aqua colors reflected, shimmering off the glass.

Richard beamed with excitement. Why hadn’t he brought the bottle with him?

Moving to his left, Richard staggered down the hallway. A woman’s scream echoed along the corridor. Was
she
here already, slaughtering the entire complex?

“Tasteless murderer,” he said. “What more do you want from me?”

The little girl erupted in song again:

“
So mad, my little lamb. Crazy love, like death, love. I’m all shook up.”

Laughter erupted, a mocking child, reveling in demented nature. She loved driving him mad. She came in all shapes and sizes.

Richard didn’t know if he should be surprised or aghast. This wasn’t his drunken stupor anymore.

Along the walls, the lamp fixtures dripped a steady stream of scarlet. The scenic pictures turned to splotchy patches of red. Above, the florescent lights—running along the length of the ceiling—darkened. Bulbs shattered. The hallway dimmed. Something breathed audibly in the darkness behind him.

The carpet turned sodden, his calves speckled with tiny red dots. The Coachman, he realized, was bleeding from the inside out. Was that possible? The next instant proved it. Curtains of blood poured down the walls from the ceiling. Light fixtures continued to explode, darkening the hallway. The smell of burning blood filled his nose.

“Where’s my fishing pole!” Richard cried, and giggled again.

He was determined. He was going swimming. He wanted the world to see him for what he was, a simple youth tormented by his mother.

The blood deepened, coming from everywhere, rising to his knees.

You’ve fallen in love with knife-like shadows.

“
Flesh does not fall from immortal bones,”
someone said.

He thought about her face. Her eyes, despite their sinister glare, held salacious appeal. She’d never wanted to kill him. She wanted his boyhood in her mouth. The thought drove him—determined—through the blood. He smiled. Maybe he’d drown in all this gore. That seemed like the perfect end.

He made it to the glass doors. He didn’t think he’d be able to open them against the blood, which was already two feet deep.

Richard tried anyway, grabbing the handle, and it was like magic. The door sluiced easily through the gore. A thick, red current gushed from the hallway and into the pool area.

“Mr. Fyuesterman isn’t going to like this,” Richard said.

The blood tugged at his shins, trying to drag him inside.

He stepped within, and the door closed slowly behind him.

Plants lined the opposite wall. Normally, water would’ve reflected off the ceiling, but that wasn’t the case now. The aqua shimmer had been a delusion. The truth was directly in front of him.

The disappointment hit him like a thunderbolt. He wouldn't be swimming; that was certain. He should’ve prepared himself. He should’ve…
known.

Torn, shredded, and amputated body parts—stacked on top of one another—congested the entire swimming pool. The sight was nothing more than a macabre mountain of appendages. Decapitated heads with lifeless stares lay alongside limbless torsos; severed arms and legs lay with precision, hugging each other side by side. A woman’s breasts bobbed purple and bruised in red water. A pulpous, ragged thigh rolled like a barrel.