Young Writers Society

Where Do I Cut A Line?

I’m sitting at my computer, drowsy. I always feels- feel drowsy on days like this. Like there’s a hand in my stomach pulling me inwards, flipping me inside out. I trigger goosebumps, and I feel their synthetic cold running down my spine and my arms. I pick at the skin where they poke out. Sometimes, and only sometimes, I’ll catch one leaking. Blood or some invisible fluid I can’t perceive from my finger. I never taste it. I rub it between my fingers, spreads- spread it around, watch it dry in. It’s even better when they scab up. The sensation is so minutely painful I can’t help but continue. I can feel the black and purple crust, and for a moment the porous pink flesh underneath. Then it’s shadowed by the red flood, gushing out, lightly brushing my finger and soaking my wound, hoping to dry and then repeat the process of scabbing and picking. I stumble and dance, imitating a drunken man floating out of an antique bar. My arms bend and wave, my legs jump and stamp the floor. I draw my voice out, bringing myself to the brink of rage. I shout, with the falsest anger I can conjure. The hollow echo falls. I return to the computer. I open the drawer to my right. I’m awaiting the stained knife that lies inside, desperate to feel the blade against my skin. I start the recording.

Video Active

Music starts up from my lone plastic speaker, blue and cheap. It’s a song I’m very familiar with. I walk back, careful to keep my eye trained on the camera. The melody reminds me of a winning gambler. A jingles- jingle, jingling piece of sound. I’m soothing myself. I have no commitment. I am free to my whims. I take the knife to the wrinkles of my fingers, cutting along their jagged lines. They smile back, smiles from red crests. The voice comes over.

There’s a road I’d like to tell you about, lives in my hometown

I drag the knife along the webs in between. It makes a pattern of sorts and it’s tempting, tempting to cut further down and make a couple of flaps that blow in a summer breeze. I’m careful to avoid most of my wrist, though I don’t like the neck or ribs either. I make a single vertical line on each side.

And there ain’t no road just like it

Anywhere I found

Running south on Lake Shore Drive, heading into town

I travel up and around, spiraling to my elbow. I dance again, whirling around, liquifying my bones, moving like a thin jelly, I take light steps, but never out of the view. I pretend to slip on the floor.

Sometimes you can smell the green if your mind is feeling fine

I’m not drowsy anymore. I can only feel the rhythm, the guiding buzz in my brain. Give more, take less. Give more, take less. I bend down, sliding the little notches past my knee. It feels right, right to give what I have and take what I need. There’s a knock at my door, but I have it locked. I hope the video didn’t hear it. I can take out some of the background audio but it’s a long and complicated thing and the audience wouldn’t appreciate it. I’m sure there’s a voice behind the knock.

And there ain’t no road just like it

Anywhere I found

Running south on Lake Shore Drive, heading into town

Just snaking on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound

I smile and bow. The music stops.

He asks if I can keep the music down. I’m just finished, sorry. Long clothing hangs over me. I can feel the blood dripping down my sleeves, collecting at my ankle. He moves away, down the hall to his office. I nudge the door and tumble to the ground.

The video processor chimes. I’ve taken the ending out, as I usually do. I watch myself dance, jerky and uncontained. It’s incredible, and it comforts me to know that others will see something like this, something to make them feel better. I don’t have many subscribers but I get more views. The first comment today is a bot. The second is a man with a stick figure as his picture. He’s a frequent visitor, and he applauds my song choice. I scroll and refresh, scroll and refresh. Someone calls me a sicko. Another asks how I did the special effects. I reply quickly.

“Real.”

I like coming up with quotes. Fake quotes in my head, with a darkened background of leaves or mountaintops. “Exit with fury and leave with grace.” Then my name. “Partial loss is partial gain.” There has got to be some database of quotes. Like Wikipedia. I could just add my quotes and then maybe somebody would find them. That would be awesome, if someone would find them and put them in some presentation.

A small, reddish bump is on my thigh. It lies in between faded scratches. My fingernail tries to dig underneath, but it just leaves more red irritation. I pick at it for a while longer, then I try to scratch it. I really, really try. All it does is make me angrier. I let myself down sometimes.

I’ve made a few different channels in the past. When I was younger, obviously. They all had stupid names, dumb names. I make fun of them. One was called CharlestonBooze, except I couldn’t even drink alcohol. Very misleading. I remember, just one time to try and make the channel accurate, I climbed up to the cabinet over the fridge and I yanked the handle. There wasn’t a lot, just a single bottle of Grey Goose. It looked really sad, covered in dust, untouched. I left it there, with a little note in the dark corner. I was here. Maybe someone in the future would find it, in some apocalyptic wasteland. A little note with a hundred year old bottle of vodka, sticking out the top of the black sand dunes. They were here.

The red light on the interface is blinking. I’m not playing music this time. I’m just reciting a lot of words about myself. I’m very drowsy. I don’t even have the knife out. I reach over to my drawer and the chair slips out from under me. Was there a chair?

I wake up with a welt on my forehead. I tell him I fell over, which is true. I did. He tells me we’re going to see the doctor. “It shouldn’t be this bad.” The doctor is a very large man. Probably 6 foot. Feet. I’d like to be six feet tall. I could jump and touch the roof. He gives us a prescription, a pill bottle with an x and a t and I think an m or n on it. It almost tastes pretty good, but the last bit is like powdered salt milk or garbage froth.

The channel had an uptick in views recently. There’s a tracker app I keep on my phone. The new video performed incredibly while I was asleep. Big big numbers, the size of titanic ships on great lakes. Likes were good too. I lose track of time watching the number go up. It’s late afternoon by the time I get out of bed.

I don’t feel drowsy much anymore. The pills really help. I take one every morning and one every night, so two in total. We’re both pretty happy about it. I’ve had a lot more time to plan my next video. I’m very precise when it comes to the choice of music. It takes a week or more to find the right song. It’s detrimental to the channel, but it’s consistent growth. A year more of this and I might have 10,000 subscribers. That would be awesome.

I’m quite excited they’ve been enjoying the video.

I start pulling at the loose skin on my fingers. It’s so tough to stop. It goes pink, then red, then redder. It hurts, God it hurts so much. I take the knife out and draw a circle in my palm. It smears then slides down. I rotate my hand and watch the infinitesimal droplets cross every little dot and scar. I can’t stand it. I poke at my ring finger and think of plunging the knife straight through. Nearly severed, hanging by the tiniest rope of flesh. It sends shudders through my body, and the buzz through my brain. I don’t think I could ever sever a limb. I like thinking about it but the impracticality of losing it outweighs the benefits. Not to mention if I wanted it reattached, I’d have to come up with an elaborate lie to explain it. The blade rubs against my dry lips, at one point barely nicking my gums. It all feels and tastes like love. I want to stay in this moment. The intensity subsides, and soon it’s a nagging bump. I wish my body didn’t have to heal. I wish it was forever.

Doobah doobah, shoobidy doo dah. Not right. Parun budun budun bang. Parun budun budun bang. Too loud. Bum bum pa dum, dum ba ba baba bum. Perfect.

Video Active

I hang my arm behind my neck like a tree branch. I pinch my skin. Immediate, bloodless, fantastic. Quick bursts, in the same spot. I know my audience. They want to see the come-up. Feel the anticipation, the rising spirit. They want to know the detail but not see it in definition. A quote. Send death to the messenger and God to the witness. The knife is a thorn, pricking my thumb. I raise it with the elegance of a princess. I arch my toes and bend my knees.

It’s awful. I can’t stand it. The whole video is wrong and freakish. The knife cuts too slow, I fall off the beat, lot’s of unhappy little frowns on my skin instead of great glad ones. The song is melodic but silly, the dance is wavering yet cold. They’re going to hate it. I can’t do anything, I can’t even make them happy. I’m just sad, I’m sad I’m so worthless and useless. No one will see it and all the comments will hate me. Then they’ll unsubscribe and I’ll be nothing. I’ll have to work to get them all back, I’m so useless. I can’t even do it again, the song is so terrible. What was I thinking, listening to something like that, using it to dance? Not an ounce of value. I should leave. I should leave everyone. I should slit my throat and die on my bed. I should cut my wrists and fall to the carpet and then the blood would dry in. And I’ll put it in the video, and then they'll come back. I’ll be dead but they’ll come back, and they’ll go back through the videos. Cut my wrists, hit the ground with a bang! like that, blood drying into that red and then brown, like cat piss. But I can’t do that, cause I’m a useless, worthless loser and no one would even care if I died. I’ll float there and no one will ever see me ever again. I pick at my cuts again, scratch them back open. I can’t take my mind off it. I have to die. I have to die for them.

There are a bunch of dried tears under my eyes, and my skin feels all itchy. I’ve taken all my clothes off and I’m laying in bed. Maybe it’s the sheets. I pull at the corners and throw them to the side. My skin is still itchy and that damned medicine is making my throat hurt. I feel like I can puke and I can’t puke. A shudder reaches my lower back then dies down. He steps in and asks if I’m ok. I nod, digging dried skin off my scalp. I’m going to call the doctor, he says. “Don’t. I’ll be fine.” God I can’t wait till he leaves. I wanna tear through my flesh. I want to tear it off. He’s quiet and then leaves. I’ve got to stop it. If the doctor is going to come, he can’t see them. Last time the doctor saw them, he wanted to put me away. I can’t go away. I won’t go away.

The video isn’t even successful. It sits there, desolate. I knew it. I knew it, I knew it. They hate me. They’re going to leave. I’ve got to make a new one. The cuts on my arm are still fresh, but I can’t stop myself. I take the knife from the drawer and I tease it up to my fingernails. I could pry them off, lift them like rocks. I want to feel great. I have to find a song. I stumble to the desktop. A perfect song, perfect. Double upload. The acid is still resting in my throat. I have nothing to eat. Or drink. It’ll be fine. I don’t need it. There it is. No, it’s bad, just as bad. I can’t repeat. Fresh, new. Vitality. That’s the word. I need vitality. The new video still has no movement. Was it really that bad? It has so few likes. Only a few likes. “The absence of everyone is not indicative of the absence of life.” It might’ve been a bad time. They probably just haven’t seen it yet. No. I need a new one, a new one.

This song is the best. This will hook them. What time is it? Two or so hours have gone by. Not so long. I’ve done longer. I wonder if they’ll like it if I look tired. Adds to the kind of look. There’s a whole look I make. I take my figures out of the picture, put them to the side. My room’s already not very colorful. Not close to a dark blue gray. All gray. Like a room a zombie lives in. I’m not a zombie though. And I don’t live like one either. But the song, the song is perfect. It goes like how I think.

The new wave of exclusive

Skip ahead

We are young and unaf-

Did you think we couldn’t feel you there?

Did you think we couldn’t hear you there?

We were just tuning you out

I bet they’ll love it. I’ll bet my life on it.

Video Active

I’m gripping by the little bumps. I don’t remember what they’re called. There’s another word besides blade. Maybe serrated. Maybe bumpy. Maybe sharp.

Cut Cut Slash Cut Cut Cut Cut Cut Cut Cut Slash Stab Twist Turn Cut Cut Slash Slash Slash Drag Drag Turn Turn Spin Bend

It does look great. That’s what I think. I wish I had someone else to show this to, someone to judge it. You can’t really be unbiased towards yourself, and I might change my mind later. My scalp is so dry, I could peel it. My eyebrows burn, my scalp itches, my lips are chapped. One of those is usual. I lick my lips. It’s like wrinkles, or when your fingers prune but covered in spider webs, stretchy webs or string you can peel. String cheese. I convert, edit, amplify, splice.

I should stop taking the medicine, I tell him at the table. He asks why, and I explain the burning and the scratches. Give it another week. “I don’t know.” Promise me just one more week and if it keeps up we’ll switch. Beginning side effects. Body adjusting. I’m pretty well-adjusted. I think at least. I can yell weird things sometimes, but I’m pretty comfortable.

I’m in bed the whole next day. I wonder if it’s psychological. I can’t even grab my phone, check on the video. My night stand feels so far. I’m trapped in the middle of this bed, the middle of these sheets, grasping and sweating. A whole imprint of me, an impression. I need to see it. Do they like it? I have to know, I have to know. What if it failed? What if it failed me again, or I failed myself again? My lips are plastic. My skin is melting, ripping, breaking. I’m a failure. I can’t do anything, I can’t take stupid medicine or make stupid videos or have a life. I’m nothing to no one, not a bird or a person or a bug. Stupid goddamn nothing dying in my room, body in the mattress, body in the dirt. More shudders. I rub my eyes once, then a few times. Next thing I know it’s ten minutes of rubbing, then twenty. I’ll cut my eyelid off. They’re red, red eyes, itching and irritating me. Poke them out. I just want to sleep, sleep forever and ever. Help me, I scream. Won’t somebody help the poor nothing that no one loves?

A notification comes. Then a few hundred more. I can’t roll or walk. He comes by my bed, tells me I’ll be alright. We’re changing the prescription. The doctor has appointments. He can’t come for a while. You’ll get better. I'm not worried, not worried at all. He repeats that for a while, in different phrases and undertones. Nothing to fret about. I ask if he can hand me the phone. He obliges.

It’s my biggest video. The biggest thing I’ve ever done. They see me, all of them see me. Flipping numbers and counting. New subscribers growing. Comments here and there. I strike the negative ones, like the positive. One girl enjoyed the spin halfway through. She even includes a little marker. She cares. A guy asks what song I’ll do next. I joyfully reply “I don’t know.” New songs, new songs. What’s the mass appeal, what catches their eye? This song was newer, not as old as I usually do. Modern music is great, they certainly like it more. A good shudder, running around me, a marathon on my arms and my spine. Another starts in my cheek and works its way to my jaw. When I shudder, my eyes go a little blurry, like crying. I can’t roll them back in my head but I imagine that’s how it looks to some people. There’s a slight pain left of my neck, an ache and not a ghost bruise. It’s so noisy right now. A million ideas I can’t jot down. At least I’m not drowsy. Sick, but not drowsy, dazed or wandering around my sheets. I can sit here for another few hours, or another few days, watching the numbers tick up and up. New moves, new cuts, crusting and lying there, building their weak defenses. Never on the wrist, never on the throat, never on the ankles. Forehead, forearms, elbows, palms, fingers, thighs, abdomen, hips, lips, ears, scalp, back, shoulders. Blood streaming down, wrapping every curve and crevasse, the smallest man made caverns and canyons.

The doctor is coming in a week. But I have to make something. I can’t do it again. Listen to their words and their help. I can’t leave either. I’m making more. I can’t help it. I’ll make it today, and upload it later. They have to heal faster. I hope they can.

The description celebrates the milestone.. So many now and never stopping. It’s crazy, crazy to think it was so small yesterday. The new one obviously wasn’t as good, and it didn’t perform as well. Still, way higher numbers than before. Brain buzzes and shudders galore. Little skin bumps, red in different ways. Pink red, purple red, blue red. I drool a little, at the numbers. Just escapes sometimes. It’s embarrassing, I hate it.

They’re not done yet. Day left and the wounds still poke out. Not noticeable for one or two, but I counted. One hundred and twenty seven. I screwed myself, fake worthless nothing nobody loves you, can barely even hold yourself together idiot depressed third-rate birth defect. 10,000 subscribers, big deal. They’ll leave you. One week without uploading and you’re gone, your whole face gone. They’ll forget you. My hand comes up and slaps me. I like it, brainless violence. No one is going to miss you if you die. They won’t care, not at all. Another meaningless dumpster fire in a world full of them. So special, so important. You’re- A wave washes over me. I’ms- I’m going to vomit. It hurs so much where’s the doctors. It’s notnthat bad, not that

Burn burn burn my skin my head my skin stand no breathe no. I’m like a hot dog in a bun. Burnt hot dog. Can’t even make sense. I laugh a little and spit dry salivas-saliva. I hold disease, I will rot here. Make me again. I won’t live like this. Make me again. Bleed me dry. The knife is out of my reach. Every muscle is dead, or dissolving. Internal organ failure, that’s got to be it. Take me back.

The door is unlocked. Two set- sets of footsteps. Barely even picture where I am, much less see it. My fingertips circle each marker. I’m done for. This is it. “Lowly despots lie in wait.” They both stand by the left side of my bed. I’ve been wearing the same pair of clothes. Metal to the head, to the tongue. The lips look better than the rest. I belong creating. Hundreds of hours, all gone. They brush the blanket off. I’ve got to run. The doctor asks me to take off my shirt. Then he goes to take it off himself. I throw my arms and legs out in a flurry. I roll out of bed. They look at me with shock. I sprints- sprint to the window and I jump through the glass.

There is a patch of trees near the house. I duck in there and hide against- my head is tilting. I crawl through the mud and dirt and leaves, ruining my clothes. I could sleep here, or between sets of teeth crunching my skull. Marginal difference. I don’t know if they’re looking for me. I’ll have to get a new knife. And a computer. And a job. For now though, I should stay here. Later, much later. I miss that medicine, that killer medicine. No scalp peeling or eyebrow burning could hurt more than this. They’re not taking me. That’s what counts.

I miss music already. Someone told me once that I “listen to music too much”. I don’t think I could listen to music enough. There’s so much to speak to you. A millions- million different voices all trying to harness the individual, their own spirit. Relate to another. The videos do that. They connect the music to others, who might not have heard otherwise. And my performances- performance expresses that. Cut, slash, chop for each melody of man. That’s a good quote. The sparrows swoon and chirp. To think that a million years ago, music was just nature. Bland, soulless nature revered as a sign from God.

I want to sneak back into the house. Get the computer. I wouldn’t have anywhere to plug it in, given it’s a desktop. There’s a laptop downstairs though, in the couch drawer. I could grab that, and the charger with it.

The car isn’t in the driveway.

The door is unlocked.

I grab a backpack too, and some granola bars.

I would never hitchhike. Dummies do that. Get kidnapped. Hope they’d still give me the laptop, if that happened. Or at least tell the people online what happened to me.

Why did I do that. I need help. I need a lot of help. No one ever wants to help me. They need me and never want to help me. I always sit there, arrogant pushover naive- I’ve gotta get to a cafe somewhere, make a thing. On the road again, can’t help but to be on the road again. I think that’s how it goes. Never was exact on the words.

There’s a coffee place I know of, a few miles away. They’re looking for me, likely. Hasn’t been more than a few hours of waiting and walking. I don’t need them though. I’ll make my own path. I think there’s another cafe, further down. Definitely outlets.

Not many trees around anymore. All chopped down, with clean metal axes. Nicer this way, I think. Certainly less bugs.

Plugged in. It’ll be a while. I steal a knife from behind their counter. Centerpiece addition. Little mom and pop store. Only one employee. Most of the cuts from before are healed. The new ones, from the glass, are here to stay for a few weeks. One of thems- them is buried under the skin. When no one’s looking, I slip deep into the corner and push the fat on my leg up with the hilt, slicing with the back of the knife tip. Starstruck feeling. My fingers slide underneath and withdraw the piece. I limp to the bathroom. Dab, dab, dab with brown paper towels. Clink from the rusty handle. Each level of pressure sends another shudder shooting up through me. I almost faint.

I don’t really have anywhere to stay tonight. I filmed another video, in the dark woods. I had to position the screen and the moonlight to illuminate the knife and my body. It adds a nice mood, and at the 1:30 minute mark you can see the blood glowing. There’s about ten new ones on the thigh, eight on the back knee and surrounding area, four on the feet (I did like a ballet move and cut my soles a bit), twenty on the left shoulder, fourteen on the right shoulder, five on the back (hard for me to reach but usually worth it), two on the scalp/forehead, and seventeen going around the arms. More than most songs I do, but this song was fast paced and had smooth guitars so I thought it needed a little more energy.

I’m really afraid. There’s a chitter, in the patch of trees. They’re watching me, not in the good way. They want me to be scared of them. I miss the warmth, and the bedsheets. I hate the mulch and the mud. It's awful, it really is. Why did I leave? I hate it, hate that I keep making mistakes. I’m no one worth talking to or talking about. I wish people would whisper behind my back. If I died, I wouldn’t have to sit here anymore, with animals and bugs talking down to me. I’m smaller than them. I put the knife in my mouth. Plunge up, right in the soft tissue. I jerk my hand and stop, barely touching that pink roof. I can’t do it. Can’t even die right. Useless, useless, useless, loveless, distant, freakshow of a person. I need something, anything to keep me here or I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. I want to live. But there’s no good reason, no great reason at all to keep living like this. Even they wouldn’t care, the fans. I’m another thing to them, another thing to boost them up when they get home from school or work. No, I’m wrong. That’s wrong. They like me for a reason. I show them what’s possible. It’s possible to love and hurt yourself. To feel something real and special. You can hurt as much as you want. If you’re hurting at the very end, you’re still feeling.

The drowsy- drowsiness is back today. It’s not the kind of pain you relish. It eats you alive, so you’re feeling nothing. I’m paralyzed the whole day, letting bugs crawl over me. Bright eyes watch my skin shudder. I can’t die here. I’ve still got to upload. Walk to another cafe, or a restaurant, or a school. One of thoses- those. I need the medicine. I need something. I’m going to cut my brain loose. Or lobotomize myself. No cut or slash can break it. Nauseous spell. I’m so dizzy, I’ms goings o

I’m back. I don’t know how long it was. There’s an ant by my nostril and I send it flying with a frightened slap. At least it’s gone.

A tension above my nose. Like someone pinching it. Is it real? Did I make it?

The videos are doing even better. That new one had me walk about ten miles to some office and stay in the lobby next to a lamp. Nice blue couch though. Kinda wanted to film on it. Color contrast. A few thousand more subscribers a day. I’m in the fourth and fifth digits. It’s awesome. I even got some sponsorship emails, asking if I’d dance to a song of their choice. Obviously I can’t accept, but it’s really cool that I even got them! There’s Clarity, Lesion, Forsko, and a few others. I’m genuinely excited. The channel’s going to be huge!

I moved out of the forest and into the city. It’s much harder to hear anything but I need to keep moving. I saw a broadcast the other day, with my face on it. Still got no place to stay, and I can’t go to a shelter. I saw a village of cardboard and tents near a park, so I might sleep there. Find a friend. Maybe he’ll subscribe. Grassroots marketing, as they say.

They took the channel down. Goddamnit, they took it down. Found it and gone. Strike to my account, damn it. I’m all alone. Self harm, no go. It’s not self harm. It’s a performance. It’s my performance, I’m an artist. Try to censors-censor. I can feel the disease coming back. Drowsy and sleepy. My head is pounding. It’s raining out and I can’t hear. Dirty man next to me in the tent. I lost it all, lost everything I had. It’s all gone and I can’t go back. They left me here to die in some pastiche of nature, buried deep in the flooding lights and suffocating concrete. I’m dead to everyone and if they find me they’ll hook me up to some machine or pill and burn my brains out. I can’t do it again. I can’t stand and I can’t walk another mile. It’s amazing that they can take it from me like that. All my hard work, all the arts- art. No restarting. I just have to end here. Spinning in circles, my whole life spinning and dancing for them and they’re all gone. No one to save me. I’m gone off the face of the earth. I want to leave the world. Stupid things, why do they happen to me? What did I do to anyone? Why do I get to be the failure? I just want to be me and they won’t let me. It’s- It’s all I’ve ever wanted, is to have people hurt with me and love with me and feel what I feel. I’m giving up. I take the knife to my wrist. A performance to no one in particular. All for me to see. Out of sight, out of mind. All alone, without. “God, if I am to die here, give me a sign. If I am to stay here, give me a sign. Death is coming.” The tent zipper comes undone. It grabs and squeezes the blade. “Come with me.”

It’s a black SUV, sleek with tinted windows. I can hear the music from outside. The man introduces himself to me. “James.” He’s got little metal beads, slightly smaller than marbles in his face. Two on the top lip, three on the bottom, five on each eye. When he smiles at me, I can see the pink flesh skin beneath them stretch. I don’t see the driver. He grunts when James asks him to pedal with the metal. “We’re all big fans of yours.” James tells me. He’s still clutching the knife and smiling. It’s flowing through the cracks of his grip. “You mind if I keep this?” I nod and he finally puts it away. He smears the rest on the back of the headrest. “We’re going to take you to our home. You’ll be comfortable there. We e-mailed you but you didn’t respond.” A bead pops out, but he ignores it. We drift through the rest of the city in silence. The singer on the radio has an old voice. Like a teacher.

Now I’ve been looking for a job, but it’s hard to find

Down here, it’s just winners and losers and, “Don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line”

The streets are filled with people, more so than the homes. It’s blurry and blinding and fast.

Well, I’m tired of coming out on this losin’ end.

So, honey, last night, I met this guy, and I’m gonna do a little favor for him

Everything is tall. I’ve never been so far before. It’s what hundreds of thousands of people worked for. Flashy, colorful lights calling to you.

Well, I guess everything dies, baby that’s a fact. But maybe everything that dies someday comes back

Put your hair up nice, set yourself up pretty

And meet me tonight in Atlantic City

It’s beautifuls-beautiful. I’m drowsy. Kill me. I lift my hand and collapse, eyes glazed over. James lifts me back up. He yells at the driver. Take me away. Don’t dream of me, universe. Free me. Change me. Make me whole.

I’m in a comfy bed. Wooden frame. Hooked up to a tube. My eyesight isn’t the greatest. Lot’s of wood, like a post-modern modern home. There’s an abstract painting with blue and gold flowers. Warm lights and heat. Wonderful heat. I put my face up to the burn. No pain. I rest my face against the metal. There’s a light tingle. My fingers rise up to my cheek. The skin is hot to my fingers, but the pain isn’t there. I burst through the door. Hundreds looking back at me. Smiling. Their bodies are filled with metal or glass or scars. One stands out at the front. His shoulders are missing. “We are proud to have you. You will deliver us.” James stands from a chair. “Take solace in knowing you have arrived where you must be. The world has guided you here to us.” They all begin to weep. They fall to their knees. “We have seen your message. We hear the very same words and feelings, swirling within.” They chant to me.

“Narrow is the path unto glory, one that many have followed but none have taken.”

What did they do to me? “What did you do? My pain is gone.” They inch towards me. “We have prepared you for the threshold. We are Lesion.” Many are as young as me, or younger. Their palms are outstretched, covered in thousands of healed scratches. They want me to dance. They want me. They heard me. They feel how I feel. They’ve offered their everything to see me. After all this time, I am no longer alone.

I don’t feel drowsy anymore. Their preparation worked. I cannot hurt good nor bad.

Purple, pink, every neon color. Flashing and smoke. The loudest speakers. Reach the threshold.

Look at me. Look at me. Why weren’t you there when I needed you?

The dressing room. I asked for two mirrors, and they obliged. James knocks at the door. “Five minutes to showtime.” I stomp my feet. I’ve never been so nervous to perform. I’m tilting the knife. If you set up two mirrors across from each other, you can see yourself and the reflection of yourself. It goes on infinitely. You can bend your body and see at every angle. Looking into a different reality. The same conditions, but different. In every reality I cut. In every reality I scar myself. Constants.

I open the door and walk through the backstage. They are dressed in white robes, each holding knives by bumps. I can see every sharp, minute ridge meet their hands. We are believers and family. We live in the songs and the music. No-Shoulders comes and hugs me. “Narrow is the path unto glory, one that many have followed but none have taken. We will reach it.” Tears fall from our eyes. The closest they’ve been to the threshold. They were waiting for me, for a performer. They are too nervous, or too unskilled. They go up on a stage and shake uncontrollably. I express what they cannot. I am the throat and the mouth. They are the brain and the soul. We speak together. I am not useless, or worthless. I have a purpose to tell. I am not floating, or adrift in the wind, or carried through life by others. I am not lost, or in need of being found. I belong here, whispering for the mute, seeing for the blind, tasting for those who speak in tongues. I am something, not nothing. I am something, not nothing. Their faces stand out to me, as I walk on the stage. I scream at them. “Are you ready?”

They scream back to me. “We are ready!” Joyous shouting, raucous applause.

Purple up, blue up, red up, green up, yellow up. They swarm my face. They swarm the stage. Smoke rolls out from underneath, through metal netted pockets. We draw our knives. We sing to each other. “Narrow is the path unto glory, one that many have followed but none have taken.”

We don’t even feel the cold desert night. I swear there are cars in the distance, driving towards us. No matter. This is our moment, all together. Understanding.

The drums come in. The guitars are warping with each other, a wonderful collage of rainbow strings. We bring the knives to the tops of our foreheads. We plunge them deep inside our skulls. The bone is a little tougher to go through. Bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go

I wanna be sedated

Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go-oh

I wanna be sedated

I’m sawing through the front of my skull. My nose parts both ways. My nostrils flap and I can’t smell. But the pain is rising, moving further. I can feel the shudder by my chin, and the goosebumps on my forearm spreading like summer sewer water. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. A cavity in my face. Eres demasiado perfecto. You are perfect. You are special. Hurt yourself. Make it an art. Let the people love it. Our blood is falling to the ground, collecting together. An ocean. We have taken the path.

Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go-oh

I wanna be sedated

Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane

Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go insane

I’m down to the lips now. Rip through the top lip. Mouth wide open. I make a gap between my teeth. The lips are chapped, with the webby feeling. The blood runs through them. One line, parting our bodies. I cut through the bottom. Our clothes are stained red. Beauty in what we make, in our problems and mistakes. Grinning with our broken lips and shattered necks. Bloody, bloody, ruined people.

I can’t control my fingers, I can’t control my brain

Oh, no, oh, oh, oh, oh

We keep sawing, through our throats and our collarbones. Almost at the threshold.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go

I’m wanna be sedated

Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go-oh

I wanna be sedated

Just put me in a wheelchair, get me to the show

Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go loco

I can’t control my fingers, I can’t control my toes

It’s there. Every single shudder and shake. My body is rupturing. I wish I could cut forever. The crowd is collapsing, face planting in their own fluid. Completely red. I will be the only one to reach. I will feel for them. James is dead. No-Shoulders is gone. Blood pooling, flowing into the booming speakers. The words start to drip with it. I cut through the ribcage and down to the navel.

Ba,ba, ba-ba, ba-ba, ba , ba-ba, I wanna be sedated

Ba, ba, ba-ba, ba-ba, ba, ba-ba, I wanna be sedated

Ba, ba, ba-ba, ba-ba, ba, ba-ba, I wanna be sedated

Ba, ba, ba-ba, ba-ba, ba, ba-ba, I wanna be sedated

The final strum whisks me away. I feel it, all of it out of me. The threshold. The pain is lingering there. The hurt is waiting there. My mind flashes white. Nothing takes my vision. The pain floods back and my body splits. But I feel it, trickling out from the cavern in my body.

And it’s worth it.

“Narrow is the path unto glory, one that many have followed and only one has taken.”