conclusion that I don’t know Rex, not really. I hold on tight and try my best not to think. That never does work. But I try. I concentrate on the buzz around my head.
I wish Joey hadn’t cut himself that one last time while I was passed out. If I’d been a better friend, a better person, I’d have been there for him.
I miss him.
Maybe Joey did the right thing. He was going to go to jail. He killed that son-of-a bitch and it was just a matter of time before he got caught. Jail would have most certainly killed him. He was small, fragile. There was no other way to escape.
Flies.
The tickle of tiny legs on me make me want to thrash and flail.
But I don’t.
Outside I hear a voice. Not a conversation, just a single voice. I must be inside because the voice sounds like it’s on the other side of a window. But inside where? I still don’t want to look.
The voice belongs to the red rider. The woman. She sounds like she’s giving a speech. It’s familiar, like something I should have learned in school. Joan of Arc, maybe? Shakespeare?
She says something about unjust wars and mutual destruction. Her words sound ominous. Even if she’s only screwing around, it does not sound good.
“Rex, are you awake?”
“That I am, Kitty.”
The knot inside me loosens up a little. I love Rex. And maybe that’s just the desperation stirring my emotions like a blender on high, but I do. I love him like he’s the last man on earth.
Fuck. I hope that’s not the case.
“Where are we, Rex?”
“Sounds like we’re in church. That wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Rex’s voice is croaky and muffled. “I could use a prayer.”
Rex sounds like he’s talking with a sock in his mouth. I don’t want to look, but I can’t just lie here like some kind of girly bitch cringing in fear.
I open my eyes. I purposely don’t look at Rex’s face. This is not a church. It could be the belly of a whale though. We’re lying on some rotted old mattress. It’s mostly made up of brown coils of wire with tufts of cotton that look like it needs to be ginned clinging to the wires. It’s covered here and there by scraps of stiff, piss-yellow fabric. It’s on the floor of the rusted and shattered remains of one of those ’50s-style campers that always appear on postcards for sale along Route 66. What the fuck happened to this thing? It’s not burned, but it’s decimated. Its crippled rib spines are covered with a tarp. The sun shining through the gaps in the tarp falls on some sparkling, ganglious growths. Salt. Salt is encrusted on everything.
“You okay?” Rex asks me. He does not sound good.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say. I turn my head so I can see him. It takes everything I’ve got. His face is swollen twice as big as it should be. His eyes are hidden behind mounds of purplish swollen flesh. His lips are cracked and caked with rust-brown blood. The boils on his neck and chest and cheek have burst. White snakes of pus ooze from him.
I scream just a little and pull away. I’m proud of myself for not screaming more. Not pus, maggots. The tiny white worms curl and uncurl into themselves. It is seriously the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, but for some reason it doesn’t seem like it’s part of Rex. He doesn’t disgust me. It’s not his fault.
It’s mine.
Fuck.
This is seriously bad. Is it even possible to get better once you’ve got maggots?
“I’m going to help you, Rex. I am, somehow.”
“Thanks, Kitty. I appreciate that.”
“Can you get up?” I ask as I push myself to my knees. I feel shaky. Maybe I’m going to pass out. But I don’t. I grab Rex’s arm and lift him. His flesh feels spongy and damp. But he’s getting up. He’s getting up on unsteady legs. The wound on his face weeps down his cheek. He can stand, though, as long as he leans on me.
“Hey, Kitty.”
“Yeah?”
“You know that voice inside that tells you what’s right and what’s wrong?”
We shuffle across the uneven floor
I wish Joey hadn’t cut himself that one last time while I was passed out. If I’d been a better friend, a better person, I’d have been there for him.
I miss him.
Maybe Joey did the right thing. He was going to go to jail. He killed that son-of-a bitch and it was just a matter of time before he got caught. Jail would have most certainly killed him. He was small, fragile. There was no other way to escape.
Flies.
The tickle of tiny legs on me make me want to thrash and flail.
But I don’t.
Outside I hear a voice. Not a conversation, just a single voice. I must be inside because the voice sounds like it’s on the other side of a window. But inside where? I still don’t want to look.
The voice belongs to the red rider. The woman. She sounds like she’s giving a speech. It’s familiar, like something I should have learned in school. Joan of Arc, maybe? Shakespeare?
She says something about unjust wars and mutual destruction. Her words sound ominous. Even if she’s only screwing around, it does not sound good.
“Rex, are you awake?”
“That I am, Kitty.”
The knot inside me loosens up a little. I love Rex. And maybe that’s just the desperation stirring my emotions like a blender on high, but I do. I love him like he’s the last man on earth.
Fuck. I hope that’s not the case.
“Where are we, Rex?”
“Sounds like we’re in church. That wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Rex’s voice is croaky and muffled. “I could use a prayer.”
Rex sounds like he’s talking with a sock in his mouth. I don’t want to look, but I can’t just lie here like some kind of girly bitch cringing in fear.
I open my eyes. I purposely don’t look at Rex’s face. This is not a church. It could be the belly of a whale though. We’re lying on some rotted old mattress. It’s mostly made up of brown coils of wire with tufts of cotton that look like it needs to be ginned clinging to the wires. It’s covered here and there by scraps of stiff, piss-yellow fabric. It’s on the floor of the rusted and shattered remains of one of those ’50s-style campers that always appear on postcards for sale along Route 66. What the fuck happened to this thing? It’s not burned, but it’s decimated. Its crippled rib spines are covered with a tarp. The sun shining through the gaps in the tarp falls on some sparkling, ganglious growths. Salt. Salt is encrusted on everything.
“You okay?” Rex asks me. He does not sound good.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say. I turn my head so I can see him. It takes everything I’ve got. His face is swollen twice as big as it should be. His eyes are hidden behind mounds of purplish swollen flesh. His lips are cracked and caked with rust-brown blood. The boils on his neck and chest and cheek have burst. White snakes of pus ooze from him.
I scream just a little and pull away. I’m proud of myself for not screaming more. Not pus, maggots. The tiny white worms curl and uncurl into themselves. It is seriously the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, but for some reason it doesn’t seem like it’s part of Rex. He doesn’t disgust me. It’s not his fault.
It’s mine.
Fuck.
This is seriously bad. Is it even possible to get better once you’ve got maggots?
“I’m going to help you, Rex. I am, somehow.”
“Thanks, Kitty. I appreciate that.”
“Can you get up?” I ask as I push myself to my knees. I feel shaky. Maybe I’m going to pass out. But I don’t. I grab Rex’s arm and lift him. His flesh feels spongy and damp. But he’s getting up. He’s getting up on unsteady legs. The wound on his face weeps down his cheek. He can stand, though, as long as he leans on me.
“Hey, Kitty.”
“Yeah?”
“You know that voice inside that tells you what’s right and what’s wrong?”
We shuffle across the uneven floor
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