I step into my bathroom to discuss the damage done with my mirrored friend. He is disappointed in me for removing the helmet. No doubt we’ll debate the merits of following rules later.
Features, some would say have already felt a few strokes from the Ugly Stick, are rearranged in lumps and cuts. Dirt and smears of blood fill any gap not slashed or torn.
Mirror-me wants to know why I always come back from excursions minus half my skin and blood.
A good question with no ready answer.
I turn my head to see how an ear fares after sliding over a brick surface. Soft tissue injuries have reshaped once symmetrical lobes. The ‘chewed’ look could be in this year. It doesn’t help my humour that it’s the same ear molested most recently by a Parasite’s leg. Black blood and dirt form a crust that prevents a full assessment.
A field of shallow cuts across my cheek from a lunatic's surprise barbering. It’s messy though minor. One grossly swollen eye socket complements the Elephant Man look.
The slow, warm shower soaks pain from some wounds and revives it in others. The water runs dark and lumpy, then a clearer pink. Scrubbing facial gravel rash hard is self-inflicted payback for hurting Kristine. Screaming softly through my teeth is habit forming, I probably can’t even scream normally anymore.
An alcohol wash is liberally applied to all cuts. The towel I cram into my mouth is almost bitten through.
Some gets in my eye too.
I jump up and down in place until the burning sensation eases. ‘Beating with a flaming baseball bat’ becomes ‘melted plastic dripped on face’. I open my mouth and let the towel fall.
I poke a purple chest. There’s no room for any more bruises. Luckily exercise avoidance has maintained a cushioning fat layer. It has absorbed punishment ribs would not have rejoiced to feel. My butt is hard to see but the stab wound feels hot and hard. Butt cheek and ring-barked, lacerated wrists get the same alcohol, anti-septic treatment and I’m set to dress.
Alternating my reality from painless to psychedelic is taken care of with random picks from bottles and packets.
I deserve a blow out. I’ve been through a lot.
Before the indulgence takes hold, I check on Kristine. She sleeps like the dead. I have to sneak up very close before being reassured her imitation stems from shallow breathing.
The combination of substances begins a rollercoaster ride of numbed and heightened awareness.
The DVD I watch is a riot of colour.
Floating dust motes are fascinating.
I have to draw. I fill pages with scribble. I draw bodies and Parasites. I stare at my pictures.
Consciousness expands and explodes.
In the still cyclonic eye, an idea forms. It must be a very good idea. I hear a fanfare of trumpets.
An old desire to leave a legacy for later generations before I go is rekindled. I have the opportunity to discover something of great importance. Information to be passed on, ensuring my life isn’t a total, selfish waste.
Thoughts of glory are intoxicating. So is the alcohol I consume. I’ll be adored from afar. They will love me. I will be exalted. They may immortalise me in stone.
Endowed with invulnerability, a godlike power fumes inside. Nothing can hurt me this night. I can walk outside unarmed and not be touched.
The flooding rush of artificial energy cannot be contained. I am running down the halls whooping, looking forward to the nasty job ahead.
The height of my internal storm corresponds with the one raging outside as I burst through the loading dock doors. The scene of my latest slaughter.
The howling wind conceals my howls and the lashing rain provides privacy for my movements.
I open the gates.