We mustn’t count. A number infers another number. Numbers are self-propagating. It is a linear birth. Number one is the foundation for number two. Two multiplies with itself to make four. One two three four. Four into sixteen. Sixteen into thirty-two, one for each year. And so we mustn’t count. We mustn’t.

It is like an art exhibit: Nameless Female Number One.

(how do)

She is heavier now that she is dead. She was lighter and full of restlessness and she is flesh full of lead. Minus the constant effervescent life to aerate, to lift. Heavy dead ugly doll in this tub full of scarlet water. She is wet. She is revolting. She fills the tub. He cannot remember unzipping his pants but he can remember killing

(…I)

The strange feeling upon sight of her, reverse vertigo, bubbles floating downward and the sinking in his head. His eyes full of stones. The voice of the god came out of the scratching, all those stones rubbing together, calm soothing hateful whispering and the itch in his hands. Like poison ivy on the inside. Red raw itching blisters, the suppurating end of her life: nameless vessel and shell of flesh, dead meat, living deliverance, a place to vomit up the bitterness the confusion the memory loss the crippling rage and silence the voice. The stones gone still. The humming silent in his ears. The blisters itched inside his palms and he took her out of an alley and broke her skin and ate her screams and daydreamed of water. Waves, ripples, raindrops and mist, smooth smothering broken sunbeams. Glittering spears of light. He longed for water but there was no water. The capillaries broke up in her eyes. He wanted the release of it, the sanctity, the horror. The stillness of her limbs. Her spirit flying home. He thought to drown her but there was no water. So he choked her instead.

(numbers no)

Her breasts are big and too brown and her hair is the color of mud and her eyes are the color of shit think think of white pure smooth ivory unbuckle unzip her face the taste of lost in the vagina mine think of this think of her and not the rage has made this nameless female ugly female rotten bitch whore useless and her blood is gone into the water her skin is abandoned her disgusting flesh is nothing without

(art)

This mess. This is such a mess. I am such a mess.

The chains clink. “Carl?”

His breath snags. His fingers are wrinkling inside the rubber gloves. He works to clean up the chunks of flayed skin.

The chains are muffled by the wall. Her voice is soft. It makes him feel soft. “Are you out there?”

The flesh lands in a bowl. It lands with a thick wet slap. It’s better because the bowl is rocking and inside the rocking are the memories and each new piece is like a breath, a freshening, and as he listens to Rhiannon’s chains and the way she moves behind the walls he pulls the drain on the blood and remembers the sweet destruction of fucking her.