The following is an exercise in descriptive writing.
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The pleasure from pain is the greatest pleasure of all; the colour of blood when it drips from a vein is the most splendid sight of all. I’d like to have my face ripped open by shrapnel, shard after hot shard piercing into the soft skin of my face, facing no resistance whatsoever in its path toward my brain, toward turning me into a disfigured and gruesome beast.
I’d like for the heat and sound waves from the explosion to charge blisters to rise and pop, the water beneath my skin boiling into steam and forcing its way through miniscule pores like painful childbirth. As the sound pours into the canals of my ears, I want to listen to the intricacies of every small bone in there be quickly torn down from its gracious installation until the tinnitus of their annoying clamour is no longer audible. I want to be surprised by the double-pop of my eardrums giving way, the membrane quickly rupturing from the centre-out as the energy of its vibrations orgasms at the centre, and the sounds of my own screams are lost to me.
Desperate for some respite, I want to struggle against my bonds and I will, only to find that every breath of air that I inhale into my lungs is teeming with the malicious stench of sulphurous gases, slowly corroding my tongue, turning it into a parched mockery of muscle, and then my throat, leaving behind in its wake only the clear memories of water.
Like a pathetic being retching and defiling itself, I totter to the ground, helpless like a little lamb on the dressing table, somehow knowing pain but not the perpetrator... seeing both the gloved hand and the sharpened blade but not the swing soon to follow. The unanticipated dissonance still lingering in the air begins to quieten and the previously-still evening cautiously settles down around me, all the dust and grime of the neighbourhood gently forming a neat patina on the gouged floor.
I lie there like disaster’s signature.
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