Lust Demented

{XVIII}

ANY NOTION OF PASSIVITY HAD drained with the blood of a dead writer into the soil of this Algonquin swamp. I lay in the hot stone sauna of a greasy kitchen, bed next to the stove, secret novels of the future scattered across the floor… counting the seconds between thunder and godly skyshine… the more level I attempted to stay… the more my lungs heaved out of control. Signs of life outside of the passing mechanized iron on its rattling tracks were few and far between. At this hour the lack of distractions kept me in my head. New York’s geometric prism was just a speck, an heir to the time’s trampling.

I dropped the pen in the ink and pressed it to the page. The words were waiting for a destination. I knew where to put them. I knew which ones to ignore. I forgot where I was. I forgot what I was missing. I forgot who I was supposed to be. The words showed up and I placed them… tracing outlines of people I knew… filling in their flesh as if it all melted together. It was a world overlooked by everyone, but myself. The feather pen tore through the paper snapping at the end. The bottle of ink fell on its side soaking the desk and page of writing. I could see the black void.

It was the closest I’ve approached getting my name back on the cover of the book Missy adopted as her own, snatching it away deep into the cavernous venus man-trap between her legs. Done lugging around the guilt of pimping her out for my own ambitions. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe it was in her nature. Missy was an expert of putting an idea in your head and methodically making you believe that it materialized within you. She, the subconscious nurturer, left even the most oblivious passerby with a destructive obsession. Wildfire, I collapsed to the floor reaching for a pen and paper with enough room to scribble on like a soldier back from the war who only knew how to be a soldier, I could only write. I was writing this as I was thinking this.

Water dripped down. All the dead roses except one were resting on a bed of glass at my feet. The one lonely one held on with its thorns, stuck to Missy’s palm. I gently stepped towards her.

“Farrow. Please.” Missy told me a thousand ways on the same tongue, but I stayed in the morning dew of a distant galaxy. A book I never started…

“You hate me because I live by different rules. You couldn’t own me - so you used me.”

“I’m sorry I was selfish. All I ever want to do is write.”

“Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do: Write.”

The past could no longer be forgotten out of convenience as it had been before the war. Dishonor before death. Suicide mission through the irreparable city. Lorem ipsolem inculare. Not sure if I disowned humanity or the ant farm disowned me.

With an ear-splitting crash, the ceiling came down onto the studio’s floor. The rain seemed to have weakened an already mooshy three generation decayed rooftop. Light shot in. I stood revealed to the night sky. The electrical storm showed no sign of weakening, until the entire borough succumbed to a jittery seizure, bruised from rolling around their cramped digs in drool. Squinting through the blur, I watched the clock reading high noon on the dot fade into dreams of crumbling teeth and invincible strangers sneaking along fire escapes. Lars was in pitch perfect tune: Writers are hustlers by default. I was always buying time to finish up another book. Every decision I made was with the next story in mind.