2003 A Beautiful Woman Excerpt – Dying Sucks
Job was dying, slowly but surely. Job didn’t have any ears. In the place of one ear there was a nicely carved sliver of cartilage sloping up towards the back of his head. There was still some blood caked there, but not much. In the place of the other ear was a strangled mass of half-healed scar tissue and caked blood, little strings of what had once been flesh or cartilage hanging about like the decor of some forgotten tribe of dark Africa. His head was covered in patches of dark hair, constantly ripped out, and little spots of blood where the roots had been successfully pulled from their long ago homes. His mouth opened up to the devil’s own scar tissue cavern, broken and jagged teeth, what few were left framing an inhuman mound of red throbbing flesh. But it was dry, caked in white and black and mucus, re-growing its old form from the bacterial matter newly settled in its ancient tribal territory.
And he had a headache. Dear baby, don’t leave me hanging, said the headache. Don’t leave me hanging here, like that, little baby, crooned the headache. I throbbing for you, little darlin’, I got it shakin’, inside hear, for you, my little darlin’ baby.
His feet were a mass of caked blood, mud, rotting flesh writing mystery musicals starring bouncy divas in gangrene fedoras. There were some dark patches, sticky and leathery, which surely must have been what was left of his boots. His hands were missing fingers, the pinkies he knew but he couldn’t tell what else, having not the capacity to count and a blurred vision when he tried to look upon them. Sensation phased in and out in myriad directions of breaths along his spine and his body. He needed water, and he didn’t know where he was. Something was pressing against his face. Oh, it’s the muddy wet ground. That figures. Oh, it’s the muddy wet ground, figuring. He tried to move his arms. One seemed to be missing. The right? No, the left. Scorching weirdness and pain inhabit the ghostly space where his left arm once had been. With his one right arm and three to four fingers remaining on that side he tries to lift himself up. He is immeasurable weight. He is all filled volume.
Blinking frantically, his eyes manage to lift off some of the mud covering him, he senses light, day or night rests unknown. His right arm slips on the wet mud and his chest and head fall the quarter inch to the ground and knock him unconscious. Well you know, at this point it doesn’t take much.
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