The girl from the mire: part 2
Were we ever alive? Were we ever here? Were we ever?
Judith exists in a graveyard. Her tombstone is so old that it looks like a smooth glacial stone. Protrudes into her dusty, dormant grass world. Inhabitants are terri...
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Judith witnessed within herself the loss of herself. Knew to flee from the bone saw. Knew which warm membranous tear drop of a room behind her consciousness to hide in. Which Procrustean bed to hide under. Which gelatinous corner protected what remained of herself. Just enough so her mind could escape her mindlessness. Survival instinct hurried her away from herself, like she was in a winter forest with many curled arm branches lifting her into finger layers of cocoon hugs. Saved something of herself from the vicious obliteration of her body. Found a warm place on the pack snow of where she was stranded. Like an igloo made by an unspeakable lover. Consoled her poor, ravaged frost destroyed feet.
Judith could handle pain but this was way too much. Hid in another layer of herself in a section of being where the walls were fleshy and the humidity was a cascaded shower of thick gore. Cozy and warm. Eventually numb, like she had never known a physical sensation her whole life. Flesh igloo.
Was any of this real?
Could still watch the exterior through her popped and runny egg yolk eyes. When they grew back she would be able to witness in depth what was left of Michael. If she ever saw him again.
How and why? What for?
He had pressed her emerald city eyes back into her brain after he cut and ripped her jaw off. Judith knew her apertures would fill in again. Glow evil when they formed brand new. What languages would she be able to speak with her new jaw? Forever inhuman.
How did she know this? Or anything? Afterlives? Births? What does it matter? All's lost. Stranded in the pack snow of some other world. But was it? What other world?
Voices. A particular voice. Hatred.
It was Nigel who had commanded the bone saw man to do the brutality. The bone saw man didn't hesitate with any of the butchery after Judith's jaw hit the floor. She had heard a mixture of futile crying and nervous hysterical shivers from her man. And then after awhile, when he was ripping more of her apart, there was only a raspy, deep jovial giggle. And then another. And another. Became superfluous like a skipping record. Until she listened to what was no longer Michael. The voice had an unnaturally deep crackle which she recognized. Michael's voice from Chigurh park. A gangrenous leftover of a soul. The part that should have been amputated was the only part left.
Judith couldn't blame Michael. He tried. He died. He'd been eaten by malevolently obese murderers.
"Do you know why you've failed so miserably at this, Nigel? I mean, you of all idiots should know how to do this since I guided you once before when I made you what you are. You're an inartistic impotent cretin. You never ever remove the heart or the brain. Not ever. The drowning serum isn't necessary here. Let the tasty treats fester in their wrappings. Let the body and soul marinade in the flavours of the serums. The living night is dissipated in the brightness of death. Ok, who's next?"
"I made you into this, didn't I Mr bone saw man?"
"Incompetently. I'm not what I should be. You've made me into something less. Twenty seven times on your table and this is all that I am? I should be able to fly by now, but no. No, you are an unlearned wretch. But don't worry, Nigel. I'll teach you. And my payment will be your body on my table again."
