It was now 4:45 A.M. and Peter had been awake for close to an hour. He leaned over the ceramic basin in his bathroom, head slumped, shoulder’s sharply arched, and peered into the vast whiteness of the porcelain bowl. It felt like his face was melting off his skull. He could feel the skin separating from the muscle and the taught knots of sinew untying themselves from the bone. His eyes slid around their sockets like marbles rolling around on a floor—something was apparently wrong.
Peter looked up into the mirror suspended above the sink and noticed, much to his consternation that his face in fact was sliding off. He wasn’t sure how or why it was doing this, and the feeling, while jarring, wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It felt as if the vacuum-seal holding all of his physical essence together was broken and now just exhaling its way through his flesh. His pores were frothing with fluids and sweat and he could feel mucous oozing out of membranes that would have normally been in his nose, if it weren’t now curled in his slacking jaw.
He felt no fear, no anguish, and no surprise, just bother. It was a curious occurrence, but gazing at it made it much more bearable than thinking about it. It reminded him of his childhood when he would melt G.I. Joe’s with a magnifying glass after dousing them in lighter-fluid. Peter’s eyes were now dangling on his cheeks and his gaze was directed forcefully downward by the drooping of his being; he strained his stare down at his arms, and coming into focus, he saw that the rest of his body was still intact. No drifting limbs or extremities; no liquefied soft tissue or separated musculature - normal. His hands rose slowly and lifted the quickly drying eyeballs off his softened cheeks and his gaze elevated to the mirror.
What did that bitch do to me? thought Peter. He took a step back, eyes in hand still and looked into the bedroom of the motel. Sarah was still on the bed, her bare back facing him. The notches of her spin were visible in the half-light of the room, the sickly fluorescent illuminating them like a trail of tumors. The sheet was spread over her lower half concealing her legs and the railroad track scar on her right thigh. Peter had wondered about the scar when he undressed her earlier, but the thought had been flushed from his mind as delved into his carnal necessity.
A slight burning sensation started to take a hold of Peter’s disjointed eyeballs and he rested them against his limp face and spun the faucet. Cold water began to fill the sink and pool and Peter drove his hands into the shallow basin, cupping them as to bring water to what was left of his face. But no water came out of the sink with his hands as he drew them up, only ash. He parted his hands and his dangling eyes, now searing with dryness gawked at the basin, full of water, but every time his hands returned to draw water from it, concave palms withdrew full of ash.
What the fuck is happening? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the-“Fuck!” Peter’s internal monologue had now spilled into his vocalizations. “My mouth still works,” he said looking up into the mirror. The reflection an angular, 23-year old face, with all its muscle, fibers, tissues, organs, and pieces intact greeted him. Below, the water glassily shimmered, no ash or debris or flotsam floating around. He dipped his cupped hand slowly into the bowl, and raised it as the water filled in each crease of his palm. A small puddle lingered, water wicking off the side of his curled hand. No ash. Stepping back from the sink, he peered into the main room again. Sarah lay motionless on the bed, her back directed towards him, sheet drawn up around her waist. Peter realized he was still naked and cold and turned on the shower. Softly, he walked back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The ashtray on the nightstand contained a half smoked hand rolled cigarette. Peter was never a smoker, but he was never opposed to the idea. He picked up the burned butt and placed it in between his lips. Opening the drawer of the nightstand, he fished around, his hands returning with a book of matches. He plucked one from the small piece of cardboard and swiftly rubbed it against the sandpaper grain on the outside of the book. With a hiss, the match sprung to light and he lifted the flame to the burnt end. Inhaling, the cigarette re-lit and he took a full lung of smoke. It was a rich and cedary with a savory drag, reminiscent of Sarah’s taste.
Sarah shifted in the bed, turning onto her stomach, pushing the sheet away from her body. Her back was entirely bare now and her small waist, curving into her small and shapely rear was visible. So was her scar. The end of the pink flesh-colored railroad tracks came up to her mid-thigh. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sight, but it made Peter weary. The cigarette rested between his fingers and smoldered some, dropping ash onto the sheets. His free hand passed over the small lump on gray matter and upon lifting it, there was a railroad mark on the bed slip. He looked back up to Sarah’s thigh and it was peach and naked. There was no indication of a scar or any sort of blemish having ever being there, just skin. Peter stood up and placed the cigarette in the ashtray and walked back to the bathroom where he could hear the whisper of the steam escaping the now hot shower.
I am coming undone. Perhaps unglued is a better word. I don’t want to think about these things. I don’t think about these things, ever. Where do they come from? Turning around to face the showerhead he opened his mouth and his jaw fell off. Blood started pouring down his face, but the warmth lent a feeling of comfort to him, and he retained his calm. Peter bent down, scooped up the mandible off the shower floor and raised it up into focus. I should floss more often, he mediated to himself as he stared at his lower teeth. If the muscles in his face hadn’t slacked from the removal of his jaw, he would’ve smiled about the irony. He stood with the water and blood streaming down his chest before collapsing a few seconds later.
About the same time Peter’s head struck the floor of the motel shower, Sarah woke up. She had fallen asleep soon after she and Peter had finished having sex, but she did not sleep restfully. Her dreams were plagued with trains departing at odd hours, irking her sensibility about timeliness and schedules. In fact, everything about her and Peter’s night had irked her from his advances after work to the moment they arrived at the motel. The sex was good though, she countered in her mind. She had heard a thump and turned over to see the glowing butt of the cigarette she had ditched in the ashtray prior to falling asleep. She had hand rolled her cigarettes since college when it became a budgetary concern due to the increasing price of cigarettes, and as a student, she had no money to pay for such luxuries. But she had an addiction to feed, so she decided rolling them was the next best thing than to quit. That decision was years ago, and habit had over ridden any possible need for expenditure, so she stuck with it.
She heard the shower and she assumed Peter was cleaning up. He was an attractive man in her opinion, though two years younger than she. Pulling the sheet away from herself, she slinked out of bed and walked over to the mirror on the door of the closet, adjacent to the door to the bathroom. She inspected herself, admiring her body and nodding in satisfaction. She twisted her body to the right and saw that her scar was more than visible, but Peter had seemingly ignored it. She hated it, because it was out of place on her. Everything about Sarah’s life had a place, except for this scar. Parts of the night had already managed to infiltrate this sensibility for being an affront to it, but she overrode the feeling of strangeness by telling herself that it was good to get out of the ordinary cycle sometimes. He didn’t look at it once during. She ran her hand across her breasts and down her side, reaching mid-thigh, where she passed over the scar with her pointer and middle finger. It felt raised and hot, but she put her distaste for it out of her mind as she went over to her discarded purse, conveniently thrown onto the chair diagonally from the bed and pulled out a bag of tobacco along with the rolling papers and began to roll a cigarette.
What is this?
This is you.
What do you mean, “this is you”?
You’re rotting, Peter.
How could I be rotting? I’m not dead, am I?
No, you’re alive. But you are rotting.
Does this have something to do with Sarah?
No, but you sure ask a lot of questions.
Well, I have many.
We all do Peter. Every single one of us.
Peter awoke; contorted into a mangled fetal position on the floor of the shower, the water still falling onto his naked frame. There was no blood, his jaw was intact, and he was calmly confused. There was though, a large lump on his forehead, where it had made contact with the hard tile surface of the shower. Getting to his feet, Peter turned off the shower and stepped out. His head was pounding, but he chose to ignore it, and turning to the sink, he rested his hands on the porcelain. The protuberance was not large, but it was quite red, almost angry in appearance. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom.
Every wall in the room was coated in blood. Every light was on. Every surface pristine and glistening. But the walls were bleeding quite profusely. Across the room, Sarah was reclining in the chair next to the door, smoking one of her hand rolled cigarettes, starring right at him.
Squinting from the now-abundant light, Peter scanned the room and said, “You’re awake.”
Sarah looked up at Peter’s lank frame and replied. “Yes. How’d you get that bump on your head?”
“My jaw fell off,” Peter returned flatly.
“Oh,” she whispered.
She was naked and the room was dark again. The lamp by the bed was turned on, but it was still black outside, so the light seemed dim. Peter put his hand to the wall and pressed his palm firmly against it. He removed his hand and looked at it stoically. No blood.
In the few short months she had known Peter, Sarah had never once heard him talk about anything personal - never about family, never about friends, never about how he felt, never about anything like that. Initially, she had supposed that he had no soul, but she knew better than to give into silly superstitions and wild assumptions. Exhaling a gasp of smoke, Sarah noticed her erect nipples and got up to cross the room to where he clothes lay, her gaze never leaving the stationary silhouette on the other side of the room. Rummaging through the pile, she found her underwear and a sweater and slipped both on.
Peter still stood by the wall starring at his hand and Sarah looked at him. He seemed lopsided, somewhat diminished from how she remembered him. “Are you O.K.?” she smiled.
Peter’s attention snapped from his hand and he turned his head slowly towards her. The yellow from the lamplight and the white from the fluorescent of the bathroom gave him two faces. The former was warm and submerged in a soft colored glow, while the latter was hollow and sunken with grey. “I’m rotting.”
“Rotting?” Responded Sarah.
“Yes; I was told I was.” Said Peter blankly.
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. I was just told.” Peter walked over to his own respective pile of clothes and crouched down and scooped them up. His arms were laden with ash as he went over and threw it down on the bed. A huge plume of dust erupted upon impact and the room became hazy, the light strange.
Sarah looked at Peter through the floating debris and walked toward him. She arrived next to him and placed her hand on his chest. He wasn’t warm yet he wasn’t cold. She looked up at him and he stared back. His blue-gray eyes seemed clouded like the room and she wondered what he was thinking. You’ll never let me in. She thought to herself. His hand drew up to her cheek, and pushing back into her thick dark hair, drew her closer. Both bodies leaned in and came together and they kissed, turning first into standing and then falling pillars of ash and charnel and gore.
And as their sodden remains hit the once white carpet, the smell of rotting flesh was unbearable.
PROSE: MAX GARDNER
