Razor Wire Pubic Hair (5 page)

            Morning comes and Celsia works violently setting up another fence around her home.  She has removed her metal skin and is now sweaty-greased in her stringy underclothes, her white body a blemish in the red-speckled field. 

            The Sister is again dancing with the dead in the garden, but this time she is dancing slowly, holding them against her slippy skin with her eyes closed loosely.  The gray-orange sky beats against them as if on purpose.

            You can tell the dead are falling in love with her, she cradles them in her arms, reminds them of what they have been searching for.

            Tuma hasn’t spoken a word today, she hasn’t thought to put on her clothes.  I tell her she’ll infect a sickness, but she just doesn’t give in . . . lifting my legs to lose herself on my pleasure parts, as I tell her a bedtime story.

            Tuma has a pet that she has been keeping between her breasts.  A pet slug/hand/jellyfish

creature that can melt flat as paper and form around the girl’s young breasts. Sometimes she wears the pet as a shirt, lets it coat her torso, a flat rubber-fit, so tight that she’ll appear naked when stepping through greasy-black sections of Celsia’s home.

            Her breasts are like the creature’s cage -- two pointy guards holding it hostage.  When the creature -- whose name is Muggy Tim -- wiggles without her permission, Tuma will flex her breasts together and crush discipline into the gelatine pet.  But Tuma loves Muggy Tim for its wet warmth and feeding it is easy because it eats the bacteria off of her body, never needing to take baths ever again. 

            Tuma is not afraid of the rapists anymore.  They don’t seem to be coming.  It has been days and they have not returned. 

            "We scared them off for good," she says and smiles as Muggy Tim cleans the inside of her thighs.

            The Sister has been sneaking zombies in one by one over the past few days.  She does it at night when Celsia is on a sex break from triple-barricading the fortress and climbs on top of me and sometimes brings Tuma and Muggy Tim into the mix, embracing us in her sharp teeth.

            The zombies have been hiding from us in the cold dark corners and between the walls.  I can hear their rustling, moaning, sometimes they call to me, try to entice me to come and find them.  To eat me?  fuck me?

            I can smell their rotten stink when I step through corridors, shreds of their skin lying in hallways, ground into the carpet fabrics, peeling like a snake.

            Tuma and I wonder what the Sister gets up to in her bedroom, what she lets the living dead do to her.  Does she take them into her bed with her?  Tuma quickly nods at me, giggling and petting her Muggy Tim on her breasts.

            The first time I came in direct contact with a zombie was when I was going to the bathroom one morning.  Celsia was setting up another wall outside and the Sister was teaching Tuma how to masturbate with acupuncture needles.

            The zombie was a woman, with her face rotting in such a way it looked to be melting off her head, rusty liquid dripping from her neck and eyes.

            It did not speak to me, taking a bath in a scum pond of sweaty house-fluid which she must have mistaken for bathtub water.  I tried not to make any sudden movements in the slime woman’s presence.  I pissed through all of my urinary tracks at once. 

            Celsia dances naked with God when everyone else is asleep.  I hear noises from my room sometimes and wander out and see her there in the living room.

            She prays to Him to leave Heaven and come down to Earth to be with her.  She wets her crotch and moans between prayers until God has no choice but to come down and dance with her.

            He does not fuck her, because that would be incest.  Celsia, as all naturally born children, is a child of God.  But being strangely attracted to Celsia’s sick and violently seductive appearance, God comes down to dance with her every night when no one else is looking.

            He sometimes hums to her, pressing His sun-burnt chest against white tattooed mounds, and Celsia would cut him with her hook-nails, digging into his back like dirt -- the measurement of how far she digs into one’s flesh is the measurement of how much she loves that someone, or how much she wants to fuck them.

            Sometimes she sees me watching and calls me out to dance with them.  Gods might not be able to fuck their children, but it is perfectly legal and natural to fuck their children’s creations.  So Celsia strings me from her living room ceiling and watches grinning as God licks the space between my tits.

            I try not to look into His eyes when He enters me, digs into my cunt.  The power so strong inside that it hurts my eyes black.  I stare past his shoulder, watching Celsia watch me as she masturbates with long spiky tools.   And when God comes inside of me, it makes my whole body shake volcano-like.  But He does not give me an orgasm.  He has to go back into the cunt with His tongue and rub it all around, feeling emasculated for failing to bring His sex-opponent to climax, that long white beard rubbing against my asshole, a giant hand groping a cock and a breast.

            It takes so long. 

            Celsia is so much better at giving me sex.

            I love her so much more than God. 

            I’m dreaming that the sun is infected with cancer and the light it emanates is much more red, weighing the spectrum to one side, lots of blacks and dark orange, cool colors drowned into the tiny spaces, knotty-bump skin. 

            A woman without arms and legs is dreaming this dream with me.  She has a mat of hair on her chest and begs me to fuck her, does not tell me to, she whines, cries for me to.  Her flesh burnt-colored, with the sun overhead, shadow particles crawling up her foresty breasts.

            She melts to fuzz when I am not looking.  In the corner of my eyes I see her dribble to liquid so that tiny animals can drink her flesh/sauce, and then returns to solid when my sight jerks to her direction.  She smiles, fluffing her hairy chest, exhilarating. 

            Please, please, please, she calls to me.

            She rubs her carpety bosom against mine, itches the penis resting between them.  Take me the way you want to, says the legless/armless woman, make me your fuck doll.

            Outside of my dream, Celsia is getting angry.  She peers over the dream as if we are in a goldfish bowl, swimming naked through the wet.  And I hold the woman’s pubic hair chest close to me, caressing it quickly before I am awake.  But Celsia does not wake me, smiles razor-fangs, veins cracking out of her forehead and cunt.

            She plunges her metal fingers into my dream, my mind/goldfish bowl, spinning her hand around until she snatches the dream woman from me, pulling her out of the dream, squeezing, hooking deep into her sex hair until it soaks her fingers red.   And she drops the body back in my brain, sinking to the pebbles and treasure chest on the bottom, blood clouding in the water.  

            Then Celsia wakes me to give me her black-eyed stare.

            "How could you do this to me?" she cries, smacking my cheek bloody, rips at my hair.

            It was just a dream, I tell her.

            But she has left the room in a shrieking rage, blood droplets streaming down from my forehead.

            The house is sad today.  The zombies walking through its hallways are like bacteria, making it puke-sick and depression coated.  A dark foam is rising out of the underground, probably from the sex arena, overflowing with cum and sweat and blood.  The people down there fucking so much until the place overflowed with sex-juice and drowned them in it. 

            Beetle men crawl down the walls of the house like tears, scattering out of the windows/eyes and dripping down the brick and metal interior, piling up in the corners with crick-churky noises, singing.

            Celsia hasn’t fucked me in days.  It’s making me nervous, I think there is something wrong with her. The Sister says that Celsia doesn’t want the rapists to smell our sex from the landscape and follow their noses to us, but I think she is just pretending.  Something is wrong with Celsia, something is wrong with anyone who doesn’t want to have sex. 

            My erections are constant most of the day.  I am mentally stable.  The Sister has tiny skeletons of Jesus Christ inside some of her cunts and they tickle her in the right way.  She keeps some of his skulls in a porcelain jar and urinates on them when she has nothing else to do, squats over them and marinates them, shows them who is in control. 

            The house is getting colder as the days go on this way, its sickness contaminating us, making us see things that aren’t real.  It seems there’s nothing left in the world other than sex.  It seems it has always been this way.

            Tuma’s delicate young brains are scattered all over the balcony pavement this morning, leaking from bars and tree fingers. 

            I am staring at her right now.  Wire spiders scattered throughout the sausage-texture, filling shiny bellies.  The look on her face is one of loneliness and exhaustion.  Hands soft open-palmed against the iciness breeze.

            We take the ugly mops out of the cellar, ones hiding in the cracky corners, filled with beetle men and webs.  The mops sweep through the brains, scoop through Tuma’s wicked thoughts and dirty dreams, talking in whispers to her spirit lost in the stringy brain tissue, the spiders climb the trunk and eat the mop beetles, eating so much they puke insect shell and brain sap.

            "She was so beautiful," says the Sister, but Celsia twists a metal clamp on her nipple and bites her lip.           

            I try not to look at her face as I clean the brains, looking out into the wind cutting through the desert, barbed wire fields, dogs barking in the fields with their legs spread outways.

            Her body is absorbed into the flesh of the fortress, placed into a dark meat cabinet in the kitchen and dissolved into nutrients to feed the walls, ceiling, oven, vacuum, fireplace . . .

            The baby/thing is still alive.

            I thought Celsia put it to death days ago, but she has just been hiding it from me and her sister, knowing we want it dead.  Its crying can be heard at night echoing through the shadows and creeper vines.  Waking the zombies to shift between rooms in search of it, to quiet the little creature inside their jaws. 

            Celsia is in hiding as well, it seems.  Sometimes I hear her on the roof or scurrying the barricade outside, but I haven’t been in her presence since Tuma died.  She only haunts us, gives us glimpses of her, lives like a ghost. 

            I am stepping through the kitchen now, my feet sticky to the tile, silence so loud it makes my eyes bleed.  The Sister is here, eating some mushy food which was recycled from Tuma’s flesh, smiling and rubbing her belly at me, petting the warm Tuma meat inside of her. 

            "Come and eat some of her," the Sister tells me.  "She’s so tasty."

            I shake my head.

            "She’s absolutely delicious," the Sister says, rubbing some of the meat goo on her breasts, huff-moaning with her eyes slightly fastened as she polishes the nipples, thinking of Tuma, her young flesh rubbing against the Sister’s breasts.

            I creep across the floor and pour some meat-goo into a bag to eat, the flesh smooth and tender, caressing the inside of my body, slithering down my throat. 

            She’s the best food I have ever eaten.

            Now I can’t find the Sister. 

            I can’t hear the giggling/moaning, I can’t smell her cunts anywhere, that aroma that saturates entire rooms in her presence.  Gone.

            Like Celsia, she must be hiding in the fortress somewhere, leaving me alone with the living dead creepers, cunt-ripping fingers sneaking inside me when I’m not looking and then disappearing when I glance its way, rotten meat smells stained into the floor, onto my tits, my cock.

            Stepping through darkness halls, distant baby cries, insects talk to me from everywhere.  I don’t know how to use electricity, so there is only one light illuminating the fortress, a small yellow bulb next to the greasy bath tub in the kitchen, making it uneasy to explore too deeply into the hallways. 

            I sit down in some sticky fluids, draw a picture on the ground.  Waiting for someone to take care of me. 

            A day goes by. 

            I’m still alone, twisting my nipples and masturbating with forks, staring down at my cunt, my cunt wide open staring back at me, something crawling twitching inside of there.  And something crawls in the room with me, Tuma’s pet snail-jellyfish-trumpet, taking to the carpeting, slitherings, burns a blood-scab wound onto its belly a bath of milk and squid fat rubbing into the carpet fibers, across the room.

            "Where are the others?" I ask the pet, but it continues across the carpeting, into the kitchen, into the machine Celsia’s baby came out of, to return to the womb and never come back out.

            Outside, there is a rumbling-wind, rumbling-rumbling-rumbling, growling too, rumble-growling.  And it grows louder but I’m not quite sure what it is, where it comes from.  Outside, it is cold and blank.  Nothing is there but rumble-growling, which can not be seen, something coming this way from over the hills.

            I feel alone no longer. 

            I want to be alone again.