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There’s an audiojack on the bottom right in the same spot it’s always been. It’s just hard to find it until he fingers it, until he roots around for a while, and before he blows out what’s inside of it with a morning breath for the dead. And the hyperbole might be accurate. Only a dead man can stand the smell. And himself—of course. To an extent. Until he brushes. Until he spits. Until he scrapes out what he’s tasting. Until it's somewhere down the sink. Because at the end of the day it’s his mouth. And his nose too. And his tongue. At the start of one it’s his mouth. And his nose too. And his tongue.
By smell alone he’s a casket that should be shut down for propriety. The only folks here that’ll miss the body are the blow flies and the beetles, the hister ones on a mission for the earlobe or the mouth, the rove ones and the carrion in the finger joints where they bite. And the human relatives—or the witnesses—for the body nowhere seen. They might be kilometres from the casket, trying to color down what they heave. So it’s clear enough to be saliva—and the only thing—when they cry. It’s just what people do to play the part. It’s what they’re meant for before they die. But that’s just part of it. He supposes. He licks his own mouth. He licks the roof. He licks the blood inside—in the fissures. It takes a few strokes to make them wet. And to make him ache enough that he winces when he swallows down all the blood. It’ll take a week or two just to heal these. And maybe one more if he’s harassed. And maybe one more if they reopen, if there’re nails again for his mouth. And the odds of that are not zero. But they’re lower now. But only just. But only long enough for him to watch him, and remember too, while he cleans.
He blows the dust away—and the dirt away—and the film away from his phone. And when these pop out like a shoulder or the collarbone or a hip, or any segment off the body where the customers want them whole, he flicks them carefully off the mattress. He flicks them carefully to the trash. He flicks them carefully like the hammer, like the firing pin, like the jolt, that sends a bullet out from a chamber and down the barrel of a gun. Or those contractions—like a bouncer—here to kick out what’s in the dick. Or those fingernails in his mouth again, or those fingernails at his roof, or those fingernails on his tongue too, on the brink of it bleeding out, on the brink of it into pieces, on the brink of it fucking gone, or all the fantasies that could happen, when they had every chance to kill him here. But then they didn’t. Because there was something. There was something else. It wasn’t verbal. But it was loud too. But it demanded him. But it hounded him. But it was sharp. But at the same time it was gentle like the inside of a palm, like a blindfold is to animals before their carotid is in two. Or even more than that from an amateur. Or even more than that from a civ.
If he died instead for a casket, there’d be one slice to end it all. But instead the only death he was meant for was the small one in these sheets. And the only blow fly and the beetle here to eat him was a man. But not just anyone at the moment. But not just anyone at his mouth. Or his chest too. Or his hips. Or his thighs then. Or his knees. And the only real sound in-between them was him toppling upon the bed. And then the rest of it was just a memory he has tuned out in lieu of this.
He blows the audiojack until he’s pretty sure there is nothing else he has to rip. And then he palms out to the nightstand, to the lamp too, and then his wallet. And then he fingers out what’s been rolled up like a rubber band for him to tug. It takes a while more for surrender, and a while more to unwind. It takes a while more for surrender, and a while more after that. Before these earbuds are in his ears. Before he lodges them up his phone. Before he sprawls back to his pillow. Before the music starts, before it repeats. And there’s enough time—and the opposite—before he needs to make a move.
He can choke the man right beside him. And the only witnesses will be the sheets. And the mattress. And the headboard. And the ceiling too. And himself. And the man as well while he’s at it, while he’s alive to even know. Before he realizes what is happening. Before he ruts up to make his moves. Before he’s thrusting with all he’s got, from his fingernails to his toes, from his ribs too and his kneecaps, and all the bruises in-between, just to joust him. Just to hurt him. Just to push him. But not to stop. But to make this permanent before his own Trust is going to wipe this off come tomorrow. But he’ll have to realize it isn’t foreplay when only one of them is fucking hard. And the man can curse him out if he wants to. But only one of them will really die. And maybe somehow the man will fist him until they’re tangled up down to hell. And the odds of that are as likely as both of them grabbing breakfast. The odds of it are not zero. Or imaginary. Or a hundred. But a possibility that could happen, if persuaded, if even nudged, if whispered too, by one of them, or the only one who can speak, when he turns the volume up on his music.
When he puts his phone down on the bed, he doesn’t care much if it falls. Or if his earbuds will detach. He doesn’t think about all the trouble that he’s wont to do while he waits, while his one song fades to darkness until it loops back into the light. And nothing moves at all but the shadows. But the bedsheets. But his chest.
He blows a soft breath through his nose. And has to grapple he’s a fool. There’s nothing sane about having strangers who could kill you in your bed. Or the one you’re renting out while a bachelor you had no idea was on the market. Or even written out on the ballot: all the options scribbled off, all the options undesirable, all the options unprofound. And because officially you were “other” there was no one to buy you out. No one new—at least—for the tally. And then this man here had your night. But that’s not exactly how it went about when he tiptoes with his hands, when he’s close enough he could touch him, close enough for him to yank. But it’s good enough for his conscience. And his eyes too. And his mouth. And all the blood inside he is swallowing. And all the blood inside running out. Because he’s old enough to know the answer, and the trouble too, and the pain, that fucking someone half his age, and twice his rank too, says a lot. Yet he tiptoes even closer. Yet he swarms in like a plume, like the last breath once a body has a metre left until it rots, until there’s nothing left to say it’s different, to say it’s one thing over this, from the moist earth and the bugs too and the stains here from a burst.
When a body rots all the gases in its cavities have to leak. There must be somewhere they can run too. Or they will carve it out on their knees. And their mouths too. And their hands. And any rib of theirs for the pick. And any sharp thing they have on them. Or can chisel down to a knife. And he is the outburst no one’s waiting for unless you’re somehow like a bug. Unless you’re somehow the man beside him. Unless you’re somehow still asleep. Unless you’re somehow very sure, and are brave enough, to drop your guard. For the man beside him hasn’t moved at all: except to scratch himself, except to breathe, except to bite down on his pillow, and on his lip too, while he dreams. And he is healing about as slowly as any normal man when abused, when the broken skin and the bruises are in the open—unashamed. And these were asked for. These were begged for. They were wished for—from a knife. Or any weapon they could scrounge out from the nightstand and themselves.
If they mauled each other while in costume there’d be plenty of them to go around. But what they found instead were some blue pens and a bible left behind, along with credit cards they could sharpen if they filed them rough enough, and their bare hands and their teeth. And their bare bands and their limbs. And their bare hands and their weight. And any leverage they could give. And for the most part they were successful in keeping the damage to themselves. But these blood stains will be a hassle.
They’ll beg reception for forgiveness. Or they can tidy up, and make it easier, and make it less and less like a crime, like someone actually must’ve died here, and all the migraines that will bring. And so he scooches in for a cheek. And so he swipes up to an eye. And so he tiptoes to a nose. And so he tilts up a busted chin. And he’s undecided if he wants to choke him or embrace him or it’s both, if he wants to use an app on his smartphone just to call him out by his name. Or if he wants to rip him out from the sheets. Or if he wants to carry him to the tub, just to leave him there in the open while he tackles down all the blood. Or if the right idea is to leave it and to figure this when he’s awake, when that’s probably the nicest thing, if he’ll be fucking him more than once. Not that they haven’t. He supposes. It’s just been foreplay before last night, tenth place on a mission because he’s only hard when facing death. And of all the heroes to indulge him, he picked the only one who’s been married. Which is interesting. To say the least. If there’s really anything to say at all. But he won’t judge the man all that much.
He agreed to mangle him how he wanted. Both outside and inside of it, of any bedsheets they can find, and there’s nothing more to it when he snakes down just to hold the man by his throat. But barely tight enough that it’s painful. Or a nuisance. Or a wheeze. But only tight enough just to wake him, to make him say out loud if it’s a tease.
There’s not a real response he can give the man when he watches him start to rise, when he starts to clamber out from the bedsheets and his eyes are wet when they’re wide. And any word of his is a whisper from how he’s fucked up inside the throat. But he’s not awake enough for discussion. Or to clean up. Or even leave. But the man’s awake enough for some mercy, for a vice grip around his throat. But he’ll have to wait for it. There’s nothing better, and there are few things that are equal, with having no idea if the little death will be permanent after all. And his own breath is like a butchery once its washed out of all the blood. And there are spots left to make it dirtier, and the perfect place, to slice a vein. And there are spots left to make it dirtier, to make it scrumptious, for him to eat. And there might be more than that. He supposes.
He considers. He thinks. He’ll have to wrap his teeth around the world, and the jugulars, to know for sure.