Cracked screen

She whis­pers to his naked form. Stand­ing over him, press­ing her worn and wrinkled heel into his fore­head, push­ing too hard against his skin and flimsy bone. Her mind is fuzzed by the gut­tural wrench of the voice she stole on an autumn after­noon, ripped from the throat of some singing, snort­ing drunk­ard in exchange for a single coin. She won’t give it back; she enjoys the burn­ing of the cheap alco­hol in the back of her throat too much for that.

Every­one needs to wake up now, to be the ador­ing audi­ence and watch as these spe­ci­mens ema­ci­ate for your enter­tain­ment — live and dir­ect, grainy and green-lit on closed-circuit tele­vi­sion. Bring your slav­er­ing beast-dogs to watch too, the more the mer­rier. Observe the scream­ing and shout­ing. Encour­age their debase­ment for your amuse­ment. Applaud as these once-humans shed them­selves com­pletely to merge into the painted wood­work and live as house­hold insects, suck­ing on dirt.

He’s beat­ing on the piano, using his ragged fists against the ivor­ies to avoid using them against him­self or on the body of another, close to hand. He’s all slow motion aggres­sion and heav­ing gasps for air, all flak wounds and thoughts of for­nic­a­tion. His head is made up of noth­ing but frenzy: beads of sweat, sick in his mouth and a single intox­ic­ated desire. He doesn’t move his leg when a tired hand grips his ankle. He feels his calf muscles tighten, but he no longer knows how to kick against a want or lash out against a need.

She turns up the volume, the speaker crackles with inter­fer­ence and static hiss. He plays even louder, the chords fall­ing through the gaps in the floor to clat­ter over the city below. Night, ham­mer­ing on walls, no sleep. The smell of semen and the stench of viol­ence, laced with one or two drops of for­give­ness on the tongue.