GG 258
VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER ELEVEN
"You all right, Joseph? You don’t have any shoes on…"
Cold rain bruised concrete.
"I’m good, just taking a walk…"
The car zoomed off into nothingness.
Smash cut.
I reclaimed consciousness in the bathroom gripping a razor blade.
Drippy clothes. Briny tears. Leaky wrists.
The door was ajar.
From the kitchen:
"He’s in there right now on some sorta drugs."
"Any prior medical conditions?"
"No."
"Medications?"
"No."
"Do you know what he took?"
"No."
I took everything.
Standard operating procedure.
"Don’t worry, ma’am. We get calls like this all the time. Sometimes every day…"
"Would ya stop it!"
Escorted by cops/killers to the back of an ambulance/hearse.
Blacking in and out.
Two slits for windows.
In and out.
Horns.
Homicidal housewives.
Run-along trees.
In and out.
Blue footballs turned the world black.
Coated in verdigris gloom.
I never was. They never were.
Things happened, but they didn’t.
Smash cut.
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VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO DRUG ADDICTION