Kissing Carrion

Because: Ray feels himself going now, in the Japanese sense. Knows just how late it’s getting, how soon the high from this last wrench and spurt will fade. Knows that no possible climax to this drama will ever seem good enough, climactic enough, no matter what he does to “me.” I can see it in his eyes. I can—

(see it)

See it. “I” can. And “I,” I, I . . .

I feel myself. Feel myself. Coming, too.

Feel myself there. At last.

Feel Ray hug me to him and hug him back, arms contracting floppily—feel that pin Pat put in my shoulder last time snap as the joint finally pulls free, and tighten my grip with the other before Ray can start to slip. Feel my clotty lashes bat, a wet cough in my dry throat; the sudden gasp of breath comes out like a sneeze, spraying his face with reddish-brown gunk. See Ray goggle up at me, as Lyle gives a girly little scream: Cry to God and Pat’s full name, reduced to panicked consonants. HolyshitPahtriSHAFUCK!

Pat’s head comes up fast, hair flipping. Eyes so wide they seem square.

My tongue creaks and Ray hasn’t left me much lip to shape words with, but I know we understand each other. Like I said, I can see it.

Gotta go, Ray. You want to come with me?

Well, do you?

And Ray . . . nods.

And I . . .

. . . I give him. What he wants.

And oh, but the angels are screaming at me now like a Balkan choir massacre, all at once—glorious, polyphonic, chanting chains of scream: Sing No, sing stop, sing thou shalt thou shalt thou shalt NOT. Their halos flare like sunspots, making the whole room pulse—hiss and pop, paparazzi flashbulb storm, a million-sparkler overdrip curtain of angry white light.

(Sorry, guys. Looks like revenge comes before redemption, this time ‘round.)

Ray pulls me close, spasming, as my front teeth find his Adam’s apple. Blood jets up. The audience shrieks, almost in unison.

I look over Ray’s shoulder at Pat, frozen, her board so hot it’s starting to smoke. And I smile, with Ray’s blood all over my mouth.

So hook him up to the Bone Machine now, Pats—make a movie, while you’re at it. Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Take your turn. Take your time.

But this is how it breaks down: He’s gone, long gone, like I’m gone, too. Like we’re gone, together. Gone.

Gone to lie down.

Gone to forgive, to forget.

Gone, gone, finally—

—to sleep.

* * *

Aaaaaah, yes.

The sheep look up, the angels down. And I’m done, at long, long last—blown far, far away, the last of my shredded self trailing behind like skin, like wings, a plastic bag blowing.

Done, and I’m out: Forgiven, forgotten, sleeping. Loving nothing. Being nothing. Feeling none of your pain, fearing none of your anger, craving none of your—anything. Anymore.

Down here where things settle, down below the bridge, the weighing-room, the House of Dust itself—down here, where our faces fall away, where we lose our names, where we no longer care what brought us here, or why . . . I don’t care, finally, because (finally) I don’t have to. And in this way, I’m just the same as every other dead person—thank that God I’ve never met, and probably never will: No longer mere trembling meaty prey for the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to; no longer cursed to live with death breathing down my neck, metaphoric or literal.

Which only makes the predicament of people like Ray—or like Pat, for that matter—seem all the crueller, in context. Since the weakness of the living is their enduring need to still love us, and to feel we still love them in return; to believe that we are still the same people who were once capable of loving them back. Even though we’re, simply . . .

. . . not.