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Just Let Me Eat You |
| Written by Crash Daddy | |
| Tuesday, 15 July 2008 | |
"We're going to eat you" is what a tiny moon-pie face says in the screen door. "Just let me eat you, mister." I get up to kick the door, but the kid is swept away into a shadowy ocean. I look outside, and even in the darkness of a thumbnail moon I can see a tide of silhouettes. It used to be one or two. All night. Now there are bodies everywhere. They all want the same thing. They can't get in the house, I figure. They never seem to be able to anyway. They just ask and ask. Used to leave. I don't think it's any kind of vampire thing either. These are people. If I shoot them I think they'll die. Then I go to jail. There's getting to be fewer like me and more like them. Then when it turns daylight they all run off and go to jobs and school and church and do everything the way they normally do. I see them in crowds and lines when I'm out in the daytime. They spot so easy it's crazy, but nobody seems to notice. They've got all these sores around the place where they were bitten. There's an awful lot of insouciance in pretending there's nothing wrong with dead flesh hanging off you, but the wheels have to turn I guess. The facade is stretching, though. I see them when I stop for gas. I can hear them talk if there are more than one. Just a few scattered words that coalesce to a single meaning. They're discussing the parts of me that will be choice. You can see people squirm. The kid at the register--she's one of me. She can see them, but who would believe her? She has to work so she can get that tattoo she wants. Me, I have to work so I can blend. I'm certain there are people manning the radar that are not like me. No sudden moves, wabbit--I'm real hungry. At night they storm the mansion. I figure the need for sleep is one of the first things to go, because the lady telling the little girl she can have one of my fingers is the same lady I pay my electric bill to in the daytime. Some nights I just want to open the door and say, "come on in," and wonder how much of the scene I imagine compares to what really happens. I never really take that too seriously. It's a miserable life, but I still like seeing where it goes. If I live long enough, there will be only two of us left, risen on an ocean of humanity, hungry for our whatever it is they get out of forcing us to become them, and when I get there I'll ask Him what I should do and we'll kick these sum-b's back to normal or something like it and I'll be a king in the new world. Maybe they'll all die if I hold out. But they're getting more bold. Brazener, even, during the daytime. I was pulled over. The cop says, "This is just a warning, sir. Next time, go a little slower. I'd hate to have to eat your brain." and he's scratching at this rice-crispie lump under his ear. Did something just come running out of that? It's daytime! But he just smiled and waved as I drove away. So I'm a basket case in the daytime, because how do you really know anything--especially when some of the sores don't show, so you really never know who you're talking to. How can you confide in someone who may be scratching at an open pustule under his shirt and figuring what side of your cheek would taste best in broth. And there I was, in the convenience store. Making sure I had everything for in the morning, so I didn't have to be anyplace until light. Lots of them today. From visible ugliness alone I could see only three or four like me. Three of us could tell what was going on. The teenager was listening to music in his ears and smacking gum. When you walk in it's just a bunch of people milling around. Looking at magazines, talking about the weather, drinking coffee. Outside there's a clutch of people smoking by the corner of the building. You know you hear your name. In the store, it must be the smell of your live skin, because suddenly interests turn to hunger. "Just let me eat you, mister." It's the same kid. On her dad's chest, facing me over his shoulder. Worse part is he seems fine. Too much. Too late. I hate being alone. "Well then WHY don't you just do. it. then!" I exhort loudly--exasperation, frustration, the long denied understanding that I knew all along there would be no real life. Something was going to end up broken. You're no king. You have a limit. That's when the moment happens. There's a very solid pause. Everybody freezes. The girl stops pushing buttons on the register and looks at me, money hanging limply in her hand. Her verdict is against me. The others are locked into that same moment. I didn't hear no trumpet. That was a train! I know what they're figuring. They're checking some sort of unwritten rule book. I realize why they never came in, or ate me in the daytime, or stopped going to work. They realize it, too. I am the last of the law. All eyes turn on me at once. I understand Heaven's last Revelation--You're not the only one who knows. I wonder briefly where my sores will be. Copyright 2008 Crash Daddy |
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