Anyway, it's about 1200 words long and, as noted, is an earlier piece, so take it for what it's worth, but it has some nice elements and, yes, you will "feel" this one, hehe...
Enjoy!
***
War
Paint
by
John Claude Smith
5
Cynthia left David after four months of
what he would have unequivocally qualified as bliss. She said something about the relationship
becoming stagnant, about them “moving in different directions.” When David argued that this was not true,
that they were just going through a rough phase, she cut the civility and said
something about being bored. She wanted
out.
David loved Cynthia. From her
black mane, sleek physique, sloe-eyed innocence, to her insatiable appetite for
knowledge, she stimulated him to no end.
There was no other woman for him.
So why had it hastily fallen apart, with such an anemic exit, no
less? How could something so perfect
simply fade out like the insubstantial denouement to a bad foreign film? He did not understand why she had left him.
CUT:
The razor blade penetrated the flesh with ease, deep and to the
bone. David slashed toward the nose,
riding the cheekbone. Blood gushed from
the gaping wound. He then altered his
path, slashing straight down, through the cheek and into the mouth, slicing
cleanly into the gums. Nerve endings
were severed, sending a message to the brain—precise as the handiwork in
progress—of the parameters of pain the preceding twelve seconds had
obliterated. He ignored the
message. Tasting blood, his probing
tongue poked through the newly formed opening in his face.
4
Jackie left David after seven weeks because, as she put it, “it just
wasn’t working out.” Worse yet, she
utilized the phrase “finding herself” to further confuse the issue. David thought that this was a very outmoded
excuse, but he did not know how to retaliate in a manner that would convince
her that “herself” was meant to be with him.
David loved Jackie. After Cynthia’s
abrupt departure, he thought he’d never find another woman to take her
place. When a relationship of any
substance or length (usually a hand-in-hand development) deteriorates, this
defeatist conclusion is often adopted to compound the lonelyache: a mentally
fatalistic, melancholic recession into one’s perceived failings. Four months had been, by far, the longest
relationship of David’s generally lackluster love life. But Jackie and her auburn curls and
sugar-coated kisses had blown in to get him back on his feet again, helping him
to reacquaint himself with his fragile self-esteem. And then, through her vague maneuverings, she
knocked him back down. He did not
understand why she had left him.
CUT:
He continued his transformation, following the pattern engraved into the
right side of his face on the left side, with tenacious conviction. His corrupt reflection bloomed: he thought of
slaughterhouses; he thought of the blood-slathered call of the wild; he thought
of primeval rituals aligned with insignias wrought in scarification. He was fascinated, staring at his reflection
in the glass top table, by the inherent, atavistic logic in what he had
undertaken. He felt good.
3
Nina left David after nineteen days.
Said she didn’t like his “erratic behavior,” didn’t like what she called
his “constant pathetic hounding.” Didn’t
like the way his anger overrode every situation: always on edge.
David loved Nina. He felt the
chemistry between them fairly sizzle.
Their time together may have been somewhat tumultuous, but David chalked
it up to heightened passions ignited by their (one) fleshy coupling. Passions he’d never felt before. Not even with Cynthia or Jackie. He found it hard to control himself around
her. He did not understand why…
CUT:
The razor blade split his right nostril as it started its ascent toward
his forehead, and then shifted so as to cleave a crescent parallel to the
eyebrow. He followed the same procedure
on the left side of his face, adding a flair for the artistic by cutting a
heart out of the flesh next to his left eye, a cautionary statement (I’ve
loved before, I have), like tattooed teardrops on the calloused countenance
of an ex-convict. He smiled at his
creativity. At his creation.
2
Teri left David after sixty-seven hours.
Said he was “crazy, possessive, clinging like a hangnail I’d d rather
snip off, it was a mistake to even have said hello to you”; she said he had
real issues of maturity, communication—blah blah blah…
David loved Teri. He had planned
to ask for her hand in marriage. He
wanted her.
He wanted somebody.
He did not understand…
CUT:
The razor blade, sweet lover, catapulting despair through actions: he
pressed it firmly into his lip, four times—twice on the upper lip, twice on the
lower lip. He pressed so hard the blade
penetrated his already ravaged gums, scraping enamel from his teeth. He pushed his lower lip with his tongue; it
flipped over, swinging open like a trap door.
He licked the blade, an action that left him with a forked tongue. He felt very good.
1
Michelle. Twenty-five
minutes. Said he was annoying her. “Go away or I’ll call the cops, you freak!”
David loved Michelle. He knew
this by the way she made him feel: just like all the rest of them, using
his emotions--his love--as a springboard for freedom. Just like all the rest of them.
Just like all the rest!
CUT:
He felt strong. The blood painted
his face red: the color of love…and anguish.
The pain helped define him--now!
He gazed at his grand creation, at his agonizing metamorphosis. Naked, blood streamed onto his bare
shoulders, down his chest. Adorned in a
coat of blood and sweat; moist, sticky clothing, he thought. All he needed.
Except for the knife…
He set the razor blade down gently on the glass top table, sweet
lover. He reached over and pulled the
knife out of Michelle’s throat. He slid
his fingers into the gash, tearing, almost separating her head from its
ruptured pedestal—her head lolled obscenely, limply resting on her upper
back--better to facilitate the gathering of blood from the yawning scarlet
chasm that was her neck into his cupped hands.
Blood like his. He used it to paint
his face completely red, even so much as to slick back his hair. Red for love—the futile wages of love—for
passion, for anger. He felt primitive;
he liked the feeling. He felt
primordial, with the option to evolve—to reform--into anything he
wanted, and not just crawl out of the sludge with unrefined intentions. He had become an animal driven by urges. Like love.
And hate. By everything purified,
refined down to its core impact resolution.
He wasn’t boring or aggressive or annoying or anything but the impulse to
be. And most of all, to be loved.
Because he loved them all.
He eagerly caressed the smooth side of the steel blade with his forked
tongue, savoring the succulent, tangy splendor congealing there, and stepped
into the hallway, naked but for the grim, dripping crimson adornments of love;
the glistening armor of battle. A woman
leaned out of an apartment halfway down the hallway, saw him, and
screamed.
Maybe she’ll love me, he thought.
Maybe she’ll love me. He strode
with a whittled, knife-honed objective down the hallway, knowing that it didn’t
really matter what she thought, what she felt, anyway. He loved her…and that was enough for the both
of them.
CUT!
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