Wrong Ways Often Make Us Stay

I.

Somewhere along the middle of the woodland road, someone is stepping alone as an honor to serve for his outstanding slow and somnambulatory  hypnosis that draws him continuously onward across the purulent scarification of macadam dustpan gravel and suppurating topsoil that only grew sorer, more tremulous with eczematous snowfall clenched between his nethers tucked shut beneath a valley’s downside enshadowed by oaktree curtains drawn, a man discovered someone he loathes more than himself. That person was a woman. He quickly became infatuated with her and soon was expressly forthcoming about his covetous desire to own her. He saw her lurch under his jutting rooftop after he espied her from the lunar surface of the window, humming beams of powdery alkaline blue. The dark curls overhead like an ulcerous snail: a slow recoil inland.

He would need a house if he was to have her to himself. A house would structurally necessitate the space for her captivity. This fundamental fact had been well-proven to be demonstrably correct, with his own lineage being historically demarcated by the various women they had coerced into domesticity.

Every successive generation, a woman was chosen to be dutifully ravaged by His predecessors' violent antipathy toward their respective catch.

As tradition dictated, He would act no differently.

She likewise, loathed Him instantaneous the moment she had first seen Him, albeit in a quieter reserve. Half-supine on the magnolia-patterned ottoman, Her eyes wandered about until they could solidify into a single point of idle concentration elsewhere, preferably away from Him.

The same deferential disgust She resigned herself to whenever He ended the nights shriveling himself up inside Her like a discarded tissue wad, knotting up every small remaining trace of herself that she once thought was beautiful about herself when she was younger.

She became overwrought with a wordless agony as she found herself being pruned, neutered, painfully augmented, having every single facet of Her being shaved off bare and bitterly replaced with an odious extension of Him.

She dreamt she was pissing off the ledge of a billboard adjoining the interstate, dripping herself out on the anonymous windshields passing underneath her solicitations, unphased.

The spatter of falling piss molecules is wiped away reflexively by the motorcade’s diffident winks, as if the nondescript passengers seated inside were something disconnected from the existence of the vehicle itself; the people cushioned inside are vessels embedded there as biomechanical batteries, lubricious for the car’s unique dreamscape.

Amid the constant expulsion of her bladder, she felt something hideous, repulsive and unwanted spill out whole from inside her hindquarters. The afterbirth covering the newborn was a creamy pinkish-white, thickly weblike as it dripped coldly through the metal-wire grating underfoot.

The billboard itself was a blank canvas, advertising free space, emptily hovering over the sunless horizon like an oil painting with no wider context outside of its brushless immediacy.

The limpid clump of cells made confused noises within her clasped hand, the umbilical cord roped in a tensile bind round her forearm.

The cries it would emit, so malnourished and pained by remorseless desperation, made her immediately associate the newborn with the active source of her unhappiness, Him, who would never leave her side whether she laid awake or astride the hinterlands hidden deep beyond her subconscious mind.

His weakness infested Her inmost lifeblood that was kept unmolested hitherto this bondage with Him, and consequently brought a baleful gift that was the physical proof that His famished virility could sewn into the lawn. Scorching fertilizer.

The newborn cries transformed into louder bleating, as She squeezed the skull of the child between her fingers wordlessly, the milk now bleeding the father’s honeyed blood from Her breast.

She squeezes everything out of the newborn that He had squeezed out of her, vengefully.

She severed the umbilical cord tethering Her to Him with the delicate gnawing of her teeth, disavowing the edicts for motherhood that stem from the dogma of the womb.

After tossing the infant below toward the passing traffic, she orgasmed with cathartic relief. Her piss-soaked flower trembles fearsomely as a frothy bulb.

The wet crash of the newborn killed heightened Her dream into sensations unthinkable.

The notion that He may he watching Her act of infanticide from outside Her own dreams, like an omniscient vouyer, only gave her greater exhibitionistic excitation.

II.

The stupendous failure of a patriarch believes himself someone credible enough for imparting the pragmatic wisdom he says only Nature can endow us with. He is forgetful that Nature is a fairweather whore susceptible to our own metaphysical conjecture. Inimical to inferential order, Nature splays herself openly to whomever cares to inseminate her entirety.

Automated small talk presaging the length of sales pitch needed to for the weekly pay quota report. He was late. He was always late, and now once again his accomplishments as a representative member for the adult male went nowhere, fast. 

“At any rate, it will be shown by the end of this tale, that this interrogation was not to remain without an answer indefinitely, and above all, that this unexpected answer is necessary for measuring the immensity of the void that yawned before us… [sic]” The phone recedes back into impregnable silence, immobile and tumescent with the absence of human agency. Soon he sinks at his desk, seeping into the corrosion of his own despondent words.

So when he returns home, twelve years divorced twice, undulates his body into a pretzel-knot and then intently crams himself inside the microwave, unhinging his jawline and extruding his neckline nakedly outward against the black-stained glass of the screen of the mud-stained dark red filming the interior behind microwave door.

He absorbs the radiation profusely like a dying star. His organs feel bulbous underneath his rubix cube of tautened skin. Asleep, now his dreams exude ecstatic intimations toward infanticidal calm much alike his first wife and soon is lulled deep within the clammy slumber of his incomprehensible bliss in a series of throbbing heatwaves. 

He is infused with mutant energy. The kitchen pulsates with the soft vermillion afterglow of emasculation, traces of himself reddening the walls and floor uniform in a phantasmal crimson paintwork. 

He arises the next day alone, hardening beneath his filigree chrysalis. What can he do for himself?