A step mother takes care of another’s child, a couple infants are always on the floor crying waiting to be changed. The tops of their soft skulls touch.The pale one is silent and the brown one is crying in terror as if he’s aware of something…She takes pride in watching them her face is barely held together not hanging or torn skin but a powdery disconnection of atomic failure. I guard an errand boy who has a strange grandfather that’s responsile for accidental bloodshed. His grandmother had him fix the hinges of a window that also served as a door. The strange grandfather unscrewed them again when no one was looking getting the errand boy in trouble and the old crone sternly vituperates the boy…he runs down the broken door way fast as wind descending down hundreds of stairs dirty filthy steps down…in guilt she follows walking with caution slowly gaining fear. Kicking aside garbage and torn clothing all the way down until she can barely see, the rays of the sun can’t reach down here.She sees a pile of clothing blocking the way on the last stair and the floor way, I see the ribs, I smell the wonder turn to terror as she jumps over it crunching and cracking thuds of bone are echoed down the dark hall. She yelps and quickly leans against the halls walls that are lockers, breathing in panic looking at a dripping sound, a puddle of blood is under a murdered girl her legs are torn off at the thighs she had lacerations all over. Her head was hanging until the screams echoed, that’s when she looked up with dark tangled hair over those dead eyes watching the grandmother run down the hall…no one knew I was there I seen dead thralls nailed and twisted upon the lockers scattered about like the filthy trash up stairs. there’s a beast down here…a feast that rots, and the errand boy was the breath of it.
I have this scene in a photograph in my now appearing hands and I’m not invisible anymore, I put the scene in a sleeve alongside with many others demonstrating to a shaking class of questionable men…one confronts and states “well! You’re the adversary! You’re Yahwehs adversary!” I respond,
“That old machine? That work has been shut down…it never did as planned.”
Categories: Angelo Vasquez