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Shortly Before Death
by Greg Gerding
The heat – so hot –
I step out of my car and sweat. I sweat the sweat of death.
The sun bakes me slow and cooks the black pavement beneath my feet white. The smell of pussy fills each nostril, that smell of sweaty female genitalia that sits in a man’s mind for days.
I move myself slow roasting towards the bar looking for relief, but, it’s too late, my brain is already diseased. I step through the doorway and no one takes notice and it’s not very cool in here either.
I grab a chair and place it on top of an empty table. Fingers point. Heads turn. I pull my hollow hot form up onto the table, collapse in the chair, and wait.
People stare. Waiting.
I swing one arm up to my chest and pull open my unbuttoned shirt. It falls open exposing a gunshot wound and two. People wince and shift in their seats, but continue to look and wait.
I reach up with both hands and shove a finger in each gunshot wound and pinch. People writhe in their seats in discomfort as I move my fingers around and cause the wounds to open further. But they still cannot look away. They just wince and shift and watch, waiting for whatever’s next.
I work the wounds around until there is one big wound exposing my rib cage and heart.
My diseased brain cries out for release and commands my hands to release it. One hand holds my head on one side and the other hand closes into a fist and begins beating about the other side. The skull cracks and gray matter is exposed and I begin picking at it and throwing it to the ground around me.
My eyes soon close and my body collapses as I tumble forward from my chair, glance off the table, and slam to the ground in one mutilated lump.
People turn back towards their parties and continue talking in their low monotones, as if nothing ever happened.
And maybe, nothing really did.
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© Gerding, 2006
To learn more about Greg Gerding and see other samples of his work visit: http://www.myspace.com/greggerding