Chest tore open, he digs through his insides with a meticulous hand. There’s blood drying under his fingernails when finally he has given up on his search. A pocket of dust and rotting remains hidden in an infinitesimally small corner of the universe. He was wrong when he pulled his hand from the fire for now it’s shaking, withered and cold. His forgotten bones now lie in a shallow grave devoid of a name. He’s not alone there, however, for there’s always the maggots and though conversations have a tendency to be rather dull, at least he can feel their company.
Buried behind dumpsters and monsters, mascara running down her face, she turns her face to the sky and screams out for meaning. She feels as beautiful as they make her with a side order of moronic filth. She finds herself lying under a crimson cast sky and wonders who has passed this day and whether or not she should care. There was once a stream where she would cast rocks into the cool water. Innocent innovations were spurned by the world around her and shoved away under her bed, right next to her Barbie and adolescent foolishness. She learns love is never what it seems and always more cruel than the last time. The flesh across her chest is twisted with scar tissue when she finally learns to stop feeling. She watches as two lovers walk by, holding hands in their foolish naivety. She feels the cool grip of the pistol as her hand closes around it. She pulls it from her handbag and puts a bullet in the back of the woman’s head. The man turns his eyes downward and sees his whole world lying crumpled and motionless on the pavement. He turns to the ragged looking woman holding the smoking gun with a look begging for answers. She shrugs, puts the barrel of the gun to her temple, and smiling, follows his lovers soul to the afterlife.
It was the perfect storm. The kind that happens when the appropriate amount of chaos meets that flawless pitch of anarchy. Rain mixed with sleet smashes his face from seemingly every direction and he can’t even feel a thing. He’s staring out at the horizon from the violently rocking boat with the eye’s of a man possessed of madness. He knows in his heart it’s there, just beyond this storm. He feels it in his gut every waking moment and sees it in his dreams every moment spent asleep. The wind rages with renewed vigor and he can’t tell whether his crew’s faces are white from fear or the bitter cold. He promised that they would find it and he knows soon he shall deliver on that promise. He screams to them to keep it straight and true and climbs his way back up into the crows nest. It’s from there that he’ll finally see it. The reward he knows he has justly earned. He can feel it out there ahead of him, just waiting for him to find it. He can feel it out there. Just past this storm.