He woke up in a curfew.
The military drilled, the march of feet tramped by, outside the window. He looked. Uniforms marched flags attached to municipal buildings. His memory failed him. He couldn’t remember when he went asleep. Reflection mirror check revealed he looked the same but his hair was longer.
How long had he been out?
Vertical horizon opposite windows, all the people looked the same, confused, like they had woken from a cocoon coma, staring at the pageant below.
It was the leeches. He remembered them attaching sharpness into his skin, piercing.
The Doctor sat there, upright in a starched white coat. A pristine butcher. Forensically clean cut. A rolodex spun, inserts flapped like cardboard winged moths. Pot marked nose smudged glasses, held back bulging eyes that were nailed deep into his head.
The window of the office failed in it’s attempt to hold back the urban screech.
Dust hung forever in forgotten corners and a stationary globe stood, Europe completely faded out of existence, gone the way of the Dodo, eviscerated, erased.
No outlines gave clues to it’s past.
Flexon sat opposite. His life was not off this world. He was here, that much was evident. He breathed, cast shadows, occupied a time and place. But on other levels he was gone, away, in a different place.
Veins bulging like blue jammed tubes, forming tributaries, throbbing at his temples.
He would normally wake somewhere else. Distant lands, here or maybe there. It was tangible to him, real, he could touch it, feel it, and suck it all in, like milk through a straw. He never knew if this was real.
After all he was the creator of this.
He had to see The Doctor.
He was the one who recommended the leeches. They stuck in, sucked, an attempt to remove the badness that the Doctor pointed out was inside.
He couldn’t say for certain if The Doctor was real, you know, really real but he sat in his office and relayed to him the ailments that were upon him.
Leeches …..that grew fat like capitalists.
Distended black bulbous beetle.
Animalistic syringe pierces see through skin, nightmarish dreams of feeding on the tallow of slaughtered cattle, knee deep in carrion
It wasn’t in the blood what the Doctor was looking for, it was his wiring that was corrupt. Complex workings that had been short-circuiting since he was curled up safe in his mothers gut, swimming amongst half digested foods and fluids, the outside world was the future waiting between her legs.
Concrete looming from rooftop viewpoints. Pointing fingers of passers by, gawping, a gathering crowd, a gathering storm, waiting, The animals sensed it first. The tiniest changes in atmospheric pressure, a slight flip in temperature, a metallic tang stuck on the breeze, tiny seismic tremor under millennial strata.
Geologist in the field could not predict this.
Abortion predetermined lost fate in lantern filled arenas, the khaki dictators began to re-write a thousand yesterdays, starting from now, ground level – year zero, the piercing howls of slaughtered pigs, shocked then throats cut, dangling on murder hooks, dripping red life from silver knife wound, gashes look like shy awkward smiles of the newly ground prom queen dancing
Buried beneath the weight of the pen, Flexon created this all.
He wrote it down upon awaking sun beams shot like red Indian arrows into his retina, he felt nailed to a wet bed of TB sheets coughing awake a scream constricted in a dry throat heave.
Phantom limbs appeared to have scribbled sentences on a blank open page, charcoal etches scratched into paper, partially illegible in a wallpapered peeled room, musty with times rot, musty with yesterday damp, humidity clings to cobwebbed corners.
When out of bed, distancing himself from slumber, his naked feet padded across lino floor, crunching on the back on insects snapping twig like under the dead weight of his human shell.
He could fill books with this.
Noticing a camera lens inside the potted plant, whirling, the electric circuits responding to some remote electrical charge he closed his eyes and knew he would be crushed.