Nothing has ever hurt this badly . You can’t feel it, but you’re still certain of that. The shard of glass you can see reflected in the other shard of glass looks to be a reasonable size, but when you pull it, slowly, almost seductively out of the whitest part of your right eye, it feels improbably long. It can’t possibly be as long as it seems, there’s not enough space between your eye and the back of your head to fit that much glass, without shattering it and inserting it through a drilled hole. This piece, you seem to almost remember, entered through a different door.

There are no horrified faces surrounding this scene.

The train stewardess (what else do you call these light snack women, these obvious examples of expired love for sale) offers you a hot towel, a cold drink, a pillow. Considering the state of your eye, your snarled response is actually remarkably composed. You order a gin and simple syrup. Accept the pillow her suddenly obviously cracked and blistered hand holds in your general direction, and now, through the haze of blood descending, and with the help of your good eye, see that her own eyes are covered in a milky substance, tinged the color of the underside of a neglected houseplant. Or that could be what the smell tells you you’re seeing.

There are no horrified faces surrounding this scene.

Your drink arrives, clutched by five blackened finger stumps. Dumped on your tray unceremoniously, a splash of gin meets the void left by glass. That pain you don’t feel? Renewed, it starts screaming obscenities, and so do you.
Jumping to your feet, you can’t help but attempt to wash the rail whore’s eyes clean with a mixture of gin and spit. It’s not your fault, this is physics meets biology 101. An object in motion (your rage) stays in motion. An object at rest (her brain) stays at rest. This principle is proven true on two fronts immediately after you’ve thrown the drink. Her unblinking face, dripping your drink, ensures that the natural continuation of forward motion plants your forearm against her throat.
Pinned against the row of seats, she should be choking by now. Goddammit, she should be choking, spitting, coughing bits of phleghmy blood, struggling against the steel of your grip.

But an object at rest…

Unable, through this modified chokehold, to provoke even the slightest of reactions from the puce skinned monster in the polyester uniform, you try another tack. Guns serve no real purpose other than to enhance or decrease one’s sense of luck, but experience has taught you that the same does not hold true for all weapons. A swift motion, and your arm exchanges itself for a knife. The only way this movement could be smoother would be to attach the knife to your arm, and it’s a thought you’ll consider heavily in the near future. For now, as the blade slips lovingly, and achingly slowly, through the parchment of her skin, thought isn’t a part of any equation you’ve ever known. Every moment spent longing to fuck someone, anyone, a specific object of desire, or a general need, is contained and then released in this one penetration. All the actions, even sensations, are exactly the same, it will occur to you some time later. You are thrusting. You have become the embodiment of rhythm. You tease, moving slowly through just the slightest layer of skin, almost only through the melanocytes and keritinocytes coating the contents of her body. Each heavy breathed second leads you closer to home, just a little bit further inside every person you’ve been inside, or longed to. Allowing yourself to forget control and restraint, you finally slip into the dermis, and the warmth, comfort that that brings you is immeasurable. It’s almost womblike, the time you’re spending here, and you can’t imagine being closer to anyone ever. The rage has subsided, replaced by yearning, and a sense that that which has been yearned for for so long will soon be yours. You try to hold back. You’re trying desperately to spend as much time in this feeling as you possibly can, but almost as if overcome by passion, you slide through into the subcutaneous fat, and immediately fall limp, satisfied. Even the fluids resemble the act of love. There’s warmth, a moist place to lie while you regroup.

And you find yourself still on the train. Still heading towards the next town, city, landmark. The next big moment in all of this.

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