And the Pain Oscillates

And the Pain Oscillates

Ephraim Gast

Flash Fiction

 

 

 

It all started in fascia and now almost everything is gone.

Nurse, I’m now my own memoir Tsar and I need to tell you quick. Before I’m eaten and scarred and dead I need to dictate something to someone, and you’re here to care for me, so please provide me with some undeserved mercy and remember everything I say because of what’s on and in my face and flesh.

Alright: so I never sanctioned those Junkers’ nasty peasantry-slavery mills. That’s not something I would ever condone, because I’m too proud to have those types on my property. Anyway, no amount of dog-whistling would or could erase the fact that the Slavic really don’t bathe. At least the Slavic nurses here don’t. And I’ve been vocal about that! They are one ethnic group that need to be cleansed. With a wet cloth of some kind! Ah, even when I’m in agony, I can still incite hatred and make someone smile. Now, come and put that needle point in my arm again; I’m becoming lucid.

Korea? Germ. Biological. In the air. Every molecule was pathogenic and death. No, not in the insects; it was everywhere in the ether. You say you know for a fact that it didn’t happen? Well, that’s just not so because it was me and I was there and you don’t know. Bubonic, ha! It was me and not the Americans. Did I have an axe to grind with Korea? Of course I did; why else would I claim responsibility? Her name was Korean but not Kim, and she was an old whore who was weathered and decrepit and loved me. Then she fucked someone else after I paid her. If a village in a country could raise a woman with such morals, their society deserves to be eroded and destroyed from the inside out. They need to gather up their gambits and fuck themselves with them for free because I won’t pay for used watery linen, no.

I need to tell you faster because my brows are twinkling now.

I’ll vivisect in China for the greater good. I’ll vivisect for vengeance and for sport. I need to do it for vicarious stimulation; I want the pain. No tribunal will discourage me because I need to be on the receiving end of yellow pain like I need to oppose it. You’ll never understand and my face is vanishing.

I’ll abort your baby, ma’am. I’ll not reck your heavy jive. You don’t need children, ma’am! They’ll kill you as you are and how you’ll be—can’t you understand that? You only want children because you think you do. You found a Beauregard to fuck you often and think that this will only happen once so you better plant your souring seeds now. I think you’re selfish and a dirty bureaucrat because you view things in terms of investment. You don’t care and did things by the books and now I’m the one dying flamboyantly. You’ll die surrounded by family, wasting away by and by, with your dignity and grey hair fanning out behind you in the operating theatre, you dumb young thing.

Finally, I culled everything that intruded into my life. Every hairball and sentient mound of flesh that got in my way is now divided into parts with pins stuck in them. You’ll see where the soil has been tampered with and then you’ll see me and my face as it is. The fissures in the ground are me, you stupid old thing.

Alright: the optical puzzles are too much now. I can’t breathe now; I can’t see. I can only know and intuit.

 

 

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