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November 1, 2010

Charlotte

Filed under: News — Jon @ 12:38 am

I tear at my skin with cracked fingernails. It begins to come off in red and white sheets, especially in the areas I have prepared with liquid nitrogen. I can still feel the teeth burrowing deeper but I can’t seem to catch up. A fair haired man in a lab coat, whose name I believe is “Stefan”, approaches me, making loud noises and clapping. Annoying fellow. I spray his eyes with the canister of nitrogen and he goes away.
I peel off the skin covering my kneecap and inspect the chalkwhite bone for bite marks. I clamp my nails through my chin flesh thoughtfully and postulate a hypothesis regarding the endoskeletal organ  regenerative properties the gnawing little things’ secretions may contain.  I turn to an eviscerated Macaque and discuss my inferences. My own voice sounds wetly harsh and glottal, which I fear may make it difficult to understand, but the monkey carcass appears to comprehend.
“Look, Patricia,” it begins. “I understand where you’re coming from with your hypothesis, but I really don’t think that this is most objective experiment. Where’s your control group? And considering that this is an isolated incident to the best of your knowledge, you’ve really gone and made a mess of the only evidence you’re aware of. And, you still have one of your eyes, so this is hardly a double-blind.”
We share a chuckle over that, and then I ask the Macaque, whose name is Charlotte, what it would have me do. It doesn’t respond, which at first frightens me most severely, but then I see that she has reached out her hand, warm and small in my palm as I take it and caress the flayed folds gently with my thumb.
She’s so warm against me.
It’s time to leave! I shout against the sounds of venting fans and rupturing equipment. I hold Charlotte to my breast and stand, immediately toppling to the ground as my rightmost leg  portion splits in two. I wish I could say that this caused me no pain, but there was a quantifiable sense of unpleasant stimuli resulting from significant nerve damage, and a temporary loss of sight.
Charlotte and I press each other close during these hard times. I feel her tiny penis begin to grow and harden against my stomach, and I begin to feel slick and warm in my Aristotle’s repeatability dictum, glowing through my gut and out of my mouth onto a scattering of papers torn from a box entitled “NCP-01″. But there’s no time for hanky panky when I’m pulling ourselves up into a recently vacated and slightly blood-damp wheelchair, which I do with what can only be described as “gusto”.
My legs may be stripped to the bones but my arms work like gangbusters on the wheels, vaulting me over toppled equipment and body parts, steam stinging my cheeks and hands.
I remember my seventh birthday, my sister holding me down and burning me with her cigarettes every time I screamed into her hand as her boyfriend raped me. Later, we would all go get pie from a shop that had its pies under glass domes. I chose key lime, and ate it all.
Security guards swarm, blinded by the gas spraying from the ruptured container, eating through my safety glasses but not to my eye yet. Charlotte’s skin boils and pops in the lazily drifting swatches of atmosphere, and so does mine. My nose starts to leak and I begin to lose memories to the spattering bloody rain.
And then, they are all gone. I feed Charlotte my slice of key lime and go to sleep.

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