Chapter Text
How long has it been now?
You’re past 48 hours for sure, Strade congratulated you with this kind of blistering pride. Since then, you haven’t been able to pry an answer out of him.
No clocks in the basement. No windows. You would like to inform the philosophers that there is no inherent sense of time, it’s just really hard to break away from all the indicators. Even without a watch or the sun, your body keeps time through cycles. Hormones, temperature, melatonin, they can keep themselves in rhythm pretty well, so long as nobody fucks around with your biology.
You sort of thought biology was untouchable. Like when people say something is in your nature, in your biology, it means it’s unavoidable. But Strade—who is a doctor and a vengeful God and a judge and an executioner to you—is good at what he does. He’s better than biology. He’s got a stash of Adderall and Redbull and now you’ve been awake for however so long and you can’t remember what being sleepy is like.
There’s a film of crust always in your eyes. Your heart is beating to the rhythm of experimental jazz. Your hands are bloated like somebody’s using a tire pump to blow up your veins. You want to sleep because you want this to go away and you’re also afraid to sleep because maybe you’ll never wake up or maybe you’ll wake up to find nothing has changed. Whatever it is, you have this sense that sleep will bring a reckoning. You can’t stop thinking about sleep.
You met Strade online. You met Strade on a forum. You met Strade on a dating app. Your first date was in a bar. It was a movie. He came to your house and you made him dinner. And then it was your second date, when you went bowling, and in front of the guy who gives you the bowling shoes, Strade dug his fingers into the right side pitch and full-arm swung the ball into the back of your head. It was pink. It was neon green. You didn’t go bowling with Strade. You’ve never been bowling. He got out of his car and put a gun to your head when you were walking home from work. The street was empty, the night was dead, the sun was beating down on you like a microwave.
You can’t remember. Take any picture, any idea, hold it in your mind for long enough, and you can convince yourself it’s real. But you can’t figure out which one actually happened. You’re pretty sure you were born in this basement, and your mother was a plastic orange pill bottle and she gave you wings.
There are footsteps right above you. There’s a fly trying to get out of your eardrum except there isn’t actually a fly because it’s too cold for anything small to live down here. A voice you don’t recognize keeps calling your name. A different voice keeps listing off multiples of seven. None of it is real. Still, you check your shoulder each time.
Big blast of light from the top of the stairs. Open door.
In 1952, during operation Ivy, the U.S. dropped an H-bomb on Elugelab. First it was a fireball, and then it was a mushroom cloud. In the test footage, the dome of freckled energy seems to bloom instead of explode. If you’re close enough to the detonation of any thermonuclear weapon, the release of infrared/ultraviolet light will blind you. Imagine it. A blossom of slow-moving heat and an invisible wave that kisses your retinas impotent. Now, imagine it if your eyes weren’t adjusted. If you’d been in a basement for an extended period of time, say. Edward Teller, one of the physicists who designed the staged fusion device, saw the test was successful on his seismometer all the way in Berkeley. He sent a telegram, the first declaration of victory: “It’s a boy”. They named him Ivy Mike.
Strade is a ghost in the doorway. He’s a shadow with a halo hugging his body.
He takes one step down. The sound of his steel-toe hitting the wood keeps going.
“Look who’s awake!”
He grins.
Chimpanzees are known to approximate human smiles by activation of the zygomaticus major muscle, which results in a similar expression. Primatologists refer to this expression as the bared-teeth display. Chimps, as a semi-despotic species, stratify the members of a given group by social status. The bared-teeth display is more likely to be made by dominant members towards a subordinate, and like humans, can be considered a non-verbal form of communication, whereby the dominant indicates to the subordinate good intention. The bared-teeth display is also correlated to social tension and sexual arousal, particularly in socio-sexual action in close proximity to antagonistic interaction.
Another step down the stairs.
“Wow, you look like shit.”
Steel-toe on wood, everywhere, all around you.
When he took you home, you saw what waited beyond the stairs. It was a field of poppies. It was a traveling circus with contortionists in a box. It was a magician sawing a woman in half. It was a living room and there was a boy with fox ears… that last one can’t be right.
You have got to get some rest.
“What is this, the silent treatment?”
Another step. The door was open and now it’s closed. It would take what, like, ten seconds for the door to close? You have now been awake for at least 48 hours and ten seconds.
He teleports in front of you. He claps his hands right next to your head.
Ivy Mike had a brother named Ivy King. At the epicenter of a nuclear blast, the decibel level can reach 240. For reference, an ambulance is 130 decibels.
You make a noise and it’s like guhbrrhuhmmm.
“Huh?”
“Tired.”
“I can tell.”
The ceiling is very low or he is very tall. He has a baby or a football or a blender under his arm. How did he get down here? He was walking down the stairs and then he was in front of you. It wasn’t right, the way he did it.
You have a friend in this basement and she’s saying forty nine, fifty six, sixty three.
“Hey. Buddy. Look at me. I’m gonna test out your brain, okay?”
You didn’t study for a test.
“Don’t worry. You didn’t have to study, silly. Can you tell me why you think you’re tired?”
One time, you had an English exam and you spent the whole week rolling in the grass instead of studying. You 100%-ed this video game you were playing, that’s why you couldn’t study. And then you showed up, and you didn’t know a thing about integrals. You ended up writing I’m sorry :( on the front page and left the whole thing blank. You were in front of the class and you had nothing to say. Your powerpoint presentation was just a photo of a cat crying. Your history teacher was furious. He sprouted horns and he bit your head off.
“Stay with me.”
He claps again.
For reference, Krakatoa was 180 decibels, and it exploded a bunch of sailor’s eardrums.
“Why do you think you’re tired?”
Krakatoa collapsed into a caldera, a post-eruption land formation that most closely resembles a cauldron.
You couldn’t remember anything about Macbeth. Instead of the essay, you wrote a story about a guy who can’t start a fire. Your earth science teacher was so disappointed he turned into lava and he swallowed you up.
Fourteen, twenty one—hold up. That’s a question.
What was a question?
Baby. Why do you think you’re tired?
“If I go to sleep… I can’t do the test.” That’s you talking.
“Perfect. That’s a great answer. Can you tell me who discovered gravity?”
Think about the apple.
Okay, she can’t be telling you the answer. Cheating leads to immediate expulsion.
“It’s… the apple.”
“Who discovered gravity?”
“The apple guy.”
“Which apple guy?”
“... Steve with the job?”
“Wonderful.”
One time, Steve Jobs had a monster in his pancreas. One time, Steve Jobs had a fight with his friend, Bill Gates, and then he went to heaven. And then there was another computer and he showed up and he also had a fight with Bill Gates. Who won? Who is next? You had to make a decision.
“Did I pass the test?”
“With flying colors.”
You’ve been seeing a lot of that recently. Flying colors.
He’s sticking something into the wall. The three-pronged tip of a black wire coming out from the treasure chest he’s still holding.
“Cognitive functioning is one of the first things to go without sleep. You know, short-term memory, critical thinking, the whole nine yards. I bet you’re feeling pretty stupid right now.”
“I passed the test…”
“You did! Do you want a prize?”
He’s putting the blender down in front of you. Your magic isn’t working. Picture a baby. Picture a football. Picture a treasure chest. It’s still a blender in front of you. You wish it was a baby. But it’s a blender.
“No thank you.”
“You’re adorable,” he’s saying. “Come on. It’s a good prize, I promise.”
“I can’t, I have to… I have to go to bed.”
“Without your prize?”
“I’m sorry, you’re all so nice… I just have to go to bed.”
“You know, I was reading this thing a while ago, and it said that one of the effects of inadequate sleep is a decrease in pain tolerance and an increase in spontaneous pain perception. I thought that was really interesting. Isn’t that very interesting?”
For reference, household appliances such as hairdryers and blenders are around ninety decibels. The Krakatoa shockwave circled the earth three times. Sometimes, a sound is spatial. This was observed by Goethe, noted for works such as Faust and The Sorrows of Young Werther , who stated, “[a]rchitecture is frozen music” (see footnote). Sometimes, you’re wading through a sound, and sometimes, you’re drowning it. The blender was off and now it’s on, the dial turned to SLUSH.
“But I passed.”
“Alright, you’re getting annoying.”
He’s wrapping his fucking ape hands around your elbow and moving your arm. When did he get here, kneeling next to you? That would probably take around fifteen seconds.
There are myriad techniques that a self-defense instructor might teach you to escape a hold. Hitting somebody’s nose with the butt of your palm at an upward angle can be fatal. However, the difficulty of techniques is that they require a lot of precision in order to be effective, the kind of precision you get from repetitive practice, and most people aren’t having to use self-defense techniques regularly. Defaulting to these techniques in a time of genuine crisis can be fatal as well, just not towards the attacker. Your best option is simply to thrash. Once somebody has their hands on you without consent, there is no more ‘fair’ fight.
One time, there was a boy who was a wizard and he had no bone in his arm. If you had to fight back with a floppy, rubbery arm—like, if you were experiencing sleep deprivation and your muscle protein metabolism was impaired beyond function—, could you?
Strade is yanking you by the elbow, pulling your arm forward, shoving your hand over the plastic rim.
This is why you never let them take you to a secondary location.
But you didn’t have a choice. He snuck in through the window and took you from your bed. He stabbed you in the alley and thirty eight people heard but didn’t call the police. He was hiding under your car and he slashed your ankles.
Angel, honeypie, that’s not what happened.
Isn’t it? These are things that happened.
Not to you, they didn’t.
Then who was it? And what was it that happened to you?
Hey. Eyes on the blender.
Your fingers are going in and they’re feeding the blades. Just the tip.
The plastic was clear and now there’s red paint all up inside. You’re pulling your hand back out with a strength more adrenaline than muscular, and your fingers are hooked onto the blade. You’re scraping your flesh off. You’re putting out the fire and your fingers are shorter.
“Nuh-uh. None of that.”
He’s pushing you back in.
There was a man in Russia who got caught in a lathe. It pulled him underneath from one side and up the other, so he was wrapped around and facing out. He saw the whole world spinning, his head touched his toes. In the video, it looks like he falls first, and then the machine just sucks him up. For one revolution, it almost looks fun. And then pieces of his body start flying off. A leg. A shoe. Faster and faster, and it’s like letting go of a high pressure hose, the way it just sprays all over the place.
You’re making this noise and it’s so loud it’s stripping your throat dry. You’re screaming.
The red paint is covering the entire blender. It’s getting on the floor. It’s getting on the ceiling. It’s getting in your mouth. You’re a rock and there’s iron in you, on your tongue.
The blades are making good work of your knuckles. The mixture is turning pink. Your teeth are vibrating in your head.
You promise you’ll study next time. You promise you’ll do better. You won’t fail another test.
“You passed, dummy! Don’t you remember?”
One time, you failed a test about apples and God put your hand in a blender.
It’s gonna suck you in, the whirlpool of pinkish-red pulp. It’s hungry and alive and it will eat anything it can. It’s tugging at loose flaps. The skin is sloughing off the back of your hand.
You’re trying to kick the blender over, and he’s digging his nails into your elbow.
“Keep being difficult and I’ll put your head in next.”
He’s pulling you up onto your knees so your forearm is perpendicular to the blades and he’s shoving you down onto it.
That Russian guy, he went in by the arm first, and it was his head next.
When you slide wood through a bandsaw, the cuts are so efficient that the wood simply glides through. Get anything sharp and fast enough, and it’ll destroy with grace.
The stringy muscles in your hand aren’t attached on both ends anymore. The wind from the blades is making them dance.
Strade is laughing. You’re screaming. You’re laughing too. There’s tomato paste all over his face.
Your hand is getting smaller and smaller. You’re reaching in with your other arm to try and grab the pieces of skin spinning around, so you can put them back on, but the blades attack your other hand too. They’re just that hungry.
“What’d you do that for?” He’s asking.
You’re still screaming.
He’s pulling so hard on your arm, and you’re pulling back with the same force, your shoulder is twisting out of place.
The blades are catching and grinding, screeching without moving. You don’t have a hand anymore. You’re wrist-deep into the blender and the blades don’t know how to eat the bone.
“Fuck,” he’s saying.
He’s reaching for the dial and turning it to PULSE.
The sound of the blender is coming and going. It’s trying to hack at your wrist and taking small breaks in between to power up. It’s chip, chip, chipping away, and then it’s taking off pieces. It’s shredding through the knobby joint.
Our sensory faculties are on an ever-adjusting sliding scale. Take a person, put them in a room with a jackhammer, and while the sound will be painful at first, they’ll adjust to it after enough time. Turn the jackhammer off, and they might hear a ringing sound. When our ears are adjusted to loud sounds, silence is a shock to the system. The ringing is almost like denial, the last respite of sound before your ears adjust back and you’ve forgotten all about it.
The blender is full. You’ve fed it enough.
Strade is pulling your arm back out and you’ve got this stump-thing now, with jagged pieces of bone sticking out and a whole lot of mess dripping off. “Oh, man, that’s brutal.”
He’s looking at you. He’s slapping your face. You’re crying.
“You still tired?”
A smoothie usually takes like a minute to make. So, you’ve been awake for forty eight hours, one minute, and twenty five seconds.
“My hand… hurts.”
“What hand?” He’s giggling.
“Why did you…”
“Hm. That’s a good question. I guess I overplayed my hand , didn’t I?”
He’s picking up the pitcher of tomato paste and red paint smoothie, with bits and pieces of Popeye candy, and he’s staring into it, raising an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t look bad.”
He’s offering it to you.
“Thirsty?”
“No thank you…”
“Come on. You need to stay strong!”
“S’gross…” You’re saying. “My hand.”
“This? No, no, this is a magic potion, buddy. It makes you sleep.”
Sleep. You needed some of that. You forgot to get it at the store, you’ve been making do without it.
“Something bad… something bad if I sleep.”
“Not if you drink this. Because it’s magic.”
You’re shaking your head. He’s cupping your cheeks and squishing them and making you look him in the eyes.
“Come on, buddy, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
You’re still shaking your head. He’s pushing the rim of the pitcher against your lips.
“Do you remember me?”
You’re still shaking your head.
“I’m Strade. I’m your guardian angel. There was something evil attached to you and I helped you get it off. I saved you.”
“... an angel?”
“Yeah, I’m an angel. I came down to earth so I could take care of you.”
“... take care of me.”
“Mhm. And, God just told me this, you gotta drink this potion. You haven’t been sleeping well. This is gonna make you feel better.”
“… well, if God said it’s okay.”
“There we go.”
He’s smiling. He’s an angel. He’s grabbing you by the hair and tilting your head back and he’s tipping the pitcher into your mouth.
“Don’t spill any!”
The potion is acrid and thick and warm, in that order. It’s coming in fast. You’re gulping it down, opening your gullet so it won’t overflow. Your face is crumpling up.
“Wow. You’re just too easy,” he’s saying.
Don’t drink that, sweetie. Please don’t drink that.
The bread is, really, the body of Christ, and that’s not a metaphor for anything, but it isn’t cannibalism to receive the Eucharist. One piece of evidence catholics love to cite is that Jesus isn’t dead. Or, more accurately, the bread is not Jesus’ dead body. But using that to differentiate between cannibalism and sacrament is completely dependent on the working definition of cannibalism, and the majority opinion holds any consumption of human flesh as cannibalism, whether they’re living or not. The better argument is that, after thousands of years, Christ’s body has yet to run out, but eating a person will deplete the body over time (i.e., you eat a foot, the foot is gone, so on and so forth). So, if Jesus’ body doesn’t proceed under regular physical rules, regular moral rules don’t apply. There is, also, another relatively weak argument, which goes something like if we are all children of the Lord, then in a way, we are all Jesus (or we all have a part of Jesus within us), so it’s not really cannibalism as in eating somebody else, it’s just eating yourself. Kind of. And that’s different. Kind of.
The potion is pooling in the bottom of your stomach. You’re swallowing it down faster and harder. It’s going down but you can’t keep it there.
You’re lurching. It’s all coming back up.
You’re grabbing the pitcher with both hands except one of them misses. It’s gone. There’s no time to process it, you don’t even know what time is. And in front of your own personal guardian angel, you’re puking cherry soda back into the pitcher and onto the floor.
“Oh, that’s not good,” he’s saying. “You’re making a huge mess.”
You’re blubbering through apologies, again and again. He’s just looking at you. His lips are tucked into a thin line.
“It’s okay.” He’s rubbing your back. “I’m not angry. I’m just sad for you.”
“Why are you sad?”
“There’s no way you’re gonna sleep now.”
That’s okay. It’ll be okay if you don’t sleep. Right?
Um. No, baby. You won’t be okay.
You’re talking really loud. “No! No! I can— I can do it! Everything’s fine! I still have it!”
He’s grimacing.
“Holy shit. You’re not going to—”
You’re throwing your head back and chugging out the pitcher. Now, it’s acidic and pulpy. Sweeter, too. You’re drinking it faster than last time. You’re closing your eyes to make the taste better.
It was your anniversary, and Strade put his fingers in your mouth, too far back. You gagged. It made him happy. He socked you in the gut and you threw up on his shoes. He kicked your teeth out. You guys were prom royalty. It was in Germany. You were standing on the stage with a plastic tiara and they dumped a bucket of cherry soda, tomato paste, and red paint on you, so you lit those motherfuckers on fire with your mind. You were standing on the stage and you threw up on everybody. Every single one of them. Nobody was saved. Nothing wasn’t red.
You’re not feeling so good.
Your head is pounding. Your arm is hurting. Your belly is full and exploding. There’s potion dripping from your bottom lip and pooling between your knees. The pitcher was full of vomit and now it’s empty.
“I… was not expecting that.” He’s saying.
“Strade?”
“What’s up?”
“I’m sick… I think.”
“Oh yeah, you’re definitely sick.”
You’re reaching for him on hands and knees, and one of your hands isn’t working. You’re off-balance, teetering, and then you’re face down on the cement floor, in a warm puddle. He’s laughing. Sometimes, your angel does things that make your eyes pound, but he takes care of you in his own way.
“I want to go to bed,” you’re saying, sobbing.
He’s kicking your legs apart and laying himself prone over your back. He’s speaking into your ear, and it tickles.
“That was very impressive. God is very happy with you.”
“He is?”
“Mhmmmm…”
He’s using your hair to tug your face up off the floor.
Your arm, the one you fell on, it doesn’t have a hand. It’s a messy wound, covered in half-detached skin, and subcutaneous fat is dribbling out. You’re screaming again.
Strade is slamming your face into the floor. Something cracks right in the center.
“Keep it together. I’m trying to have a good time.”
“My hand… my hand…”
“Jesus Christ, did you forget? Are you really that fucking stupid now?”
He’s grabbing your arm and puppeting you, waving the wound in your face.
“You said… you take care of me…”
“I did.” He’s angry. “You didn’t need your hand, so I got rid of it for you. And now you’re being ungrateful.”
“Why aren’t you taking care of me?!” You’re shrieking.
He’s tearing your clothes off, literally, ripping the fabric from you. He’s undoing his belt.
“Here, I’m helping you.”
He’s pushing himself into you dry.
“This isn’t…”
“What? This isn’t helping? It’s supposed to feel good.”
“It doesn’t.”
His hips are flush with yours now. You’re full in every way you could be and you don’t have a hand. He’s staying still like that, buried inside you.
“I don’t know what to tell you, buddy. God actually made sex to feel good. If it doesn’t… well, God’s probably gonna be really upset with you. He’s gonna send you to hell.”
He’s pulling out only to slam himself back in.
“If you don’t say it feels good, you’re going to hell.”
You’re bawling, and he’s thrusting into you, one hand on your hip. Your stomach keeps pushing against the floor. All the stuff you drank is sloshing around in there.
He’s pulling your head back again.
“Did you hear me?!” He’s shouting.
You’re trying to shake your head but his grip on your hair is solid.
“Do you want to go to hell?”
“No!”
“Then you have to say you like it.”
The meat of his thighs is slapping against your skin.
“I like it,” you’re crying out.
In Hieronymous Bosch’s triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights , he paints a picture of hell that is overwhelmed by detail and image. In a way, the primary torture of hell through Bosch’s brush is the sheer stimulation you’d experience, the disorientation of a space both vast and cramped. A detailed look at the panel shows that, unlike the left and middle panel depictions of virtue, the naked bodies in hell cower. They hide their nudity, as if in shame. Hell is filled with people ashamed of what they carry beneath their clothes.
You like it. You’re repeating it. You like this feeling. This feeling is good.
He’s fucking you viciously. Your stomach is trying to empty itself again, but you’re choking it down. Your chest is rubbing against the floor, and there are friction burns opening up.
“I don’t believe you,” he’s saying. “I’m doing all this for you and I don’t even think you like it. Do you know how angry God is going to be if he finds out you hurt my feelings?”
You’re repenting. He’s pulling out to lift you up by the hips, wrangling you onto your knees, and he’s got the heel of his boot on the back of your shoulder. You’re ass up, face in the dirt. He’s pushing back into you, and it’s not as dry this time. He’s halfway in and he stops moving.
“I think you should show me how much you like it.”
You’re whimpering.
“Or you can go to hell. Your choice.”
You’re slowly, tentatively pushing yourself back, sinking onto him. He’s groaning through his teeth. You’re shifting forward on your knees, and pushing back again, your cheek pressed hard on the cement. You’re picking up the pace. You’re fucking yourself on his cock while he drops pornographic growls.
“That’s better,” he’s huffing.
His nails, clinging onto your hips, are breaking skin.
“I don’t want to be in hell,” you’re saying, going as fast as you can without hurling.
“God doesn’t send sluts to hell. Are you a slut?”
“Yeah…”
“Say it.”
“I’m a slut,” you’re mumbling.
He’s grabbing your arm, the short one, and twisting it behind your back. With the pressure he’s putting on your elbow, it’s going to snap if he keeps bending.
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I’m a slut!” You’re screaming, at him, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.
He’s taking back control, ramming himself into you. You’re moaning. You like it. It’s hitting a good spot, because he’s taking care of you. You’re feeling better and better, actually.
One time, many times, you chased this feeling and it led to something great. He’s your guardian, he’s your guide, he’s walking you towards that great something.
He’s scratching lines up your thighs and pressing his fingers, sweaty and hot, into the fresh tracks of raw skin. The stinging isn’t much compared to everything else. You’re looking back at your missing hand, remembering that it’s gone, and promptly pressing your forehead into the floor with your eyes squeezed shut.
You really are feeling a lot. It’s all swirling together into a homogenous sensation, where you can’t pick apart what’s pain and what’s even worse pain. But you’re present in a way you haven’t been for days now, at least. Your mind isn’t floating between different realities. This one is inescapable.
“I’m gonna cum inside of you,” he announces.
“Don’t…” You mumble, weakly.
“Shut up.”
He cums without fanfare, buried all the way. The heat he leaves inside you is just another sensation you can’t sort with the others.
He waits till he’s sure there isn’t a drop missing, and pulls himself out quickly, hurrying his pants back on. He doesn’t bother with his belt. It hangs loose at his front and bounces with each step. You stay where you are, too exhausted to move. His boots circle right in front of you.
“You’re disgusting,” he spits.
“Did I… do good?”
“No,” he says, turning on his heels and heading back up the stairs. “You’re going straight downstairs, buddy. Get some rest.”
He turns the light off before he slams the door shut behind him, a small offering to help you sleep. The adrenaline, the meds, the taurine, it’s all wearing off, and you’re not coming down so much as crash landing. The flutter in your heart gives way to a steady weight in your chest. It drops down into your stomach when you sit up. Your head is pounding. Your hand is gone.
The frequent flyer program at Guantanamo Bay involved the constant rearranging of detainee’s rooms in order to keep them awake. The guards believed this would make detainees more cooperative during interrogations. The practice was eventually discontinued, possibly due to ethical concerns, more likely PR. Who can really know how the guards felt, watching men just like them wither away into hollow frames? You don’t believe they enjoyed it. You don’t believe anybody could enjoy doing that.