Parsimonious Illuminati by Henry Martin

To the unsuspecting visitor, my room may appear livable, or even mildly pleasant, but there is no hiding the truth from my consciousness.

The light, meager as it is, is indeed, merciful. On the surface, all appears neat and tidy. The peeling wallpaper; the dried vomit under the windowsill; and the mold spores, which, years ago, had crawled out from behind the heater and have taken over the entire east wall. All is hidden now by shadow, but I know. I know it is all here, witness to my self-destruction.

Teeth barred with safety wire embedded in amalgam, two buckets in front of me, I sit, hunched low, in my dilapidated armchair, mustering up the courage to begin. One leg in the phosphorous, the other in permanganate, I feel the skin twitching, the nerves tightening under the surface … I feel the tingling in every part of my body.

“I’m alive!”

My scream disturbs no one.

I pull the knife out of its sheath. Its blade glistens, sending specs of light dancing around the room.

What?

Movement behind the curtain catches my eye. Are the angels visiting me here tonight?

“You’re late!” I shout. “You’re fucking late!”

The curtain falls straight and still.

I reach down and dip the blade in both buckets. The green luminescence mixes with streaks of purple as it runs down along the sharp edge. How beautiful.

No! There isn’t enough time to pause and admire my creation. I will not give in to distraction.

The blade glistens in my hand as I bring it up to my face. Everything is still. Everything is silent, except the thumping noise in my chest.

The first cut will be the hardest.

© 2011 Henry Martin

When he’s not buried elbow-deep in some greasy motorcycle project, Henry Martin enjoys reading quality literature and writing prose and poetry of varying coherency. He finds inspiration in conquering the open road while trying to outrun some of the characters he created in the past. He lives with his family in NH, surrounded by coyotes, foxes, and bears.

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