"The Scarred Heart"
writings - drawings
"The Scarred Heart"
While a sturdy question it begs another - why I want to leave where I now am.
In ways you are right.
Limiting my travel passport to this globe I would take a look at the Mediterranean… Cyprus, or the hundreds of islands found swimming within the Florida Keys. Both yet I have to be physically present within.
Holiday aside I love small and musty spaces where I can explore someone I love with a thunderstorm cracking and shaking through the walls. Just the smell of her skin and ions in the air… ozone, I believe they call it… then I could be most anywhere and still believe myself a romantic at heart.
“Being in the middle of Europe in fucking nowhere really has its downsides.” Baxter writes in his journal.
He looks around his room. Sink. A month goes by fast, and he had become accustomed to living in a monastery. After walking for hours he was picked up by a farmer, (why do farmers always seem to be driving?) and without identification he declared himself a preacher.
“You a catholic?”
Mother fucking Teressia took him in and gave him a pad of paper that he used between wiping his ass and writing on, a bible and told him to stay still until they found him a job.
One window and one desk. One bed. Concrete walls – fuck, he may as well be in jail. Outside the gray day of another cloudy sky. At this point he would have done most any job – but Mother Teressia already had one in mind.
Three o’clock knock at the door. It was Sister Elizabeth.
Baxter watches her fill the pail with warm water, dip in the bar of soap and approach him. She was thirty odd something, brown hair pulled back and a body that had been ravished with the opposite of famine. Stretch marks across her skin like a road map in well, Europe, and efforts to lose weight left her with nipples that could shine her shoes.
“You want something to eat?”
“Do you know my address? I’m expecting mail.”
“The only address that I know of,” she says sitting on his bed, “Is south.”
Sister Elizabeth likes sausage.
Stares at Baxter.
“I’ll need to clean you penis.”
She slides her hand under his shirt and rips the buttons off. Drops her mouth on his stomach and begins to suck.
“You sex disturbing distraction….”
“Is this what you call celibate?”
“I can do it better when I have a straight tool in my mouth…”
Slobber comes from the side of her lips. It is white and bubbly.
She takes off her robe, attached by Velcro and spreads her legs over Baxter’s face. He looks at her furry pubic vagina rubbing up and down.
“No. I mean fuck me.”
Nickter remembers when he walked home from school with a young girl. Went up a hill on the way to take their clothes off.
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
She wouldn’t do it until he gave her candy. Hard candy.
Her blue jeans dropped and Baxter saw for the first time… nothing. Just skin. There was nothing to see. Years later he would understand that blood and mucus would drip from that small slit in the front, disgusting mucus held against a girl’s body with thick pads, wads of toilet paper and anything they could find.
He starts by pushing his fingers in. Reminds him of a friend from school, her back arched and screaming, not the kind of scream that comes naturally but an animal scream as her vagina ripped apart and the doctors started to slide on the blood. The thing came out with sticky hair.
Looked around and cried.
She died from the infection in the hospital. A real tragedy, seeing that if she took her baby shit in the bush she might have lived. Thing about hospitals is that they are full of sick people and that leads to…
Baxter cuffs her across the mouth.
“You want some more?”
“Give it to me. I deserve…”
Baxter gets up and punches her in the solar plexus. She falls off the bed and crawls into the corner like a hurt animal, gasping.
“Harder…” she manages. “harder…”
“I’m going to tie you.”
He wraps a bed sheet from her neck to ankles. Grabs the keys.
“I didn’t think a virgin could own a Mercedes.”
She writhes around, trying to get upright.
“Just because I’m in the mood I’ll give you a free fuck.”
Pulling on his semi-erect penis he fills a full erection and stuffs it hard into her wanton bush.
Riding with the top down is a rush. Black Mercedes speeding down a dark tree filled road with the tank half full, engine roaring in front of him and the push from the rear…
“Only Sister Elizabeth would understand.”
A long drive comes with a lot of time to think.
Baxter thought how to forget a long time ago. He recounted certain things, the color of signs and the cars ripping by and distant memories of someone he loved to forget ever loving and some animals that caused small bumps on the road until next he was in – Russia.
Place looks just like the tourist trap photos. Zero degrees and stupid buildings that look like they are wearing hats you can eat, cupcakes.
“To buy a ticket. I can buy a ticket here. Of all places, I should be able to buy a ticket.”
The officer looks at him.
“It depends where you want to go.”
“I want to leave.”
“Are you planning on returning…”
The officer holds up a radio to her mouth.
“Do you support Crime Stoppers?”
“I know someone that has been kidnapped.”
“Then you should call the police.”
“I know that someone will be waiting… at her address.”
“Why would she be at her address if she was kidnapped?”
Baxter steps back.
“Because I’m trying to kill her.”
The officer reaches for her stun gun. Stops, and pulls out her 9 mm.
“On the floor!”
Baxter lies on the floor.
“Don’t you think you might be interested in knowing?”
It was more of a sudden thud, like a hammer landing hard on a piece of rubber. Half of the officer’s face seemed to fall off, slide to the ground. Her face dismantled. A chunk of something lodged in the wall behind her as she tumbled forward. No arms, just flat.
Baxter gets to his feet and moves to the next line. There are two Chinese women trying to pay with a debit card having trouble and the attendant brushes them aside.
“Cash.” Baxter mentions.
“You want a ticket here? You are here…”
“I want a ticket that brings me back here as slowly as possible.”
The attendant stares at him.
“Will that be first class or economy?”
“I want a room. I want a suite with a bathroom, a bedroom…. I want a mini bar. I want a drink.”
She looks at her computer.
“There is an A380 leaving in twenty minutes for Dubai. It returns to New York.”
“That will do.”
Baxter sits in the lounge at sixty seven thousand four hundred and fourteen feet above sea level, drinking a vodka soda with a twist of lime and smoking a Monticello number one, ashing into the empty case of a Rolex boulevard alarm clock turned upside down. The gold plating wilts from the heat.
“So you are into advertising?” she asks, tossing her hair. Purses her lips together.
“I have a package that I sent to an unhappy customer.” He shakes his head.
“Is she going to get her money back?”
“She is going to get her moneys worth.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight.”
Baxter turns slightly.
“I’ve only got room for one.”
“So I can’t bring a friend?”
Mahogany is heavy. So is marble. Why would they use it on this flying machine? Just to impress people that don’t know what it costs to live, people that want to show they can spend more than they can consume? Is that why she is sitting there, beside him?
“I’m not one of them.”
“Then you might be looking for something towards the end of the counter.”
She points to a girl sitting alone at the end of the bar. She’s drinking a beer, wearing a tank top and tight jeans, her hair bleached blonde and frizzy. Baxter watches her roll her head with some brief turbulence.
“You never even asked for my name.”
“Most men want a name. At least a name for the night.”
“I guess that’s why I didn’t ask.”
She stands up and pulls a jacket from her chair.
“I’m sitting in A-34. I’ll be sleeping there too.”
Baxter returns to his room. It is on the third floor – yeah, the fucking plane has three decks. Three more underneath for cargo and transport. Wires and machines that make the thing fly through the air at over six hundred miles an hour half way around the world. If only he could take it back eighty years… it would blow some minds.
Same as a cure for cancer.
Looks over the wood panel. Fucking boring shit, likely a veneer,
The attendant stands at the door he forgot to close.
“Fuck,” Baxter says. “You…”
“Scared me?”, she finishes his sentence.
She is wearing a white skirt and an open blouse.
Baxter decides to kill her quickly. Grabs her head and stuffs it into the toilet. Her muffled screams bubble out of the water until he finishes her off with a quick twist to her head. Then bends it down. Keeps her face in the water and pulls back on the porcelain until…
He looks around.
Rips off her skirt to have a quick look. Every woman has a different clam down there, and he checks hers with a straw he lifted from the bar. Sticks it in and pries open…. one flap hangs lower than the other.
One benefit of killing women is they don’t complain.
Baxter moves to the minibar and removes a vodka bottle. The microwave sits above on the counter and he twists open the cap and places it in the microwave. Gives it 56 seconds for the water to boil off before he jams it up her cunt.
“Am I hot enough for you?” He whispers before flicking his bic.
The bottle explodes, blowing him back. Sitting in a daze he hears alarms singing and lights flashing.
Rubs the blood off his face, already black, opens the door and pushes through other attendants.
“Get out of the fucking way!” he screams.
Passengers turn and rise to their feet as he runs through.
“Fire!” sets them back in their seat.
At the cockpit slams his shoulder through the door and grabs the pilot.
“Parachute,” breathing. “Now.”
The Captain points. Baxter pulls it off the wall, places it on his shoulders. Pulls the helmet from the co-pilot and smashes out the window, then jumps into the wind.
The sudden blast takes his breath. It’s black and cold. Baxter waits ten seconds before he yanks the cord, falling through space. Nothing happens. The plane roars past, flames flying from it’s engines above. He yanks it again and the shoot opens just in time to catch a flock of geese, one flapping in the top of his parachute.
Baxter lands on soft gravel. The bird flips around with a broken wing, squawking.
It’s dark and damp. Baxter thinks about what he has done. Downed a plane, blew up a stewardess with a mini vodka bottle, stole a parachute and killed a bird.
“No.” he whispers. “I haven’t killed a bird.”
He picks the goose from the ground and steps on it’s head.
“I’ve killed two birds.”
My finger before it has been fixed. Back in the shop. Yes.
GF wanted to know, (well maybe not but I like to show her new things….. sigh) what “gaudy” meant.
Tasteless for the need of attention. None purpose effort to express nothing. Meaningless shapes, color and sounds designed to stand out without substance. Juvenile and immature flamboyance with the singular purpose to startle or surprise.
Unfortunately associated with some Japanese “art”.
Finger got bent.