98 Wounds Read Online Free PDF Page B

packet and with shaky hands, she pours the contents of the packet into her mouth. A good portion of the sugar misses her open, gaping, wound-like mouth and sprinkles the front of her gray housedress, printed with little apples and oranges, with white crystals that sparkle in the yellow lights of the gas cooker. She takes another packet, shakes it, tears it open, and pours the sugar into her mouth, or tries as best as her deteriorating motor skills allow, dusting her dress with more sparkle. And another packet. And another. More sugar. I can hear her crunching the sugar; I can hear her grinding the crystals between the molars of her dentures. Soon there is a pile of empty sugar packets on the kitchen counter. The front of her housedress is dusted with so many sugar crystals that it looks as if it is a frumpy sequined gown made for some low-rent suburban drag queen.
    He is working his fingers into my arsehole. All his tonguing and licking has worked my hole and loosened the sphincter. Unplanned encounters do not facilitate adequate cleaning or preparation. And with all the prying of fingers and tongues, I feel myself lose control and a small splat of soft shit falls out onto his face. But he opens his mouth wide, and catches most of it. The smell of my own shit repulses me. I am embarrassed. I don’t want to carry on. I want to get up and wipe up, clean off, go home. But he’s still licking and sucking and cleaning my murky hole. I force myself to cum, and the effort of that makes me shit more onto his face, and he eats that up, too. With his shit-streaked hands, he grabs his dick and in a few quick short pumps, disposes of his load. His face is still in my ass, he is whimpering like a puppy, still licking at my ass.
    I get up from the chair, ignoring the dribble down my leg, and walk over to the coffee table and selfishly scrape together the biggest fattest line I think I can handle and force it up my nose, the bits that I cannot hold in there, which fall out of my nostrils back onto the glass plate, I wipe up with my finger and swab onto my gums. I think I am going to black out. I’m not sure how I’m going to get home, and I definitely don’t want to stay here, though I might not have a choice. He is still lying on the floor with a satiated cheesy grin on his face. His mother is standing there in the dim-lit kitchen eating sugar, the sandpapery rasp and crunch between her false teeth, staring into space, trapped in her own brain, staring at us. At the very end. At the forking road. At the closing gyre. You will know what you are. You may even know who. And even if it is just for the briefest of a flicker, taken on some rare forgiving shameless night or day, you will see all the exit signs, all the detours and off-ramps, all flashing lights lit up just for you.

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    1.
    My suitor is a jack-booted thug, a gangster who stomped on my heart as if it were the liver of a swarthy nemesis. I lie in bed at night wondering who he is bullying and what he is doing with his pale hollow friends, for he never works alone. Not even when he is beside me, even inside me; he is never alone, he comes with far too many people.
    I lie in bed and he appears by my window like the Blue Angel. My one confidant thinks the appearance is more like Jiminy Cricket. In the cartoon, the popular version: the conscience that lives in the wooden doll’s head, ready to chastise and to prod awake the mechanisms of guilt. In the original version, smashed to bits in the second chapter, squished under the boot of the evil wooden doll: a bug, a pest, nothing more.
    My suitor takes me by the hand and leads me down mad corridors and unfamiliar avenues. It is as if we were flying (but I have a fear of flying, of heights, of crashing, of flight, of speed, of air, altogether too many fears), and we land on a grassy lawn speckled with flecks of motor oil and engine grease. He takes me by the hand and he shows me a gorgeous building that he will