Russian Roulette

Before 6 a.m. I must shoot. I am not improvising. I wouldn't have that right. I know the whole story behind the scenes. I know how you think, what you've been doing. The table presses down on you. The cat is your only company. It's snowing outside. I'm still not painting. Some busybodies hanging around. Red is censored. It's like a poisonous poison to talk about the everyday. Have you seen the Amsterdam brand acrylics? How am I going to paint pink on asphalt? Everything seemed to be everyday and absurd. You're still breathing, thank you, divine.

I keep hearing noises in the kitchen. I've burned hundreds of incense to mask the stench. This is the first time I've seen you doze off. Your neck is an incessant temptation. I could get up and press the knife, just a little. Seeing the purplish that has taken over your skin is not so comforting. Sometimes I arch with the urge to vomit. I restrain myself and wipe the knife again. The cellar door is not visible. Father always thought of everything. He had put up a false wall. To hide the entrance very well. I remember my mother beating me roughly. Punishing me to obey. With a man, you always have to be compliant. Your life is stupid. Tough leather straps. Straps, straps, straps. I only counted pelicans. Between the pain and the marks, I counted pelicans. I had 999 numbers. Then I would start counting helpless crabs.
You could feel the pickup trucks roaring. Drunks screaming, spitting at each other. The police used clubs to stun. They were interrogating. In the darkness, I felt your hateful breathing. It made me want to scream. To start scratching your skin, punching you. I carried on my skin every memory. Your sweat enveloping me.
It was an overwhelming silence that woke me up. I had almost gotten used to the stench of potatoes. I thought about burying them or dumping them upstream. Contaminate half the city. I carefully opened the cellar door. They'd trashed everything, the bastards. Diablo came down from the chimney. He remained impassive. He didn't like strangers. That instinct meant that our lives were not in danger.

I dreamt of a ridiculous house. The sea was still a few meters away. The smell of saltpeter was coming through the window. It was a hateful dream, in a boat of soul merchants. A perverted old man. He kept repeating a sex scene on the snow. He entertained himself by touching figures in the air. He would redraw breasts. Mother Holle, I would have had him flogged. I would have cut off his hands. Slashed his throat perhaps. It was nothing new in this valley of death.
The maid had taken a lot of confidence. “You can have a cookie,” was her stupid play on learned words. She didn't know me anymore. She had walked halfway around the world. She knew of fire and darkness. I could make you swallow the fucking cookies and pull out the gun. Force you to open your mouth and chew on the barrel. I'm sure I'd put a bullet in it and spin the barrel feverishly. You know Russian roulette?