one. video. I am Jack's tenuous grip on reality.
[The feed begins with whistling, wet with blood and spit. Uneven. Tone deaf. The notes fade in and out, blunted in gulps of blood.
The video function clicks on. The camera catches a glimpse of a bloody, gray shirt before it jerks away and focuses on a buzzing neon sign: #1 City Pub. The camera jerks away again to a half crumpled piece of paper on the concrete: Recycle for the City!]
This is why people name their dogs 'Dog.' Dearth of creativity.
[Whoever's holding the camera sounds like shit, voice raspy and crackling like an old radio. Somewhere in the background, there's a vague swish, like someone pealing a pear.]
Thought you'd at least be more original with the name. As original as you can be, anyway. Mayhem... something. I don't know.
[Another swish.]
Guess we're all heroes here, huh? And vampires, cannibals, whatever. In all honesty, I have no idea which part of my mind this shitfest crawled up from. Hallucinations within hallucinations. Men dreaming they're butterflies dreaming they're men. This is the next level.
But don't you worry.
[He rests the camera on the ground and turns it to face him. He's a young thirty something, unwashed, ungroomed, and with his leg sitting at an unnatural angle. His face is sallow and bruised, and a gaping, pussing wound runs along his jaw, haphazardly bandaged with a half dozen tissues. He shows off his right hand to the camera. Most of the back of his palm is skinned, slivers of an older scar peaking out from under the flood of red. Blood runs down his arm and drips onto the concrete below. In his other hand, trembling, he holds a swiss army knife.]
I'm keeping myself busy just fine. Without you.
[He resumes whistling, eyebrows raised with an almost nonchalance, and then begins to methodically slice off the flesh on his hand, unhesitating, unflinching. In time, a melody surfaces in his whistling, however uncoordinated: 'I've Got you Under my Skin.']
The video function clicks on. The camera catches a glimpse of a bloody, gray shirt before it jerks away and focuses on a buzzing neon sign: #1 City Pub. The camera jerks away again to a half crumpled piece of paper on the concrete: Recycle for the City!]
This is why people name their dogs 'Dog.' Dearth of creativity.
[Whoever's holding the camera sounds like shit, voice raspy and crackling like an old radio. Somewhere in the background, there's a vague swish, like someone pealing a pear.]
Thought you'd at least be more original with the name. As original as you can be, anyway. Mayhem... something. I don't know.
[Another swish.]
Guess we're all heroes here, huh? And vampires, cannibals, whatever. In all honesty, I have no idea which part of my mind this shitfest crawled up from. Hallucinations within hallucinations. Men dreaming they're butterflies dreaming they're men. This is the next level.
But don't you worry.
[He rests the camera on the ground and turns it to face him. He's a young thirty something, unwashed, ungroomed, and with his leg sitting at an unnatural angle. His face is sallow and bruised, and a gaping, pussing wound runs along his jaw, haphazardly bandaged with a half dozen tissues. He shows off his right hand to the camera. Most of the back of his palm is skinned, slivers of an older scar peaking out from under the flood of red. Blood runs down his arm and drips onto the concrete below. In his other hand, trembling, he holds a swiss army knife.]
I'm keeping myself busy just fine. Without you.
[He resumes whistling, eyebrows raised with an almost nonchalance, and then begins to methodically slice off the flesh on his hand, unhesitating, unflinching. In time, a melody surfaces in his whistling, however uncoordinated: 'I've Got you Under my Skin.']