BLOOD ON THE WALL BY GEORGE AYRES

September, 2004

          When I look out the window all I can see is her reflection. It fills the
glass like a disfigured Greek statue. Striking and serious and it won’t go
away. She was born to analyze and peel away the skins of every emotion,
every response, every facial expression. And after that, the pain of the
crying always comes until there’s soreness about the eyes and your head
hurts. There’s no way around that part. I want her to stop but she won’t.
I’m not man enough to stop her. I’m not man enough to admit she’s right.
The words are heavy as concrete on my skull and the shimmering neon
outside in the darkness makes me sick to my stomach. Cigarettes burn in the
ashtray down to nothing but we don’t care. She won’t be quiet about my
smallness as a person, my fear to give her one inkling of the truth. I could
jump from here and not feel it. I think for a second that’s what I’ll do, but
the thought washes away from me, drifts away like the tide, changes
everything in its path from here on out. Every part of me is a product of
erosion. I, for one, can see it on my face and feel it in my bones. Right
down to the marrow. I think she’ll get violent soon. She’s prone to that and
I’ve got the scars to prove it. I want to rip my brain out and pin it to the
wall. Right next to the ugly Uzilevsky print - customary artwork for rooms
at this price range. Figure out where I went wrong in the jumbled mess that
looks like a poorly diagrammed sentence. There I’d be, finally the analyzer,
blood dripping down the wall, trying to locate the misfire, the gap in the
wiring, the burnt fuse. Trying to discover where in my history I thought it
was okay to be the bastard I turned into. I can’t face her. I can’t admit
anything now and still she rants. I can’t even lie anymore. Our togetherness
is fiery and turbulent, pushing each other as far as we can, as close as we can
to the thin ice over water. Then we wait and watch. Meet in one of these
rooms and see which one will put their foot out and step on the watery glass.
Which one will get chilled to the bone. Primal, fiercely connected at the
soul, we fight like caged animals for a piece of each other, then take turns
sewing our skins back on while we brush back the bangs from our tears. It
may be best to end it but we won’t let that happen. It would take away the
oxygen and if a thing has no breath...well...

          Scarlet darkness shadows the room now and there’s something
Christ-like about the color of it, some complex late night sacrament, but
I’m not ready to figure it out. She won’t be quiet. She’s right about
everything. I can’t take much more. My head is pounding. Lord knows I
deserve the beating I’m taking.

George's fiction has appeared in WordRiot, Apollo's Review, LIVE/nude words, and Maverick Press, among others. He lives in Austin, has four daughters, and is working on a novel.