Tuesday, April 21, 2009

A Rusty Psychosis...

"I feel sick," I mumbled.

I was sure no one could hear me. We were sitting inside a dimly lit, rusty old garage. And by we, I mean the three of us, though I had no clue who either one of these guys were. I was just sitting here on this dirty couch that had the stench of fresh urine sewn into it, waiting for my brother Mark to return.

The sound of cackling laughter drew my attention as my stomach twisted and groaned. It was the curly-haired Mexican sitting across the garage on a yellow bicycle. He was staring at the orange and brown rusted walls and laughing at apparently nothing.

"That man is way too large for that bike," I thought to myself. It had to have been built for a child and here sat a man pushing three hundred pounds rocking the bike back and forth. I was anticipating the bolts to snap and for him to collapse on the cement floor. But I don't think even that would silence his laughter.

"I feel sick," I mumbled. A sharp pain ran through my abdomen causing me to grasp it with both hands. I began kneading my gut like a ball of dough.

"What'chu say about my sister?" said the skinny black man to my left. I turned my attention to him as he stood up from his chair, reaching into his cowboy boot as he turned away from me, and removed a knife as long as my femur.

"That's not good," I said aloud, but to these two, I was a ghost.

The skinny black man held the large knife high above his head as he approached the rusted wall on his side of the room. He asked his question once again and to the best of my knowledge and ability to understand walls, it did not return an answer, but I might need my hearing checked.

I focused my attention back to the large Mexican to see if he was getting any of this, but he was still chuckling away and pointing at the rusted wall. This time he wasn't looking at just a wall, he was looking at his right shoe which he must have removed from his foot and stuck it to the wall somehow while I wasn't paying any attention.

"I feel sick." I yelled out as my stomach felt the need to purge itself. Without getting up, I leaned forward and allowed my body to take control. A reddish brown liquid sprayed from my mouth in tiny beads. The rain of fluids poured and built pace as the beads became gushes in the following waves of bodily rejection. If I didn't know any better I'd say my insides have rusted out and my stomach, or what was left of it, was waging war against this oxidation.

"I still feel sick," I mumbled, staring at the liquid rust.

The skinny black man hadn't noticed my moment of illness as he continued defending his sister's name. It wasn't long after I focused my attention on him that he'd had enough with words. He threw up his empty left hand like that of a fencer and with the knife in his right hand, began stabbing and slicing at the wall.

His battle raged and with every poke and prod he made at the wall, the knife penetrated the barrier and was letting streams of sunlight into the dimly lit garage. Those tiny beams of light hurt my eyes.

I stopped fighting the light with my eyes and swung my head to my right. The large Mexican was laying flat on his back on the cement floor. The bike structure hadn't given way, it looked as if he had just lost his balance and fell over. The laughing continued.

His laughs quickly turned into coughs and his face turn a shade not unlike the color of a basketball. Then he went silent.

"Was he dead?" I thought. Truthfully, I didn't care. I only cared that it was almost silent again except for the black guy who continued his goal of shutting that damned wall up.

The Mexican's laughter began again. I placed my hands over my ears and stared into the pool of rust juice I had skillfully painted on the floor.

The garage door flung upwards, letting in too much sunlight for my eyes, blinding me instantly. I cover my eyes with my forearm.

"What are you doing in here?" a familiar voice exclaimed.

My eyes adjusted to the light and I look up to see that Mark had returned. He grabbed me by the arm and lifted me off the couch. We stumbled through the garage, towards the sunlight, and exited the rusty structure.

"What do you think you are doing?" Mark asked me as the fresh air hit my lungs instantly making me feel better. I was able to walk on my own so Mark let go of my arm.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I was just doing what you told me to do." I explained my way of thinking to him.

"What am I going to do with you? I can't leave you alone for two minutes without you going and getting warped by that damned Rust!" Mark berated me.

I realized what he was talking about as the effects of the rust dissipate through my skin leaving behind a tingling sensation. "I'm sorry Mark, forgive me. I have a problem. I can't control myself around that junk."

"I know, man, I know," said Mark. "Let's just go home."

We entered his pickup truck and slam the doors. I smile as I can sense the smallest patch of rust under the floor board. My smile quickly turns to a frown as I feel a pain in my stomach.

"I feel sick," I mumbled.

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