ou have started to tell me again the story of you and Freddy, of your sleeping together and how you both laughed at me behind my back. At once, I aware of the room we are sitting in, of the sunproof screens, the heavy draperies pulled tightly closed, the room impenetrably dark, shrouded, a grave. And while I cannot see them, I remember the walls of the room and the crude scrawls which efface them, reminders of the recent occupation, the vaguely obscene drawings, the large graffito on the far west wall, a pregnant woman slashed open, the stick figures impaling a malformed fetus on bayonets. There is the soothing sound of your voice, of the smooth regular intake of your breath as an anti-personnel shell explodes in a neighboring district.
"You just don't get it, do you?" says Freddy. "We either get past this middle-class bourgeois bullshit or we're no better than they are. In fact, we're fucking worse."
"Middle-class and bourgeois mean the same thing."
"You wanna know what I think of your fucking theories, man?" Freddy grabs his crotch. "This is what I think. Cock and balls, man, fucking cock and fucking balls!"
he sensation, alternately throbbing or burning, the pain which spreads from the left lower quadrant of the abdomen to the side and up across the shoulder blades, this loss of feeling in the fingertips, the tightness in the muscles of the neck and the now overnight appearances of running sores on the soft skin of the underarms and buttocks. The pain which is eased only by the regular injections of truth serum and drinking the half-empty bottles of cough syrup which we find in a cardbox in the basement.
An acute loss of hearing accompanied by a blinding light, the fact of a scarred body underneath mine, a sound that reminds me of your voice and the slimy semi-viscous substance exuded from the ceiling and gathering in pools on the cement floor of the basement.
"Blood?" you ask.
"No, stuff from refrigerators and food packs."
Now that it has come down to thousands of dead bodies, to the streets running slick and red, to the agonizing rending screams of prisoners tortured in the trashed living rooms of a better section of town. Now that we are alone in the basement, huddled on the concrete floor, your scars obscured in the darkness from all but my touch. Now that I touch your nipple with my lips and the sound of automatic gunfire erupts from the 23rd floor of a nearby highrise. The sound of shattering glass, the sound of a groan but not in pain.
c o n t i n u e s