Experiment 1: Struggles Blindly Does the Genuine Man

Unrequited joy. Strewn, in aching tug, are curled lips along a scarred face: of it, a jagged quarter: burgundy flesh. Tied by infinite threads of life—brought and weaved together into a sewn underlayer of pinkish skin, long removed and past grief—is this face. And tears: clear: and hence look like blood, running down the rough, blush face.

Once, the face was owned by who I would call a cruel man; now, it is owned by the same man, although seemingly numbed by a frostbite of emotion. He must have only now heard me. Tripped a good several times getting here, for sure.

An image, the hazy lair behind the waterfall, shimmers in his eyes. His eyes; the dull iris; the tainted white—dash of tabasco and stirred into sour cream—must sting. Stems of crimson are branched out: twigs and storms, all red. A tear. Drops directly on my eye: it stings.

I am alive.

Breath. Cold puffs glow; the lamp above glitters. Light leaks. The alleyway. The sandwiching buildings. Blocks of shadow. The corner of brick, exposed by light—the rest cowers its coat. Feeble: its coat of darkness.

Another light opposite me: distant. Girded by a stack of tires, fire flickers and dims.

The building. It had collapsed around me. Screams pierced my hands—faulty cover for my ears. He had run. Debris crushed my leg. He saw. Barely was it the size of a coffee table; he could have lifted it­—chucked it a kilometer away. Why not?

His arm was bleeding, I think. And so, what? The other one wasn’t. He’s here now, but where was he the last time? Fumbling around, scrambling his callous fingers against the walls, feeling for an exit. Did he not hear me? Not after the zillionth time of my blood-curdling screech? Never mind that, I’m here now. I’m breathing—clouds, frosty, exuding out of me: one second, two seconds, three seconds: in again; one second, two seconds, three seconds: out.

Content: is that what he feels? Never gave me the slightest attention—not since mom.

Freezing. To curl up would warm me. Legs won’t move.

But he is here. Took him long enough. Should I feel happy? His arms have found me. He’s picked me up. Together we hobble, yet do I look back? It’s likely that the building is mere rubble. If there were people there, what would I do? Would I do the same as he did and run? It’s a question I’m scared to answer.

I accept his arms and let his legs guide me, and I let my voice guide him.

Home, I await you.