Free Disintegration by Richard Thomas

us…”
    Lightning cracks in the distance, a flash of hot, white light and a tall pine four streets over brightens the madness with sparks, and bursts into flame, a branch cracking, a deep splintering, falling with a whoosh, snapping and bellowing all the way down.
    The muscles in my arms burn, trembling in the frigid air, as I hold them out wide, begging for destruction. Numb lips move silently and ivory teeth chatter in my head. Bones and muscle, sinew and sluggish blood slowly turn to marble, my breath clouding the air.
    “…and lead us not into temptation…but deliver us from evil…”
    I let go and fall, leaning forward into the empty space, plummeting to my death, or His outstretched hand.

Chapter 38
    This one I didn’t like. This assignment.
    At all.
    I’m back in my cave, standing at the kitchen window, aching for my lost cat. It’s so cold out. I can picture her frozen body, stiff, her mouth agape, tiny, sharp teeth bared.
    I can’t remember the last meal I had. I’m not sure what day it really is.
    I don’t have any idea what I did with the car, where I parked it, or how I got home. The trash can is overflowing with beer bottles and bloody paper towels. There are matchbooks scattered across the counter, with numbers on them that may be in Japanese or Polish. A pile of black T-shirts sits in the corner of my bedroom. They smell like jasmine, orange peel, and vomit. They reek of patchouli, cigarette smoke, and pussy.
    I can’t remember my name.
    I haven’t cut myself, as far as I can tell. I’ve spent furtive minutes naked in front of a mirror, trying to find the source of the blood. The balled-up, wrinkled, blood-soaked paper towels. There are no cuts on my wrists or forearms, none on my chest. I paw my genitalia, and gently probe my backside, fleshy butt cheeks and tightly bunched asshole. I run my hands up and down my legs, behind my knees, nothing. The last holdout, between the toes, the soles of my feet, reveals nothing.
    It may not be my blood.
    I spend a long period of time kneeling in front of the sawhorse, running my aching hands and swollen fingers over the nail heads that protrude from the wood. I can’t be sure. I think there is a bit of paper towel stuck to one, but when I go to remove it, it isn’t there. I’ve licked every nail, the head and the shaft, and have a mouthful of dust to show for it. That and a strong desire to chew on tin cans. But there is no coppery, sweet taste of blood.
    The first thing I checked, when I could focus on my surroundings, was my hands, and then my nipples. I feared I had wandered back to that club and sacrificed myself again. But I don’t think I did that. There isn’t a mark on me that I can’t explain, and that place would have left me damaged for sure.
    I can’t be sure of anything.
    I sit at the dining room table, wearing nothing but charcoal gray cotton boxer shorts, and turn Cammie’s ID over in my hands. Over and over and over. I stare at her name, her address, and I meld with her face. I want to find her history, I want to know that this was necessary. That my killing her was a philosophy, a mantra, and not simply an echo in the void of a million years of time. This was the death of the one, for the betterment of the many. She may not have been Hitler or Mussolini, but I want to know that she was far worse than a simple drunk. That there was even more to disgust me than accidentally killing a busload of children. That in the scheme of things, her killing a busload of children was minor, a blemish, a blip on the radar. That’s how evil I want her to have been.

Chapter 39
    I’m holding my cat now. My beautiful, dirty, lost cat, Luscious. Her right ear is torn, there is a chunk missing, and she won’t let me clean it. She’s bitten me twice. I want to take care of her, but she won’t let me. She’s been beaten by the hand of a man, and now she shies away from me, her old friend, simply because I’m similar. I’m a shadow of her abuser,