From: A.W.Hughes@bradford.ac.uk (AmeriKan PsyKo)
Subject: STORY: Death in Wonderlan
Date: Mon, 21 Mar 1994 02:37:36 GMT



                A Death In Wonderland


I lie on my bed. Buzzing street lamps cast windows of  pale  blue
light  through  the  panes. The room seems divided in two halves,
light and dark. In the darkness a red light coalesces  around  my
prone  body. The redness throbs dully, LED's from the stereo that
is the rooms only adornment. From our positions we  both  listen,
microphone and eardrum.

Waves of noise break upon the glass that  surrounds  my  sanctum,
its  walls  vibrating with the sounds of  a race. The voices meld
into one beautiful sound that conjures images  onto  the  founda-
tions and very being.

A small boy enters a vast room, its walls so far apart that  they
cannot  be  seen.  In  what  I take to be the centre lies a large
four-poster bed, gorgeous pastel silk is  tied  around  four  oak
trees  that make up the posts. The boy approaches reverently, his
trembling hands outstretched to the velvet  ties  that  hold  the
billowing  sheets  from  falling down. He stands back as the thin
veil cascades down to reveal the woman... She is  naked  and  her
taut muscled skin carries a faint green tinge and her face smiles
kindly at the  scared  young  boy.  She  beckons  with  one  long
fingered hand and the boy steps onto the bed. I notice that he is
also naked and she holds him. Motherly in her ultimate beauty and
kindness.

He lies curled up in her arms, pulled tightly to  her  body,  his
nose  twitching  as  he smells her deep odour of a thousand lands
and his shivering ceases. With fear disappearing rapidly a  clash
of  hunger occupies his mind. She, understanding, pushes his head
down onto her large, firm breasts. His lips contact and  his  ap-
petite is satiated.

I lie on my bed. The outside glow  of  a  burning  power  station
makes  motes  of  dust sparkle and dance in the light side of the
room. On my side, curled into a foetal ball, I  watch the growing
pile  of  junk  lit  by the LED. This morning an address book ap-
peared, followed quickly by  a  teetering  tower  of  photographs
which  slid  across  the floor. Where the films were hit by light
they charred and crumbled. A soft macabre click informs  me  that
the tape is ended and it starts to playback.

The boy is grown now, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. He  is  crying
over some scratches and She is tending them, kissing them better.
He winces in pain when she  brushes  the  scratches  and  angrily
lashes  out.  She  looks  up at him with uncomprehending eyes and
touches her hand to the red mark on her  face.  Then  she  smiles
shyly  and reaches out to him. He grasps her hand and sits on her
knee while she tells him a story. Her speech, high and clear  and
beautiful,  makes the space undulate wildly. The space fills with
animals,  deer, sheep, cows, tigers; of every kind. They  sit  on
paws  and  haunches  and listen to her magnificent lilting voice.
Diamond tears run down the face of a deer, to be  wiped  away  by
the paw of a tiger, which purrs kindly. The boy listens carefully
for a while before fatigue overcomes him and he falls  asleep  in
the arms of She.

I lie on my bed. Yesterday a psychologist  came  to  look  at  my
room. He got me to show him the photos. To read the addresses and
wear the clothing that had appeared. He looked at me, lying naked
on  the  bed  and  said he loved my room. He wanted to take me to
another, brighter room away from the junk and the tapes  and  the
names.  I  killed  the  psychologist.  Now he sits slumped in the
corner, surrounded by darkness and shit. Now he  listens  to  the
sound with me, now he understands the beauty.

She lies on the bed alone, her arms caressing the oak trees which
have grown raggedly up. Her eye is black and bruised and the hand
that tenderly touches it has a red welt along the back.

The boy is now a man. He enters from the  darkness,  his  muscled
body  is still naked, only now smeared with blood. The only thing
he wears is a necklet of teeth, hanging greenly from his neck. He
stops  still  at  the  end  of the bed and looks, seeing her legs
apart, sure her lips are  pouting.  His  genitals  go  hard.  She
greets  him  with  a motherly smile, and he slaps her.. She cries
out, and he punches her.. She struggles, and he rapes her.

She lies on the bed, silk ties strongly binding her to  the  oak.
She  screams as he bites down on her sex and thousands of animals
rush out of nowhere to her rescue. Swift and angry they  move  to
her defence, upset and confused with no understanding. He becomes
a whirling dervish, diving and shredding,  blood  slippering  the
floor, he kills them. As some crawl away, he rips them apart.

I lie on my bed. No-one can enter  the  room  now,  mountains  of
tapes  block  the  door.  Dead  friends  stare sightlessly at the
psychologist, balanced on top of a pile of junk like  Guy  Fawks.
Darkness  encroaches  on  the  light  which is pink now. Yellowed
books lie under broken bricks, a pile of rifles rusts through the
brackish  water  of  the fish tank. For the first time I cry out,
the burden of the junk threatening to break my  back.  The  sound
wafts out of the evilly cold night, a soothing salve to the pain.

She is older now and less resilient, she cannot fight  back.  All
the  animals  are dead and their coats have rotted away, the room
stinking with a rank smell. They spend all their time having  sex
now.  Not making love, her love faded away long ago. His cringing
face on orgasm shows that he is  growing  tired  of  pleasure.  I
watch/listen  as he clambers off her, shivering. She is pregnant,
her abdomen swollen greatly, indicating that her time is near.

I lie on my bed.  Sporadic  gunfire  serves  to  light  the  room
through  a chink in the junk that fills it. My groin looks at the
pages of pornography that adorned the walls last night, I feel no
stirring.  On a chair sits my mother, she rocks back and forth on
it, mouthing much but saying nothing. I see her fleetingly before
she  is  engulfed  in a torrent of paper, government leaflets and
anti-government leaflets, propaganda of different kinds.

Words   float   down:           These    are    dangerous    days
                To  say  what  you mean is to sign your own name,
                        on   warrants   that   will   ever    be,
                                an  end  to our peace and our li-
berty.......  Life wrecking crap. Even anarchy has  a  symbol.  I
curl  into  a tighter ball with laughter. I brush aside a glowing
blowtorch and re-start the tape.

She lies on the bed holding tight to a small red  sodden  bundle.
Emerald  tears  form  and  fall,  dripping  onto the baby's split
skull. Shredded bone begins to  repair an knit, slivers of  brain
join to a mass. The baby painfully lifts its head and smiles, its
face smiling like the moon. She cries tears of joy. Hearing this,
the  man approaches with head down as if ashamed of his death act
and She holds out the babe to him warily. Crooking it in his arms
an  feigning  interest and a new love, he walks with it until out
of sight of her and then abuses it.

I lie on my bed. Red rain pours down from the roof and soaks all.
I  squirm  on  my  damp  mattress, crowns of splashes dimpling my
body. A social worker stands over my bed, a disdaining  eye  cast
over  my  room. She accuses me of rape and I start to loudly deny
it until I look over the contents of my  room.  Electronic  chips
are  embedded  in  the  faces of rotting friends like centipedes,
real oak wardrobes loom, canisters of gas spontaneously  explode.
I  stop  denying.  The  scraping screams of the social worker are
drowned out by the tape.

She lies on the bed, her thin body gleaming oilily in  the  dark-
ness.  He pours paraffin over himself and splashes some more over
her greying hair. He  crawls  greasily  up  her  body,  one  hand
scratching  harshly  at  her  breasts whilst the other prepares a
lighter.

I lie on my bed. The windows shatter with a vast explosion, white
hot  blast  of heat and light fill the room, opening it up to the
outside.

After three minutes of low, animal grunting he flicks  the  flint
and  slams  it  down  on  her hot breast. They both ignite into a
burst of heat and light, her neutral scream finely  counterpoints
the cry of pain/pleasure/pain that he gives.


I lie on my bed. Standing bleeding at the shattered windows I can
see  her. Rapidly she has healed and once again she is beautiful.
Once again he moves for her. His mother. Known  by  no  name  but
Earth.

I want to get out of this room.  This  mind.  These  thoughts  of
mine.

        I want to get out of my mind and screw her.




--
     () ()        A.W.Hughes@bradford.ac.uk
   \\(o o)//   Forget it, I know you're not interested.........Yet
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