Other bodies. Other bodies, next to mine. Not asleep, no. That’s what they’d like me to think. They’d like me to think the others are asleep. But they’re not. I know this. I know this like I know I’m awake. How do I know I’m awake? I just do. You just know you’re awake. If the words still come, the thinking’s sound. The thinking’s sound, yes. If the words come the brain still whirs. The body – that funny, pathetic thing – moves soon after. Save I can’t. Not now. Move it, I mean. Not with all this Earth piled atop me. No matter. The words still come. If the words still come, the brain whirs. The body moves soon after. Not so bad. Not as bad as it could be. Not as bad as the others. Pretending they’re asleep. Or that’s what they’d like me to think. They’d like me to think I’m alone. They like to think no one will find me. But I’m not. Alone, I mean. I have you. Who hears this. I know you’re there. You’re there because the words still come. The words come freely. A cascade of them. That will end, sure — but not yet. Not when they wanted. They wanted words to end, didn’t they? So they could go home. It was a job. They did this every day. Easy peasy. A plan was made. Schedule’s drawn up. How it was supposed to go. A rookie could do it. Everyone home before sunset. See the wife and kids. But they didn’t expect the words to last. No: they didn’t expect the words to last. Foolish, to think I wouldn’t fight. Others did. Other bodies, next to mine. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. That they’re asleep. Peaceful, slumber. Peaceful isn’t this. Peaceful was the time before they took us – blue of the sky, warmth of the sun. Children playing. How the mind alights on banal scenes. No matter.

Can’t decide. Can’t choose what you’ll take with you. As they drag you by your arms to the room with the flickering light. Hanging onto them like a drowned man clings to debris. Hours spent watching, standing over you, faces screwed into warped expressions, their own words harsh guttural. How I laughed – not aloud, but inside, so my body filled with laughter. Which protected me from their blows. Yes: laughter protected me. Never could take anything seriously. Said Mum. Long gone, but I can hear her voice. Why can’t you take anything seriously? Because, Mum. Laughter scares them. Laughter itself is frightening. More than their warped, screwed-up faces. Hours and hours of blows raining down on me. So many I lost count. Never was good at maths. Lost count of the blows. Not to say they didn’t hurt at first. I could still feel my body. Twisted on the floor. Naked, dirty. But I still felt my body. No matter how hard they tried, feeling continued. Glorious feeling. It’s not like I’d never been hit before. Have Dad to thank for that. Dad with his fist clenched around the pint glass. For a time. For a time, yes: feeling continued. Night after night I felt. Hours passed as though I were swimming through water. Terrible, concrete water. No spark for dreaming. Lying there, listening to the sounds of others. How many do you think were lying on the floor, same as me? Each of us carrying on, despite their best efforts. Comforting, that effort. Know that sounds insane – yet I was glad to still feel tired. Glad to still feel pain. Though the feeling soon left. All feelings soon left. Hard to say when. Time got funny. Not haha funny, I mean. I mean funny like the boy who took the kitchen knife from the chip shop, stabbed his girlfriend. Because she laughed at him. Sat there stacking mayo packets as the police burst in. That kind of funny. Pain took the time away. Can’t blame it though, pain. Only those that inflict it. Yes – can only blame those who choose to waste pain. Wasteful! So much there, to be learnt from. Grateful. Be grateful it’s them, not the world that abhors you. Poor them. The world continues without sparing us a second thought.

Comforting. To know in the end we suffer the same. Suffer the same, end the same. Despite our best efforts. No matter how much effort we spend telling ourselves otherwise. Yes, otherwise. Time spent deluding ourselves about the efficacy of our actions. Pity them I tell you. Those that inflict pain. How could they know, when all they’ve been taught is this? The world watches in reproachful silence. Wondering what went wrong, where it failed in its nurturing. How does it feel, I wonder, to have so many of us return to its weary embrace? I’m not the first, certainly not the last, that will find themselves in this position. Mum always shook her head when I came home. Come crawling back, have ya? Except none of us, not even me, can do that at this moment. If I could, I’d crawl to her, my mother. Curl up in her lap like when I was a child. Fall asleep as she stroked my hair. Hated it then – her nails, her smell. But now. Now I’d find nothing better. Certainly better than this. Better than lying with other bodies. Mum’s gone, long gone, as I’ll soon be. Gone like all the others. Where do we go, I wonder, after this? If I could, I’d crawl to the surface and scream. Stick my tongue out, lick the mud. Just as good as water. Beg for someone, anyone, to find me. The thought’s still good, the brain whirs, the words come. No matter.  Don’t know where they buried me. Could be on the other side of the world. Could be anywhere, really. Sun shining, blue sky, children playing in the street. Please God, whatever you’re called, don’t let it be rainy. Even if we’re never found, let the day be beautiful at least. 

Jack is a queer writer and visual artist living in Brooklyn, NY. His prose and poetry can be found in YES POETRY, GHOST CITY REVIEW, CALL ME [BRACKETS], BODEGA, and STREETCAKE.