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Us
I’m an eboy. I’ve DMed you a stark illustration of Salome kissing the severed head of John the Baptist. “Us” I say. The image burns through the cracked screen as you lay upon your floor-mattress. In this windowless basement apartment your phone is the only light. The frayed end of the charging cable retreats into the dry darkness — rapidly flitting between dating and social media apps has had the phone stuck at 13% for hours. Another notification from my bubble. A new image. A depiction of Judith and Holofernes accented in gold leaf. It looks old but the image quality is superb. She clutches his severed head with stifled horror. Long red cylinders of blood fall from the it, pooling in the large golden saucer beneath. “Us” I say. “Us” you whisper, compelled. The stale air is getting colder. You draw the unwashed comforter to your septum piercing, still discomforted. A banging on the wall. A banging on the ground. You freeze. A small voice from the darkness. “Us” it rasps. Where are the water-damaged walls? Were they not here moments before? A noise like a thousand shields pounding the earth shatters the hollow blackness. Now a rattling. A rattling of steel and glass. Bones. Pounding and shattering. Your hand, trembling, holds the phone inches from your face. A new image. A picture, taken from an iPhone 9. It’s you, right now, on your floor-mattress. But in the darkness lay severed heads. Limbs of the damned. They pile around the floor-mattress and work their way out in a deliberate pattern. They stretch into the abyss as far as you can see. Flies swarm. Another message. “Us” it says. “Us” you whisper back, compulsively. You can now feel the frantic movements of panicked animals surrounding you. Distant wailing pierces the otherwise muted bestial grunts. You cannot move. Another message. “Can u send a free pic first to see if it’s worth it”
