Crucifixion Selfies

He was fingering a small piece of concrete that has been prised from the wall by someone before. Someone who spent much of their time grasping the shelf underneath the small window high up on the Prisons walls. You could tell they had pulled themselves up. There was blood from the knees pushing, the toes scrabbling and the fingernails gripping to ease the body up. He did it himself and could just about see the brass and black landscape outside. There was a lone tree too and he thought perhaps if the fact that there was a rope here he could throw it over that blasted limb of the tree and just dangle for a while until the Clowns came shrieking down from the gate to kick him back to his cell. That was unlocked now.

‘You built it yourself you prick’. A whisper from underneath the window. Ghost voices.

He peeked through the door and could see everyone lined up on the balcony waiting. They can wait. Not even a pale thigh here now. Have you drunk your fill? Maybe. Or maybe I just need to drink again and remember cool water quenching the fire in the throat. The sweated hands around it. Pulling and squeezing. Manipulating the Eigen. Jump on the belly and force the air through the windpipe. Make noises, massage the throat until some half recognisable sounds emerge. Listen closely to what they mean.

It certainly wasn’t a time for making new things any more. He thought that time had passed. Maybe Ghosts were not the most reliable creatures to start a thing with. They cared for nothing except their vapid ethereal existence. And Ghosts were fucking boring any way. Magnetic aberrations, just noise really. A shrieking moaning mess, interludes, that’s it. Interludes from the boredom of the pain and the kicking, the splitting. If he saw another drop of blood he thinks he would just stare at it and not even attempt some sore of explanation for it. Little spots of blood. The beginnings of a horrible story perhaps. Who knew, or even cared.

‘It’s much worse out there’ she said. Ghost. Busy finger Ghost.

He threw the small piece of concrete at her and it went straight through of course and rattled to a rest in the corner. Ghosty thing you. Cheeky thing coming in here and giving points of view. Like the wind has something to say but it’s just a moan through a crack in the wall or window. A sight through the twigs and branches of that blasted tree. A comedy.

He tied the rope around his feet and ankles. He was naked. The holes in the wall carefully excavated with the tip of one of the three Daggers he found in the toilet basin when they made him drink the pissy shitty water. He kept them and hid them. Back in the cell he made three deep tight holes. One for each wrist and one for the ankles. Taking one dagger he hammered it through both of his crossed ankles smashing the bone and cartilage as the knife bit and erupted from the back of his left ankle. The right foot was blue now and he hammered the knife with the butt of another Dagger to make sure the hilt was pressed against his foot and tight. With his left hand he stabbed a Dagger through his right wrist. There was little blood although his ankles were bleeding well and a pool of sorts had grown about him, the blood on his left hand made him slip a little as he was standing up and he crashed to the floor opening a wide gash on his eyebrow. He had lost another tooth. Right hand Dagger through the left wrist and he was impaled with the Trinity. It was hard to stand but he did. There was enough blade there for the hole in the wall. The rope, through the hook in the ceiling, looped and half tangled. He vomited. Nothing, just air. Retch. He pulled the rope enough now that he could position the ankle dagger within the lowest hole. He bent slowly and with his palm hammered in the ankle dagger, deep into the hole he had made in the cell wall. Now can he rest his weight on it? Indeed. He was there perched. He loosed the rope which unravelled and fell to the floor. Now he must aim correctly and make sure the Daggers through his wrists hit the wall correctly, just in the right spot. The Right hand. Straight in, wedged tight. He tested it and yes, it was secure, he could not move his arm or hand. Now the left. A miss, a dull crack, a pain. A miss. He tried again, miss again. A third time. In. Now crucified by his own hand he was pinned three feet above the floor to the wall of the Cell. Good. Yes. The blood pooled black, reflective, yellow bulb shone.

Release please. An end. But there would be none. He hung there expecting to die. Expecting the Crucifixion to be magical enough that it may release him and he could be gone. But he loved this place too much of course. He could never leave. The pain his only friend, the Clowns his Confidants, the Prison his home. He laughed, this Crucified man and his belly shook, his hollow gut rippled. Even the Clowns were disgusted and gently closed the door on him as he wept.