Bullethole Dream - LeClerc

Earlier when he was dreaming he saw a cold black that creeped up the blue-white wall of his camper and looked down watching and he screamed and it screamed with him and in that blue-black harmony was misery and then it vanished and when he awoke there was frost on his blanket. And now in the night it was back riding his silhouette's spine and not crawling but growing up the walls and next to the house a train went so black you couldn’t tell it apart from the night and the room was filled with the sound and then he was bleeding.

FUCK he thought there was blood on his white shirt and a FUCKING hole inside me he thought and that was his first thought and his only until he came to and began to walk west with a Marlboro Red stuck to his canine and three blocks down had himself a key bump, for courage, and when he came to his red boots were foxed and in the grass next to him was a knife and a bloody bullet and now he knew where he had to go and he began to walk east with another cigarette stubbed into his bootlip and three blocks down stuck his finger into the bullet hole and bit clear through the filter and kept walking with the whole black world pressed down. The only thought was the ride to Three Kings before breakfast last summer and cresting the ridge to come across that new earth. Engulfed in sun. A golden, alien world. And so when he was knocking on her door at 3 a.m. and she came out with her yellow hair illuminated by the porchlight and he stumbled into the kitchen and saw she had been stitching her yellow sundress he was not surprised. Careful not to stain her dress he took a chair and sat heavily and said “I need you to sew me up” and she eventually did after helping him with a bump or three and taking a small serving herself with his finger still inside him and with trembling hands and her coke white teeth biting her lip so forcefully he feared it would tear. Together they leaned over the pulsating black abyss inside of him with his father’s blood still pouring out his side and he pushed the sides of him back together and spit up bile with the cigarette still lock jawed in his drooling mouth and she bent to her work and did not look up or away from her task until it was finished and then when it was good and she had made sure it was perfect she stood and placed the needle and thread down careful not to spill sin on the dress and went and she was gone sometime and he smoked. And when she came back to the kitchen and sat in front of him, watching, her yellow hair done up and the pink resin of his blood and her hands and her forehead, but it was really the eyes that done him because they told misery and he let tears roll down silently watching and trying to speak to her in that ancient tongue through the stained blue glass window to her insides and his insides all over himself and her watching. Sad. Ancient.

And when he came to his red boots were foxed and in the grass next to him was a knife a bloody bullet and began to walk west.