Abyss – H.N. Huynh
Part One and ii
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Thud
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[here again]
can't find you anymore
i don't see you anymore
the bond is broken
infinity swallows you in an abyss of lies, cheats, fake love, fake sorrow, and desperation
i can't help you anymore
i'm not sorry
welcome
and goodbye
Sonic is dead.
Sonic is dead.
SonicisdeadSonicisdeadSonicisdeadSonicisdeadSonicisdeadSonicisdeadSonicisdead
They keep repeating that phrase.
You get it. Sonic is dead.
Shut the fuck up, you say. There is no reply. It's almost as if they can't hear you.
There is a note beside the limp, bloodied figure that is Sonic.
You see it is soaked in irregular splotches of blood.
It says:
"I don't want you anymore."
Beside the note is a shotgun. Beside the shotgun is a hammer. It looks like a toy and it looks familiar. It is covered with blood.
You can't help but look at it.
The handwriting is too neat to be his; Sonic was never an educated one. Running, for the hills, being a full-time nuisance and a part-time saviour.
The room is saturated with the stench of alcohol and you figure he's been drinking. The floor gleams with brown and green glass shards.
Sonic was drinking a lot lately. You never knew why. You thought it was some sort of habit picked up from his friends.
Maybe he drank himself to death? No.
You figure it was a murder or at least a homicide.
It couldn't be a suicide. There are too many bullets in his body; he's filled with lead.
Then you notice:
His body is broken.
Blood spills from his body in copious amounts and the floor is dyed with red. Limbs bent in positions limbs aren't supposed to be bent in. Gaping gashes visible in patched and tattered pelt.
His face is ripped off. Exposed skull and face organs sticking out like a sore thumb, the bloody periosteum a discoloured hue of brown and black. He has one eye, no nose, and half a mouth. Ears are torn. Bloodied viscera trickling down the side of his head in a red-pink pulp. 2 of his quills are snapped off, the other two dislocated. Red discolours his blue pelt.
Right eye, fixated upon something. At first you assume it is the wall – a tattered stack of bricks with much of its paint ripped off and washed with more blood. But they turn his head, the police, but the head turns back. Gazing at the wall, nothing of significance.
What is he looking at?
You move closer to inspect his injuries. They interest you. He's interesting. There's an attraction.
You don't know what it is but there is nothing. Nothing means nothing to lose. So you let your instincts loose.
You're right against his face right now. Heavy on his breath are the odours of tequila and vodka. His face ultimately sickens you, the more you look at him. You don't know why.
Like this amalgamation of disgust and lies.
Reach out to touch him, ultimately amounts to phrasing through him.
But his eyes follow you. Pays attention to each and every twitch of the nerves with that ominous, black stare that suggests whatever he's looking at, isn't in this room.
He's looking at you. Your eyes widen and you back away.
the first time the baseball bat connects with the side of your head knocks out two teeth
the second blow knocks him onto your side and cracks your neck
the third one bloodies your face
the fourth one bloodies your face even further
the fifth one bloodies your face even further
the sixth one breaks the nasal bones into the brain cavity
the seventh one crushes an eye socket and sends bloody viscera running out of your face like a fried egg
the eighth one does nothing
the ninth one does nothing
the tenth one does nothing
the eleventh one does nothing
the twelfth one does nothing
the thirteen one does nothing
the fourteenth one does nothing
the fifteenth one cracks through the spinal cord
the sixteenth one does nothing
the seventeenth one does nothing
the eighteenth one does nothing
the nineteenth one does nothing
the twentieth one does nothing
the twenty-first one finally exhausts the black and red hedgehog
he stops for a moment to catch his breath
his breath never comes back
he drops the bat and it hits the floor, bounces, hits the floor again
it's covered in blood
everything is covered in blood
inhale
exhale
iron on his tongue
blood all over his apartment
his lifeless expression expresses that he is satisfied
he has delivered justice
he begins cleaning up his apartment
You turn your eyes to them now. Coppers and detectives. Give them a warrant, a gun, and a certificate and they think they know everything.
They're extracting the lead now. Placing them in those gross sterile plastic bags that reek of cornstarch and polymer.
There's 18 of them, which means there are 18 holes.
One in each knee cap, one in each foot. His torso is littered with eight punctures. Six embedded in his face.
They're gathering everything now. Glass shards, shotgun, note, even the toy hammer.
You wish they'd leave everything in place.
Stop, you say.
Stop. Stop.
Stop. STOP.
STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP
But they don't stop. Because they can't hear you.
You figure they must be deaf or something. Look at them, patronising know-it-alls with fake concern written all over their faces. Complements their fake intelligence.
They're only doing this for money. If they'd truly cared, they'd leave Sonic's shit where it is.
They glow with a strange sentiment that urges you to protect them.
But you can't. They don't see you.
They're dragging his body now. Into some white van.
Blood tracks onto the van, clotting on the cold, clean metal.
The room is empty. There is nothing.
The cracks on the walls. The blood on the floor. It is a small room.
But it feels so infinite.
You walk to one of the walls. The one least deformed.
But you can never touch the wall.
As you keep walking, the walls keep escaping.
You start to run.
Running. You're not that fast but you keep running.
The walls don't relent.
You're out of breath now. You've been running for many hours now.
Collapse.
You look behind. The walls are still there, in their same positions.
You?
You haven't moved an inch.
i wish i hadn't known about it
i wish you weren't with me at all
i don't want your love i don't want your lies. i wish i could relinquish mine for yours
but i can't i just can't
i don't know anymore
i. just. don't. know.
i don't want you to ask me for forgiveness because I won't forgive you
do you think my love for you blinds me?
it doesn't
but i'm not angry
i was but now i am not
it's the truth and it's not my fault for telling the truth
the truth will let you make your own decisions
because i don't know you anymore
because i don't want to break you
i want you to break yourself
or make yourself
it will only benefit me or leave me unharmed
because i'm not a part of this war anymore
you're only doing this to yourself
i just want you to let go
