A story, or a brainstorm. For my book or despite my book.



His teeth protrude from his mouth like shards of porcelain in a pool of blood. The color of said teeth and his pallid complexion are almost indistinguishable, were it not for the transparency of his skin. It is what bruises would be like if they were white instead of purple. It sits loosely on his body like a garment of clothing, moving not as him, but with him. His nostrils sit in the skin, a pair of holes in the middle of his face, not on the underside of a nose. They sit symmetrical below a pair of small, beady black eyes, sparkling with some sort of sadistic gleen that would send shivers down my spine had I not stared into those eyes nearly every day for the past few years.



He smells like whiskey. Or is that me? It's hard to tell these days, but one of us smells like whiskey, and the other smells like dust. And considering my drunken state, it's probably safe to assume that he is the dusty one.



I can hear him breathing, although I was previously unaware that hallucinations had the vital organs needed to take a breath, nor that it was necessary that he should. And good lord, does he ever wheeze. In fact, I can hear his sighs from here on the stage, and he is in the projection booth upstairs. His long limbs visible moving slowly but not lethargically, you would see that his spindly arms are like intertwined tree branches, and while thin, they do not give off the impression of frailty. You can see the strength as his hands run over the length of the projector.



His eyes flash and the lights in the theatre dim. A scuffle of footsteps brings my gaze to the seating below me... and standing there is the girl.



She regards me with a startling apathy, which when I think about it shouldn't have been surprising -- after all, she is dead. Her hands lay limp at her sides and her chin is raised to look me straight in the eye... as well as she could. Half of her skull was crushed and her left eye was somewhere beneath a flap of skin hanging bloody in front of her face. The blood pouring from where her brain once was, before it was on the terrazzo in front of the Fremont, coats half her body like she is a fur coat at a PETA rally.



And I am inexplicably drawn to her, just like the first time we met. Her eyes are still beautiful with the life sucked out of them. She exudes as much grace as a dead person ever could. I loved her, I love her, and I don't know why she is here.



Outside of my mind, I am screaming at her. What are you doing here? Why are you doing this to me? Leave me alone! Let me grieve! but I am moving toward her with my hands outstretched. I am putting my arms around her broken body. I am kissing her bloody mouth.



A light flickers on from the projector as our lips touch and the sound pops and large scratches pull down the screen like someone was trying to destroy the print -- for as many times as He watched me work, he never could keep the film off the ground. It plays black and then images come, memories. From the first time we met in the lobby of the theatre, to that night on the roof... the sound of her voice in Dolby Digital Surround sound. There is a sickening thud and then the sound slows, the image on the screen eats itself from the inside out, melting and burning into a bright white light, and my arms are empty now. She is gone, and her blood is on my hands.