Layers

You are fascinating to me. I wonder what makes you tick. What drives you. You are a strange and baffling creature, motives inscrutible. This may surprise you. You have known me for some years. And yet, I find myself struggling each and every day to understand the why.

Perhaps if I were to get to know you better, then I could understand. Why you do the things that you do. Why anyone does, really. It isn't just you. It's about society. It's about the world. It's about my frustrations. It isn't personal, I swear.

Look, I'm only skin deep. If I stopped now, you would recover. See? It's going to be okay. I'll stop. I promise. I can stop. I promise I can stop. I promise.

They say that bandages should be removed quickly, so the pain rushes in and fades fast. Drawing it out draws out the pain, surely. Perhaps life is like this too. Are we really meant to grow old? To wither and decay? Better to burn out young, don't you think?

Perhaps rusty knives hurt more because they take longer to make the same cut. Perhaps rusty people hurt more because they don't leave. The sharp ones, the smart ones, cut you and go. I will never go. I promise you this.

You are perfection incarnate and that itself is mysterious. I do not understand. What makes you different from all the others? What indeed? Physically, loathe as I am to admit it, you are a fine specimen. Fine meaning "perfectly average", of course. Nothing too special. And yet, I cannot escape you. You bind my thoughts to you, drawing us together. It is unavoidable. This is our destiny.

Perhaps something about your interior is different. Let's take a look. It's okay. This knife is sharp.

The delicate trace of hands against each other. Imagine standing in a kitchen, embraced from behind, gently guided through the process. Cooking is perhaps the most intimate, most romantic act. It is creation and consumption together, productive and destructive, hubris and beauty.

We make pretty foods, the only art-form guaranteed not to last. Indeed, ritually, we destroy our own creations. I pour my heart into something for you and you destroy it. Fascinating, no? And further still, there are matters of taste. As much as restaurants and recipes and expert chefs want to clamp down, there are as many ways to prepare food as there are spices in the rack or stars in the sky.

Are you even listening to me? I'm trying to educate you. I'm trying to make you understand. You told me that you didn't understand me. Never forget, you asked for this.

Do you know the dedication it takes to cook for someone? To learn their specific preferences? The hours of practice, of study, of synthesizing flavours and textures to craft the ideal dish for your specific tongue? Truly, that would be the greatest act of love. And the greatest act of torture to force you to sit through the laborious trial and error.

Speaking of, I wonder. They say that the voice is in the voice box. And yet, it is impossible to speak without a tongue. That does not add up. I do wonder. Can I reverse engineer your tongue? Dissect it to figure out exactly what you like to eat? Spot the part that drives your desire for chocolate, your detest for apples? It may be worth trying.

Do you want me to stop? I promise I can stop. I would never hurt you.

Tell me about the future. Tell me about your future. Do you have plans? Are you going to get married? Have kids? Do you have a lot of hope? What drives that? Do you want to be wealthy? Do you want power? Do you desire strength and control?

Promise me good things. Promise me that I'll be rich and powerful and famous. Give me a chance to reject it. I can swear I'll reject it. But we both know that I would jump at it. You would too. Everyone would. Humans are such simple creatures, really. Really?

Stop screaming and listen. You're distracting me.

What if I were rich and powerful and famous? Do you think people would love me more? Less? They'd probably claim less. You would, wouldn't you? And yet they all mean more. They all do. I don't understand. Why the self deception? Why are we all so determined to believe we are the good guy?

Do you think the billionaires are all sitting around and cackling about how they've deluded us? That their charitable donations and philanthropy are just a scam? No. I think they genuinely believe in their own righteousness. They think that they deserve the money and are the best people to spend it. Surely. Perhaps demonizing themselves is a secret trick, to convince us to never overthrow them. Every billionaire is the worst possible billionaire except for all the hypothetical worse ones.

What do you think?

Hmm. It seems you are no longer able to speak. I must have gotten carried away. A pity. I still had questions for you. Alas, I shall have to investigate in other ways.

I can stop at any time, by the way. Just ask.

Do you think that I'm a broken person? I am wounded, for certain. I reflect on that often enough. Perhaps if I were raised better, I could relate to other people more. Perhaps. Blaming the parents is so trite, so passé. I am what I am. I am what I make of myself. I reject your classifications. You cannot define me. I will change myself entirely purely to spite you. Understand? Understood?

Look at how the layers of flesh peel back slowly. Sure, the blood obscures it, but if you look beneath, you can see it clearly. Skin, muscle, and bone. Perhaps these are the layers of a person. Look, deeper still, the bone splits showing the humble marrow. Look at how the muscle flexes. Such strength. Watch. A few simple cuts and it will fray, ripping itself apart. In a way, I am jealous of you. I will never understand my body as well as we both understand yours.

I wonder how the pain tastes. It would be good to feel something.

I don't think you're a person. I think you're a marionette, a toy. Look at you flopping, strings cut. I made short work of you. If you were real, you would've stopped this, don't you think? You would've refused. You would've fought. Man dominates animal and I dominate you. It's okay, you poor thing. You belong to me and I'm kind. I won't let you die. I'll never let you die.

Tell me about god. Tell me that I should convert, that I can fix my crimes if only I ask for forgiveness. Isn't that a funny way to run a religion? Oh lord, forgive me! I repent! See? Do you forgive me now? I think you have to. I think you're obligated to. I think your god does and I'll see you in heaven. Don't you think? I haven't done anything wrong. I would never hurt you.

I haven't hurt you. I haven't hurt you. I haven't hurt you.

Imagine you were a tree. Do you know how old trees can get? Centuries or more, I believe. I wonder what it would be like to be a tree. I would stand tall and proud, devouring the sun and the rain. The average human leaves no legacy, will be forgotten shortly after their demise. But trees last longer and remain useful in death. I wonder if we could prolong humans the same way? Tools from bone, art from organs, life from meat.

See, the eyeball is actually round once you get it out of the skull. Fascinating, right? Can you feel that? Do you feel my fingers on it? Pulling? I'm going to look inside that pretty little head of yours. But first, let's have some eye contact.

Fascinating.

How many jars will I need? How much can I rip out before you stop ticking? How long until you stop squirming? I wonder about death. Can it be overcome? CPR techniques suggest it is possible to die and return. What would that feel like, to hover on the bounds of mortality. Will you touch something divine? I could. I could stop your heart and restart it. Maybe we should.

How did that feel?

Did it hurt?

Hold on. We gotta make sure. Let's do another. Ready?

Oh, stop struggling. The restraints will hold. No one will find us. No one knows we're here. And you know what else? No one cares. We're both already dead. We are each other forever, now. Bonded eternally. Perhaps we should seal it properly. Tell me, my fair lover. Would you consent to be lawfully wedded to me? Come dear, just nod if yes. I'll help if you need.

Oh, Wonderful! Let it be so. Ah, but I know that look. You're worried I won't have anywhere to put a ring on you. But fret not. I left one intact for this very reason. Come, I left it on a tray around here somewhere. Hmm. Ah! There we go? See? I brought a ring just for this very occasion. I took it from the finger of someone far less deserving than you, far more ugly. Fret not. She wasn't worthy of my caress, the way you are.

I'll just pick your finger up here, see it's still intact, don't worry. Please don't worry. There we are. Married. You and me, forever. I would seal it with a kiss but your lips are already sealed into a jar. Perhaps if I were to kiss the glass, that would suffice.

What do you think? Did that suffice?

What do you think about happiness? How do you think we create it, consume it, use it? Are you happy? Can you be happy? I don't know what it really means to be happy. I mean, you have to weigh the short term against the long term. I may be content in a loving marriage. But the heady rush of skin on skin, of kissing a stranger, isn't that a far stronger, if shorter, joy? Isn't it?

How can I balance the long term against the short? My impatience against my anticipated needs? That's my problem. I always rush things. Too hasty. That's why I need you to temper me out. Need you to balance me. To slow me down. Force me to deliberate.

Do you hear me? I said I need you to stop me. I need you to stop me okay? I need this to last. I always rush things. I'm always rushing things.

Why won't you talk to me anymore? I miss you so much. Please just say something. Say anything. Please. Tell me that you love me. Tell me that you need me. Tell me that you hate me. Please. Just acknowledge me. I'm begging you.

Blink those lifeless eyes. Jostle your arms. Shake your head. Please?

I don't understand. I always thought I had a special place in your heart. But I have it right here and it's only full of meat.