Splatterpunk's Not Dead Page 9

  He had to believe, though.

  He had probably inflicted enough damage upon his body to kill himself many times over the years. That thought comforted him slightly.

  Once more shouldn't hurt.

  Walter stood up too quickly, grimacing at the cracking sound from his lower back. Vigorously rubbing his painting arm free of pins and needles. A dizzying fatigued sensation swept over him - causing him to sway, feet glued to the spot. Teetering back and forth like some amateur dramatic acting out a gale blown tree. His balance was threatening to depart at any given moment. Walter swallowed. Breathing in through his nose. Holding for a moment. Before exhaling a raspy rattle through his pinched slit of a mouth.

  Better.

  He repeated his breathing exercise until the fainting fit was safely at bay. Walter nodded to himself, satisfied he was able to kill himself safely. The irony, a mockery of self value. But Walter's values were steadfast and his determination steely. Tonight was the night he would swing from the rafters.

  Walter pulled on a tatty drawer handle. The wooden furnishing spattered with years of spilt paint. Shabby without the chic. A result of being present to decades of Walter's tormented venting upon canvas.

  The length of rope that took pride of place in the open drawer had been knotted into a hangman's noose two months prior. Walter had found it coming back from the cheapest pub within staggering distance. One tatty end hanging out of a skip in the pub's car park, daring Walter to tug it. Walter had already begun the painting and at that point was still debating the best way to complete the ritual. The best course of suicide he could entertain. He had considered slashing his wrists but the idea of a less messy departure appealed to him more. Hanging seemed so much more dignified than bleeding out onto the carpet. He just had to make sure he went to the toilet beforehand. He didn't want Marjorie to see him all piss stained and shit dripping. She witnessed that from him too many times already.

  The furrow around the circumference of the beam providing his makeshift gallows was already acquainted with the noose Walter held. This was where Walter had hung it from the centre of the timber to test its integrity. At least he tried to tell himself that. Deep down he knew that it was his morbid fascination that had led him to mount it just to 'see how it looked' in the room.

  As the particular day he first tethered the rope to the beam progressed, he drank himself incapable of removing the noose. It hung there for a good three weeks before Walter grew sick of its company. It was distracting him from his painting.

  Walter darted his gaze across the room to his bedside table.

  The book. He still had to put it back in the wall.

  Walter had decided in case anything went, well, wrong, then he had to safeguard his little secret. And if it went right, he still needed it safe. Walter took it over to the shoulder high hole in the far wall and unceremoniously stuffed priceless copy of 'Diabolist' into the void and pinned a painting over it.

  Satisfied with his expertise in concealment, Walter dragged his small wooden chair under the furrow in the beam and peered up at it, noose dangling loosely upon the threadbare carpet from his white knuckle grip.

  Here we go.

  Grunting, Walter lifted one leg onto the seat of the chair. Then, resting his weight on the back of the chair, awkwardly hoisted his other leg up. Walter was somewhat alarmed to hear the chair creak it's protestations even louder than his not so finely aged bones. Walter tentatively shifted his weight from side to side and listened. The chair felt safe enough to the old man.

  Old man. For now at least.

  Walter's heart was beating maddeningly in his ears. At once he felt excited by the promises made within the pages of 'Diabolist', yet, equally terrified with the knowledge that he was going through with suicide. Some people hang themselves for kicks. But Walter had failed to see the attraction heralded from sexualised asphyxiation. Especially when his penis was, these days, perpetually limp. Still, if he so chose to, he could try that 'pleasure' out soon enough. If the book worked.

  Walter's hands shook as he secured the rope. His mouth had gone dry and his skin prickly. Walter tugged on the noose till it had no give left. It was tied fast. He closed his eyes and slipped the loop over his head. Beads of sweat had formed upon his creased brow. One droplet trickled down over a tightly squeezed eyelid, collecting at the end of a lash like a tear. Walter gulped and sucked in a lungfull of air before sliding the slipknot down till it tickled the nape of his neck. Not too tight just yet. Walter opened his eyes, the light stinging them momentarily. He was ready. He began to count down from five in his head. He only just made it to three before one of the chair legs gave way. The chair seat tilted down to the left suddenly. Walter instinctively tried to correct his balance by leaning away from the snapping leg and grasping hold of the rope at the back of his head. He maintained a precarious foothold on the chair for a further second or two. Long enough for Walter to fleetingly doubt his actions. But it was too late. The chair toppled onto it's side with a dull, resounding thud beside his masterpiece. Walter struggled. His feet treading air below him as he swung, a human pendulum that would mercifully, shortly wind down. One of Walter's big toes connected with the side of his wardrobe, shearing a toenail in two down to the wick. It should have been agony but he didn't feel it. His neck and throat on the other hand were a different matter entirely. Although his neck was still technically unbroken, the strain of supporting his albeit slight frame had torn something within. The pain coursed his body with bursts of growing intensity. And the rope burned. Walter wanted it off. He had planned on leaping from the chair and hopefully snapping his neck. A clean break in all senses. But now he clawed desperately at the noose digging tight into his neck. His eyes bug eyed in their darkly ringed, sleep deprived sockets. Tongue engorged, lolled from his mouth and flopped over his froth splattered chin. He convulsed as he fought to take a breath. But it was futile, the rope was too tight and still squeezing tighter. His windpipe was already crushed beyond repair. Against his instincts, Walter tried to relax, to embrace the passing. He raised his arms out to each side, suspended like some absurd floating crucifixion. His head felt like it would explode. As if his skull might burst from the building pressure at any moment. His heart was pounding hard and loud, but the once steady rhythm was beginning to break down to a stuttering of oxygen starved spasmic convulsions. Veins bulged like bloody worms snaking under the surface of Walter's well worn skin. There was very little white left of his eyes, burst vessels giving his swollen oculars a horrific and hellish appearance. He could barely see anything now. The portrait below was pulling far away from him, growing dimmer, distant. Walter's weary heart was struggling, desperately fighting to muster another beat. The pain shook his very core, every limb stiffened and arched, the dribble of piss that Walter had anticipated, had leaked out and sped down his leg... and then. Floating... no, wait, was he? Was he falling? He felt weightless. Was he dead? He wasn't sure. Was this hell? He could think. And. He could reason. But had no perceptible sense, no touch, no smell. No sight. No sense that is, except that maybe he was falling.

  And then he felt something cling to him. It was pleasant, reassuring. But pressing harder against his front. His face. He could feel his cheek squashed up against a surface. Fabric. He took a breath, his body quivering.

  He could breathe. Walter took another and stretched out his hand, fingernails scraped on the texture beneath. A familiar texture. Tightly woven fabric he had for many moons become accustomed to waking up on. Sounds. Bird song fading into a blend of other sounds filtering through his single pane window.

  Walter opened his eyes. Shapeless blobs of light dazzled his eyes with searing intensity. It was morning. The shades of white gaining colour and shape as Walter's eyes focussed. He lifted his head weakly off the carpet and took in the familiar sights of his dingy living room. His hand brushed against something hard. The portrait lay next to him. Walter instantly remembered everything and raised a hand to his throat, his fingers snagging on
the noose around his neck. Walter sighed with dismay. His initial take on the circumstances being that the rope had snapped. He had passed out and the rope, for some reason or another, had simply given way. He was still Walter Heimbach, pushing eighty. He was still just a silly old man.

  Walter sat up and rubbed his eyes in an effort to halt the onset of tears. He removed the noose and his suspicions confirmed by a frayed end of the snapped rope. A loose tail of rope hung from the beam still. Walter surmised it had probably rubbed on the bottom corner of the square cut wood when he was swinging. Walter pulled himself up to his feet. Straightening, stretching, he frowned. There was something missing from his actions. His back hadn't clicked. Maybe he'd jarred it into place, gravity providing the perfect remedy. Walter raised a balled hand to splutter into. A practised habit evolved from decades of smoking. He coughed. But it sounded clear. No raspy rattles. No brown solidified mucus landing upon his hand. Just a healthy, clean, cough. Walter ran a hand through his hair. All of his hair. A full, thick head of hair like he had many years ago. He noticed that his eyesight too was twenty/twenty and unaided. His glasses lay on his bedside table where he'd left them. He sniffed at the air and wrinkled his nose. The air was stagnant. And for the first time in years he could smell how truly rank his body odour was. Although revolted by the stench, Walter smiled and picked up the broken chair, setting it upright on it's remaining three legs. Walter was did his best to fetter his optimism. Temper his excitement which was swelling as he hurried into the bathroom for a good look at his reflection.

  And there he was. Walter froze, his grin transformed to slack jawed wonderment. He raised a hand to his face. His smooth, soft face. Five o'clock shadow coloured his chin with patchy, adolescent inconsistency. His eyes were piercing. The whites clear and the pupils sharp. Walter bared his teeth. White, smooth, nicely formed teeth. He pulled at his shirt. Virtually ripping it from his body without haste. His skin was no longer the tired, mottled, baggy fit. It now clung tight to sinew, muscle and flesh. Abdominal muscles popped out, defined under his otherwise flat stomach. He'd never had a six pack.

  Walter had that grin again.

  He quickly kicked off his trousers, leaned into a small Perspex-panelled cubicle and twisted the tap to fuel the shower head. Walter didn't flinch as the cold water splashed his face. Snatching the half used soap bar from the sink he began to scrub. Erasing all trace of the old Walter. A fresh, clean start.

  Downstairs, Marjorie unlocked the front door. The streaks of morning light burst over the grim looking hallway. A set of stairs led up to the four small bedsits. She hated Fridays. And this was one of the reasons. Walter was a strange fish. A dirty old man. She had to put up with a lot of ogling from senile old men in her profession but under Walter's leering gaze she had always felt vulnerable and unnerved. That was only the half of it though. The real fear was what to expect when she opened the door. Mercifully this time of day, before ten in the morning, he was usually in a fitfully drunken sleep. Not always though. She had found him disorientated and naked on more than one occasion. Sometimes he was in an unashamed state of semi-flaccid excitement, demanding her with slurred speech to look at him. But, thankfully for small mercies that hadn't happened in a while now. She had managed to get the cleaning time of Walter's small flat down to anything between eighty minutes and three hours depending on what sort of a week Walter had endured.

  She didn't feel sorry for the old piss head. He had no one. But that had been of his own doing. Driving everyone close to him far, far away with his drunken rants and humiliating outbursts. And now he was a lonely old drunk. No one would be at his funeral. Least of all Marjorie. Hell no. Marjorie gathered together her cleaning utensils from the walk in communal cupboard beneath the stairs. Dusting rags, bucket and mop at hand, Marjorie ascended the stairway. Walter's was on the top floor. God knows how the old fart hadn't killed himself staggering up and down those stairs. Maybe it was that exercise that was keeping him going. Climbing to the top floor. God knows it was already taking it's toll on Marjorie's knees. She huffed and puffed for breath as she struggled with mop and bucket, a silent display of exaggerated toil to an invisible audience. Look how hard I have it. Look at me, struggling up these bastard stairs for some decrepit old piece of shit. And for what? Minimum wage? Fuck that.

  Marjorie stopped outside a grubby white door. The paint chipped. A brown stain from filthy hands searching for the lock spread out in a wide fading circle from the Yale keyhole. The doormat had what looked like old pasta and an indiscernible variety of mouldy fruit squashed and ingrained into its bristled ridges. This was unmistakably Walter's front door. Marjorie had her own key. She didn't knock. Hopefully, if he was asleep, he wouldn't wake. She tentatively tiptoed into the small parlour room and stooped to place the bucket and mop on the floor. She could already hear the shower running. This presented all manner of potential scenarios developing in Marjorie's head. All that is, with an underlying basis of enabling Walter opportunistically exposing himself to his cleaner in some shape or form.

  Fucking pervert.

  Marjorie took a deep breath and quietly proceeded into the kitchen and began to run the hot water tap into the bucket. Maybe it'll affect the water flow in the bathroom, cause the old bastard to scald his pathetic bits or chill them down to an innocuous size. Marjorie refused to regard Walter's manhood as a cock or anything akin to sexualising that limp thing he sometimes waggled at her with glazed eyes and spit flecked mouth. Only a wine stained vest offered her eyes (if she were lucky) protection from his revolting body. She should have reported him but he always paid a little tip for the disservice. She needed the money. Marjorie tightened the tap, stemming the water. It was visibly hot, spewing steam through a delicate foam of soapy suds. Marjorie lifted the bucket out of the sink with a guttural grunt as she tried not to slop water. Marjorie padded quietly through to the living room.

  She saw it immediately. Looking up at her from the centre of the room. Beautiful. The perfect rendering of a perfect specimen. Marjorie had momentarily lost herself in the picture on the floor. Sucked into those deep blue eyes, penetrating her core. The striking jawline, the finely shaped cheekbones, the body. Toned and sun kissed. Marjorie shifted her body to rest the bucket of water on the chair next to her. The broken chair, unstable on it's three legs toppled immediately. The bucket hurtled down onto the bewitching painting, water splashed wide across the masterpiece and formed a puddle in the water resistant surface. The color drained from Marjorie's face. Shit. Marjorie looked around the room desperately searching for a means to soak up the incriminating puddle. There was a towel poking out of the dresser drawer. Without hesitating she whipped it out and advanced toward the portrait.

  Walter marvelled at his body as he showered. He was burning with excitement. With the book he would further his destiny. It had worked. It. Had. Worked! He could make money, so much money. From the right people. Combining his artistry with the magic of the book. He could make a whole lot of money. A lot of old rich folk out there. Too old to fully enjoy their spoils without his help. Walter grinned and threw back his head, letting the water splash his face.

  Marjorie stood poised over the painting, a towel clutched and outstretched, threatening the puddle of water. Marjorie doubted she knew how she could clean it best. Hopefully she could lay the towel flat and absorb the water, then peel it off. But what if the paint peeled away with the towel? Maybe she should rub it. Maybe. If the paint was dry, maybe it had a crusty shell, like the cheap acrylics she used in her art classes at school did when they dried out. She had saved one of those before from a water splash. Kind of. She had to do something. Marjorie stooped low and pressed down with the towel over the handsome but submerged face in the painting.

  Without warning and quite an amount of force, Walter's perfect new face burst open like a surrealists interpretation of popping a blister. The action was with shocking abruptness and explosive results as a rich tapestry of brightly coloured fluid coated the inside of the shower p
anels. His nose, eyes, cheeks, mouth, disintegrated in a millisecond. Walter felt no pain as such. Confused, he froze for a second. His hands raised, pressed against the tiled back walls of the small bathroom. His face, or what was left of his face, gushed multicoloured fluids wildly into the cubicle. The vivid hued 'blood' spewed in torrents from the moist, fleshy chasm where Walter’s face had departed. It's epicentre where the nose had been, but the void was far reaching, from ear to ear and chin to brow. The outline of a head remained but it was housing a pit of raw meat pissing colours. All the colours of the rainbow.

  It's gone dark.

  That was all that ran through Walter's mind at first. Maybe he'd blacked out and was dreaming. He couldn't smell anything. He had nothing to smell with. He tried to open his mouth. To shout. But nope, no mouth either. He could feel though. The water still pattered down on him. He could feel it's warmth. Even warmer waters still, were trickling over his chest. Walter blindly raised a hand to his faceless maw and slowly reached out a finger to feel. The extended digit twitched in the air expectantly but there was nothing to make contact with. Walter kept pushing his hand further, seeking face, until finally he felt something beneath his fingers. A cloying, moist putty, deep within his skull. His fingers ploughed through the colourful, jelly like flesh. The water from the shower head swilled more of the quickly dissolving bone, meat and sinew out of the shelf like base of a chin. Walter moved his hand out before him. It was full of the vibrant flesh, slowly he raised it level with his former eye line as if to examine its contents. He couldn't see the wild splashes of vivacious hues cascading from out of his upturned palm but the damage to Walter's loose grip on his faculties had been done. Walter's mind had finally snapped entirely.

  Marjorie stared down at the portrait, horrified. Where the beautifully executed, handsomely alluring face of the subject had been there was now a random, smudged, mix of colour. Reds, greens, blues, whites and blacks swirled and blended to make something that looked like Van Gogh's puke after a heavy night on the absinthe and advocaat. Marjorie tried to fix it, clearly not thinking through her actions, she again pressed down with the towel and rubbed.