The white porcelain mask smiled up at Robert. It didn't mock the scraggle of his greying stubble or the tangle of his pale hair- it was a kind smile, a knowing one. It was a smile that made you feel trusted and respected, that drew you in and made you a friend. He leaned out and stroked the forehead of the mask with his thumb, and it was as cool and solid as it had always been.
"Put it on, Robert." The voice from the corner was difficult to ignore. It carried an expectation of obedience, a surety of command that Robert's voice once had. The speaker reached into a black plastic sack and took a dark shape from within it, and threw it onto the table.
The blue mask clattered towards Robert, and he flinched at the sound. This mask had no expression at all. It was just a dark blue oval with two oversized holes for eyes, and bloody fingerprints from the speaker's hand around the rim.
"You can't leave without a mask, Robert. Pick."
Robert had been offered the blue mask once before, and it had scared him then. Now it didn't seem quite so terrible, and as he reached out for the white mask he found himself lifting the blue one instead. It was hard, even brittle, and felt like glazed terracotta.The surface stuck to his fingers like metal left outside on a winter's day, and suddenly the absurdity of what he was about to do struck him. He dropped the blue mask and snatched up the porcelain one as though it would be taken away.
The man in the corner seemed to smile, but it was always difficult to tell. He raised a blood-wet hand and pointed over Robert's shoulder; Robert turned and flinched back to reality as someone knocked loudly but politely on the bathroom door.
"Sir? Senator Ward? They're ready for you downstairs, sir."
Robert raised his hands to his face for a second, as though he was putting on a mask, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs away. He quickly checked himself in the mirror- hair tidy, tie straight, clean shaved and teeth shining.
"Let's go win a debate, fella," he murmured to himself as he washed his hands. That was why he'd come into the bathroom, wasn't it? To clean his hands and get the dirt out from underneath his fingernails. Yes. That was why.
"Sir?" The knock came again, insistent but still measured.
"I'm on my way, Bill." Senator Robert Ward opened the door, smiled that home-grown, hard-working smile at his assistant, and headed down to the debate.
Monday 30 April 2012
It's Going Swimmingly
Your corpse clings to you, one cold hand locked rigor-tight around your ankle. Forget that leg, kick with the other one, ignore the dead weight. Ha ha ha. Stop reaching for the surface with your hands like there's a ledge up there or something to grab, make paddles with them the way you were taught in fifth grade and there's no kicking off the bottom now, kiddo.
Use paddles on water
(I don't see any water)
Use paddles on ocean
(I don't see any ocean)
Use paddles on sea
(I don't see any sea because sea is all there is, the same way you don't see europe from basingstoke)
breathe
Except don't breathe, because to start breathing here would be to start dying. Surface. Ignore the cold hand around your ankle and that blubbery little chuckle, your corpse is dead and doesn't know shit about how badly you want this. Broad strokes with the arms, a perfect curve. Kick harder. Focus on the surface and don't
Breathe
because even though you have to you can't afford the effort it would take to choke. Force the hands downwards, kick with your free leg, let frenzy fuel it, closer now close enough to see the foam on the surface let the fear in you need fumes to run on and your tank ran dry too quickly you don't want to die here and that should be enough
BREATHE
just two more feet, your hands suddenly flailing free of resistance and your head out of the water and you gasp in, one long clear breath, and you'd sob if you could but you can't. Air. Air in great, vast quantities, salty and clean.
breathe.
Kick, hard, because your death is still clinging to your ankle and won't let go. Then look around, and see nothing on the horizon, and know there is nobody coming to help you and all you have left is this weight, this weight that will pull you down if you take a moment's rest. Eventually, you will have to try to rest because when you can’t distinguish your movements from each other, when you’ve made the same hard slog of the arms and the legs and the arms and the legs so often it feels like clockwork it’s going to happen. One of those mundane little movements will prove to be too much for you and you give yourself a moment’s rest and then your corpse has you, has always had you, drags you down by the ankle and never lets you go.
At the bottom of the sea, your corpse will ask you if you want to live and you will answer that you do, and you will kick for the surface again. And again. And again.
Use paddles on water
(I don't see any water)
Use paddles on ocean
(I don't see any ocean)
Use paddles on sea
(I don't see any sea because sea is all there is, the same way you don't see europe from basingstoke)
breathe
Except don't breathe, because to start breathing here would be to start dying. Surface. Ignore the cold hand around your ankle and that blubbery little chuckle, your corpse is dead and doesn't know shit about how badly you want this. Broad strokes with the arms, a perfect curve. Kick harder. Focus on the surface and don't
Breathe
because even though you have to you can't afford the effort it would take to choke. Force the hands downwards, kick with your free leg, let frenzy fuel it, closer now close enough to see the foam on the surface let the fear in you need fumes to run on and your tank ran dry too quickly you don't want to die here and that should be enough
BREATHE
just two more feet, your hands suddenly flailing free of resistance and your head out of the water and you gasp in, one long clear breath, and you'd sob if you could but you can't. Air. Air in great, vast quantities, salty and clean.
breathe.
Kick, hard, because your death is still clinging to your ankle and won't let go. Then look around, and see nothing on the horizon, and know there is nobody coming to help you and all you have left is this weight, this weight that will pull you down if you take a moment's rest. Eventually, you will have to try to rest because when you can’t distinguish your movements from each other, when you’ve made the same hard slog of the arms and the legs and the arms and the legs so often it feels like clockwork it’s going to happen. One of those mundane little movements will prove to be too much for you and you give yourself a moment’s rest and then your corpse has you, has always had you, drags you down by the ankle and never lets you go.
At the bottom of the sea, your corpse will ask you if you want to live and you will answer that you do, and you will kick for the surface again. And again. And again.
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