A Moment’s Handful

You can taste the blood in your mouth. It forces through the gaps in your teeth and runs past your lips and down your chest. Your eyes sting, and the world is a hazy pinkish red until you wipe you face with a forearm, smearing most of the blood away. Blinking away tears, your surroundings come into focus. The alley is dimly lit, and a chill breeze pushes around some of the garbage that has spilled out a nearby dumpster. You swallow most of the blood in your mouth and began to breath heavily, loudly, as if you have never drawn air into your lungs before. Those around you in the alley never will again. You are crouched down on your haunches, holding someone’s severed arm tightly in your hands. Not so much severed perhaps, as torn off at the shoulder. A thin tendon dangles from the socket and glistens in the light of the alley. The rest of the arm is covered by a tuxedo sleeve, and the cuff of the bright white shirt underneath is held together by a black stone covered in a filigree of gold. The material feels expensive in your hands. Your thumb traces a seam, and you think the stitching is lovingly hand made. The watch on the wrist is gold as well, and when the fluorescent light off to your left blinks and stutters, diamonds glint around its face. The second hand continues its relentless circular sweep. The ring and pinky finger are partially chewed. You can’t tell where the blood that you wiped away from your eyes has soaked into the sleeve. It is very cold here in the alley, and you wonder where all of your clothes went. You feel the palm of the hand, which is soft and without calluses. The nails are manicured, in great contrast to your own, which are dirty, thick, and chipped. The breeze strengthens, and an empty Pabst Blue Ribbon can rolls past, banging against the asphalt and disappearing in the darkness. You stand up and throw the arm away. A hollow boom reverberates down the alley as it hits a partially filled dumpster. You stride further back into the alley, stepping over another man in a suit lying face down. His outstretched hand holds a gun and you can see a curled white wire leading into an earpiece that disappears into his jacket. You stare at the gun, and a wave of impressions flood your mind. A rush of speed, flickering light, gunshots, grim faces with clenched teeth that go slack and lifeless. More gunshots. The present snaps back into place with the last few remembered shots, and you look at your leg. There is a chunk of flesh torn out of your calf, and blood is pouring down over your heel and toes. It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. It is the only part of your body that feels warm. The slowly expanding puddle coming from underneath the man at your feet mixes with what you are spilling into the alley. It all looks the same. Another man is hanging from the edge of a fire escape bolted to the stained and graffiti covered bricks of the alley. The metal ladder creaks as the wind pushes him back and forth. You continue past, going deeper into darkness. Streaks of red and gobbets of flesh decorate the walls, and several more motionless, suit covered lumps litter the alley. Another fluorescent light kicks on, right above a woman in a silver dress. You stop. She is wearing stiletto heels, one of which is broken, and her dress is tight and low cut. Blonds might have more fun, but you always preferred brunettes. Not sure why, just always did. It doesn’t matter in her case, because unless you find her head, you’re never going to know. Another man with an earpiece is lying just past her. His chest is crumpled inwards. You look past the two and see a Pabst can, come to rest at the feet of a man. He is reclining atop several black garbage bags. His shoes are polished and is suit is immaculately tailored and clean, except where his left arm has been ripped off. His unblinking eyes stare upwards as a fly crawls over his pupil. He’s bald and slightly overweight, and you can’t shake the feeling you’ve seen him before. You crouch over him, holding his chin and turning his face carefully from side to side. The fly crawling on his eye buzzes away as you open his mouth and rip out his tongue. A pair of headlights blaze into life about where you woke up in the alley, and you spin around, holding your new prize in both hands and baring your teeth. You see a figure step out of the driver’s seat and beckon you over to the car.
“It’s alright sir. Time we should get back” the man calls out, still waving you over. You stand halfway up and walk over, stepping over what is left in the alley, feet splashing in puddles of blood. You limp because of your injured leg. As you get closer, you can see it is a limousine he is driving.
“They are expecting you sir, don’t want to be late now.” He holds open the back door and smiles. You duck your head and climb in the back of the limo. You slide to the far side of the leather seat and place the severed tongue besides you. The seats are cold, and you wrap your hands around your chest and shiver. The limo shifts slightly as the chauffeur climbs back behind the wheel.
“Sorry sir, I’ll turn the heat up straight away. It won’t be but a few minutes now.” Hot air floods from the vents and you slowly stop shaking. Your eyes still sting, but you can’t find anything to wipe them of with. The ride seems longer than a few minutes. You can’t see much out of the tinted windows, and the driver does not say anything else. You stare at the cracked mosaic that the drying blood leaves on your chest and stomach. The ride is smooth and quiet, and it only stops once. You hear a few murmered words from the driver, and the limo continues on. When the drive pulls over and shuts off the engine, you scoop up the tongue and cup it into your hands, hiding it from view. The chauffeur opens the rear door and smiles again. You step out of the limo and glance left and right. A long driveway, laid entirely in paving stones, disappears behind you as it curls into a forest of tall trees. A mansion stands before you, made of massive stones and punctuated randomly by windows. You lope up the steps at the behest of the chauffeur. The doors of the house tower above you, and they swing open as you approach. They are several inches thick, made of dark wood and studded with metal spikes. The walls inside are plain, undecorated, and the floor is smooth stone which is as cold as the alley. You leave a trail of fresh blood from the wound in your leg as the chauffeur leads you down the main hallway. He passes the doors on the each side, stopping only when he reaches the door at the end of the hall. It is made of a similar wood as the main doors of the mansion. The chauffeur opens it for you and points inside, still smiling. You hug the tongue to your chest and step inside. He closes the door behind you.
There are countless numbers of people inside the auditorium behind the door. You can’t see the ceiling, and the floor, covered now in alternating black and white tiles, slopes down to a small stage where a single man stands waiting. Everyone’s head turns as you walk in, smiling faces hanging over tuxedoes and evening gowns. You crouch again, growling involuntarily. You haven’t had many positive experiences with people dressed in tuxedoes tonight. The man on the stage beckons you forward. A thousand whispered conversations and comments burst into life as you pass by. You are still bleeding from your leg. As you get closer, you notice the man on stage looks exactly like the chauffeur. They could be twins. A single finely carved wooden chair stands next the man on the stage. As you pad up the few steps onto the stage, silence drapes itself over the auditorium. The man on the stage focuses on your clenched fists, hiding the tongue, and you are suddenly embarrassed, aware of everyone’s attention. You shyly open our hands, and he smiles wide and plucks the tongue out of your outstretched palms with two fingers, placing it in his breast pocket. He pats you on the shoulder and guides you to the chair. You face the expectant crowd, and the man on the stage takes a step back and hold his hand over you, as if in benediction. The crowd erupts into wild applause.