Brian Evenson

I wonder sometimes how much of what I think I know is embroidered falsely upon these images, is my mind working with what it was given to create another, fuller, more promising world.

A twelve?”
“That’s right,” said Gous, then rattled off in a schoolboy’s voice, “Leg, toe, toe, toe, toe, toe, left arm, finger, finger, ear, eye, ear.”

A twelve?”
“That’s right,” said Gous, then rattled off in a schoolboy’s voice, “Leg, toe, toe, toe, toe, toe, left arm, finger, finger, ear, eye, ear.”

The room was large, Spartan in furnishing: a bed sitting low to the floor, a low desk, a small bookshelf, a reclining chair. In the latter sat a man wearing a bathrobe. He was missing an arm and a leg, his robe cut away and left open at shoulder and hip to reveal the planed surfaces, hardly stumps at all. The other arm and leg were intact, though the hand was missing all but two of its fingers, the foot all but the big toe. Both ears, too, had been cut off, leaving only a hole and a shiny patch of flesh on either side of the head. One eyelid was open, revealing a piercing eye, the other closed but deflated, the eye under it clearly absent.

“May I ask who was murdered?”
“A man called Aline,” said Borchert. “He organized this community, this brotherhood. A prophet, a visionary. Both arms lopped off at the shoulder, legs gone, penis severed, ears removed, eyes removed, tongue cut partly out, teeth removed, lips peeled away, nipples sliced off, buttocks gone. Anything that could be removed removed. A true visionary. Murdered.”

Gous’ cheek on the pillow, just next to his own eye, was the last thing he would remember until, hours later, he awoke, alone, to the sight of his bandaged foot, the bandages already steeped with blood. Even then it was not until he felt the dressings with his remaining hand that he realized that three of his toes had been removed.

In the bed, a mutilated head rode on the pillow, the rest of the body covered by a blanket. He knelt down beside it. The eyes had been dug out, the lids cut off as well. The ears had been shorn away to leave two whirls of slick pink flesh. The nose, too, was gone, leaving a dark gaping hole. The lips seemed to have been gnawed mostly away, perhaps by the teeth that now loomed through their gap.

On the wall directly across from him were two paintings which, despite gilt frames, seemed remarkably out of place. One was a simple portrait of a man’s head, except the face had been gouged out to leave a pink, cone-shaped hole. The other, all grays and browns, showed a man wearing a leather helmet, leg amputated to the middle of his thigh. One arm was mostly missing, the other arm either partly missing or wrapped up and invisible. He was either blind or his eyes had rolled back into his head. He was either singing or screaming, Kline couldn’t say which. Beside him lay a woman partly swallowed by a cloth bag, lying in a puddle of blood.

They drove in silence for the better part of an hour, Kline letting his gaze flit occasionally over to Gous, who hardly moved.
“What’s this all about, Gous?” Kline finally asked.
“Please,” said Gous. “Call me Paul.”

They drove in silence for the better part of an hour, Kline letting his gaze flit occasionally over to Gous, who hardly moved.
“What’s this all about, Gous?” Kline finally asked.
“Please,” said Gous. “Call me Paul.”