Droop or: the story of a long faced man

An Equally Simple Dismissal

I woke feeling refreshed and inspired. For the first time in far too long I had a purpose. I had a reason to live. It all started with peeling the skin from Henry's old bones. I hoped that he would willingly let me help clean him but I guess he was still traumatized from the earlier shower, even if he probably didn't remember much. He was still barely lucid and I knew I risked losing him at any moment. He had lost plenty of blood already but none of that mattered considering what I had planned.

The man in the hat had explained that I needed to clean the bones of my friend in order to clean his soul. Only then would he be able to help me with my face and, in turn, save my marriage. It all started with the first cut.

Maybe he was already too weak. Maybe he died as soon as the blade pushed through his old, leathery skin. Maybe the yellow suited, man in the hat killed him. Whatever the truth, my friend was dead on my floor. Blood spilled from more wounds than I remembered inflicting. The state of my carpet terrified me. I had no idea how the stains could ever come out and was lost in a fog of future potential cleaning products when the man pushed back into my mind. I say pushed, but it was more welcome than that, he slipped through like a sliding door, signaling his entry with a wave of his hand. Returning it back to me with an equally simple dismissal. His message delivered as intended.

I dragged Henry's body into the bathroom, past my wife's shrieking eyes, and into the tub. I didn't want to make more of a mess than I already had. I knew gutting the old man was going to be a miserable situation but the man in the hat made it clear that I had no choice. I left to the garage, searching out a nice, sharp saw and an old tarp I usually used to change my oil on. Back when I had a car. Back when I liked to go around town and see the people scurrying about.

Now the tarp was nothing but a reminder of a world that would no longer understand me.

Back in the bathroom, I shoved the tarp beneath the wrinkled old man. I pulled his clothes off, leaving his underwear, and any shred of dignity or respect left between us. The man in the hat sat on the couch. Maybe he was showing respect in his own peculiar way. I put the saw against Henry's naked thigh. I looked at the indent it made, still no blood, no tearing of flesh. And then it happened.

My arm moved in and out, finding a groove, cutting until I felt the blade scrape on bone. I changed positions and began again. I turned the saw horizontally and connected the slits. Repeating this process several times I was able to remove large sections and saved myself an entire evening of gruesome behavior. I finished in under two hours. I stood back to admire my work.

Laying in a pool of blood were the final remains of Henry R. Felch, a mass of pearly white bones. The cleanse had begun. The man in the hat, hidden behind his yellow, sent a smile into my head. A telepathic pat on the back for a job well done.

In the guest room, my wife began to moan. I went to her side as any good husband should, placing my hand gently into hers. Blood from Henry dripped over her hand, spilling onto the bed, spoiling the soft white sheets. Her eyes stayed closed and she let small breaths escape from her trembling lips. I tightened my grasp on her hand.

I looked down at my clothes and shuddered at the state I was in. My shirt was soaked through with blood, chunks of my friend sticking sporadically. My hands stained with an unclean substance. But I was going to fix all that. Forever.

I stood in the bathtub, kicking Henry's bones around as I washed his mess from my skin. I scrubbed until I felt raw, red welts splashing onto me. I lifted my left hand to my miserable face and pulled until I felt skull. I hadn't felt pain in a while. I hadn't felt much of anything for a long time. My face splashed into the overflowing bathtub, clogged with pieces of flesh, hair, muscle fiber, and brain matter, all mixed into the bloody stew I was standing in.

I stepped out, tracking crimson footprints across the floor and went to view myself in the mirror. I smiled at the sight of my partially skinned face, a step in the right direction to cleanliness.

I walked back into the guest room to check on my wife. Her lack of attention when I clutched her hand worried me, and I wanted to make sure the yellow man had kept his word. He assured me that she would be taken care of, and in a way, I suppose she was.

Two bloody steps into the door I saw the yellow man, covered in red, standing over my wife. What was left of her was spread among the furniture. Her left hand lay unattached on the floor, one of her legs, disconnected and partially cleaned, folded into the chair. Her face was gone, now just a messy collection of muscle, shredded and torn on her skull. I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. I tried to close my eyes but the yellow man forced them open, directing my will with his mind.

He wanted me to watch. He wanted me to need to watch. I had to look away.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of clarity that fell victim to the intense pain in my face. Instantly, and without explanation, I understood what was going on.

I saw the body of my wife, ripped apart, and partially skinned. Images of my surrogate father, my oldest friend, dying by my hands. I fell to my knees and curled. I cried, and with much distress did I ask the yellow man for a reason.

"You are not yet fit to know. Only half of your face has taken to the truth. Part of you still holds on to that old worthless self. Your true potential is only revealed with true commitment. Only then can you know the reason."

I collapsed. The yellow man stood over me. His hand reached out, and I fell asleep.