and still more to a point that, oh God, I had never imagined there could be so much pain in all the world, certainly not contained in the stupid simple vessel of my body, my body, and as I wondered why I was still alive my conscious eyes closed, taken by tunnel vision to a vanishing point, but though I couldn’t see I could still feel, oh my yes, oh my God, wouldn’t this ever stop? It didn’t. But I did.
For a while at least.
Piss smell, and a pain in the small of my back. My thighs hurt, the creases at my crotch, an itchy pain that was so puny compared to what I had been feeling before I fainted, or passed out, whatever, it was barely worth noticing. I could see again. I could hear, too, although there wasn’t much to listen to, no more yelling from the other side of the door.
No more voice from the Funhole.
Lying lover-close, almost atop it and my arm still sunk to the elbow, unwilling to test the theory of independent motion, luxuriating in the absence of excruciation: a man of simple pleasures, that’s me. Eventually I would have to move, of course, if only to scratch that god-awful itch between my legs. I must have pissed myself in my pain, and now, best guess, I had diaper rash. I had to laugh at that, a little hoarse chuckle that ended with the beginnings of a retch, then a full-fledged heave and without thinking I sat up, assumed the position, head between knees as I coughed and choked in my dry nausea, nothing coming up.
When it was over I stayed slumped, arms balanced on my trembling knees, until I realized I had moved, my arm was free, and more amazingly free of pain.
Well, I thought. Do you really want to see this?
No.
Look quick and get it over with.
No.
I was afraid to wiggle my fingers, I was afraid I didn’t have them anymore. I was afraid of what the hole, my hole, looked like now, after such intense communion, afraid, at last, not to look; nothing’s worse than not knowing, right?
Right?
And that giggle, from outside, echoing in my ear like a tickling tongue.
I looked.
And retched again, helpless rushing nausea of disgust, my mouth loose and dripping with saliva, and I looked again and couldn’t stop, retching and I couldn’t stop.
No palm at all, now. Nothing but hole, the fingers jutting impossible like the scared tines of a starfish, my wrist protruding beneath like some useless .object left behind in an inappropriate spot. Shaking, all of me shaking, I turned my hand over; the back looked normal, as normal as it ever got. I turned it back again. Hole. Hand. Hole. Hand.
There would be no covering this with a bandage, no. No more hiding possible. The best I could ever hope for would be amputation, self-inflicted naturally, I’ll cut the fucker off, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll throw it down the Funhole, or maybe I’ll tie a string to it and go fishing, talk about your catch of the day and I realized I was talking out loud, muttering, smiling, and a calm tiny part of me said Well, that’s it, you’re finally crazy. Congratulations. You’ve been ridden to the point where all you are is motion. Perpetually. And I stared at my hand, my hole hand, ha-ha, and flexed my fingers to watch them move, amazing, they look just like puppet fingers but where are the strings, hmm? Just where exactly are the strings to—
Boom, the door. Not a knock but a whack, the door itself shuddered and I opened my mouth and heard my voice, curiously distant, ominously dry: “Don’t do that.”
And at once the voice of the mask: “Do that,” pretending to echo, malicious and cool. Voices, not so much answering as talking amongst themselves. Chiefest of course Nakota’s, but somewhere in there, Randy.
So many questions, so little time. I put one hand to my mouth, rubbed it, tried to think what to ask first. “Who’s there?” No doppelganger chorus; I can be grateful for the smallest of mercies; just watch me.
“All of us.”
My hurting forehead against the wood of the door. Ask it succinctly, please: “How many is all?”
“You want me to count?”
Randy’s tentative voice: “There’s a few people out here, Nicholas.” A pause. “Are you okay? You need anything?”
A hand transplant, for starters. Better yet a head transplant, if you can spare one, matter of fact just slide the mask under the door. We talk alike, we walk alike, sometimes we even— Randy was still talking, something about the mask and Malcolm was arguing and suddenly the sound of his voice, his stupid pompous voice, irritated the shit out of me and I said’, “Shut up, Malcolm, or I’ll come out there and I’ll hurt you.”
Silence.
Were they stupid enough to be scared of me? Of me? No one seemed to notice that there was still a big fat lock on the door, or if they did maybe thought I could surmount a detail like that, after all I had melted a camcorder once upon a time, who knew what I had up my sleeve? Besides of course my rapidly deteriorating hand. Another idea came to me: did they think it was me making the mask talk? With my new, improved Funhole superpowers? God damn, was everybody even crazier than me? Leave your love offerings at the door, folks, and don’t forget, tomorrow is Virgin Day.
Laughing, soundless into my hand, my left hand, thank you, and I realized I had to sit down because I felt very weak, very much like falling onto my head. “Randy?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Vanese out there?”
“No.” Dully, “I haven’t, she hasn’t been here in a long time, man.”
“How long?”
Nakota: “You’ve been in there for a long time, Nicholas.”
And how much of that spent unconscious?
How much spent with my hand stuck down the Funhole, conduit for real, absorbing, oh God. She was still talking but I had stopped listening, I sat with my back against the door shaking my head, shaking my head until something she said caught my attention and I asked her to say it again.
“I said, we broke the lock off yesterday morning.” A deep frustration just out of reach, bubbling like lava under the flat planes of her voice. “I wanted to try—”
“What she wanted,” Randy, dry, “was to chain-saw down the door.”
Malcolm, sullenly but with a certain oblique pride: “But the head said no.”
“What head?”
Randy said tiredly, “He means the mask.”
The mask said no. “Randy,” I said, and heard the mask speaking in tandem, a purposely ghostly sound but I ignored it. “Randy, get Vanese. Get her to come here, I don’t care what you have to do. Please,” less entreaty than order, I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry, please. “Please,” I said, and the mask said crisply, “And everybody else, get the fuck out of here.”
Shuffling sounds. People were moving. It was impossible to tell how many were out there by the sounds they made, and I couldn’t count, I couldn’t try, I didn’t even know if I wanted to know anymore. Randy was promising something through the door but I didn’t want to hear it, all I wanted in this world was to hear Vanese’s voice, her comforting scolding older sister’s voice explaining all to me, loaning the incredible belief, and if I was very very lucky she might say everything will be all right, Nicholas, you hear? Everything will be all right.
Silence finally in the hall, and I cried: big sloppy sobs, my chest shook, I was cold all over except the heat of my face and the heat of my tears, oh Jesus God I just want out of this but it’s top late, isn’t it? It’s much too late, wiggling my puppet’s fingers, staring at the little Funhole in my hand and wondering what might come out of it, one fine day, one fine exhausted moment when—