My eye has been foraged by hungry octopus tentacles, their head is a heavy purse jingling as it approaches me, naked for my eye to see and shutter in utter horror. I walk into my mother’s bedroom to tell her about my pain. She looks away as soon as I enter. My eye, blood red, itches. An executioner sits behind my mother, smiling and laughing behind his hooded mask. His sword lying sharply on the bed, and the octopus tentacles with a purse for a head is in the distance, approaching ominously, promising a tragedy.
Give me an arrow or a balloon. I’m desperate. Give me a bullet without a gun, a gun without a bullet. Give me hands and feet. Give me a body. Show me a mirror. Build a wall. Grant me a word.
I itch my eye and it bleeds. Vision is partly impaired by the smear of blood on the retina. My mom wears fur and the executioner teases her with his sharp sword, causing scratches not deep enough to make her bleed. But the fur cladding her skin becomes bloody with pongy vermillion liquid, soaked and heavy around her. I can see her drowning expression, but I can only hear the executioner’s laughter, steady and monotonous, timeless, an ever repeating still-image in the cerebrum of my mind.
I feel worms crawling inside my mind. My temples, my forehead. Veins tickle me and shiver as if they’re going to pop after the next shudder. Blood is circulating heavily, pumped by an out-of-control muscle.
Mother, just get up and stop. But she just coughs nonstop, black carbon exuding from her smoky mouth. The executioner laughs.
The octopus is near, just out the window, floating on the mist of my imagination. Yellow octopus with rainbow-coloured tentacles, promising to pull and suck my eye which leaks blood like a tissue torn out of the body, cut obliquely by a butcher.
The executioner holds his sharp sword in his long flat hands, and strikes the floating octopus. My eye tightens on whatever nerves it is still connected to. I move. The executioner is laughing as he cuts off another tentacle.
My mother screams, NO, stay away, he is not to blame. He is not here for you. He is here for me.
I reach out for the liberating tentacle of the yellow octopus which holds on to my eye and savours blood and goo. The executioner’s timeless laugh stops and a bell tolls. The sword swings and cuts off the dangling sucking tentacle coming out of huge purses.
Piss discharges from the lacking-purse. The bed becomes a pool of slimy liquid which absorbs my mother and the now-silent executioner downwards. The tentacle stuck on my eye falls in the pool and takes my eye along with it. My mother holds it and uses it to close her maternal laceration which bleeds. My eye gets stuck straight in the hole and I see through it, through the dark es-sense of my mother.
Mother fucker. Knowledge is made for cutting.
I grab the sharp sword and swing it across above the pool. A head catapults and I hear the laughter of the executioner as he drowns in the pool of slime with the decapitated head of my mother, closed by my all-seeing transcendental eYe.