Page 349 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

with my share of unreality, I was still nearing the end of my
respective tether. I had lost so much blood along with my
skin, and my mind was already piled three times its weight
in painful recollection. Not to mention the visionary in me
could barely see the artist for the gallery—so much wonder
and beauty. It was nearly paralyzing.
Hide applied little thought to his attack, likely due to my
severely compromised state. I couldn’t blame him for that,
but my weakened state differed largely from the depleted
conditions suffered by lesser artists. He shouldn’t have
confused the two. When at last his hands were around my
neck, hoisting me from the earth, my own hands were busy
prying up the lower portions of his rib cage. A clear red line
of sutures secured my skin to his, and they strained and
popped as I peeled my flesh from their moorings. Where the
stitching was once merely shallow pock marks along Hides
abdomen, they were now gaping flesh wounds, rivulets of
blood pouring from their lengthy tracks.
It took only a moment for me to force my questing hands
inside his body, finding the edges of his ribs. Hide, either
to his credit or foolishness, paid no heed to my burrowing
hands, and continued to lift me, my grip upon his bones
supplying enough counterforce to disallow my placement
above his head. It was then only a matter of placing my boot
upon his chest, using him for the necessary leverage, and
pulling backwards with all my might, ribcage in hand. His
bones came away like roots pulled from the dirt, with the
colorful exception of all the red spillage and wet snapping
sounds.
Hide released me, roaring more from indignation
than pain, it seemed. I rose back to my feet and held out
my prizes. I filtered my speech through the paradoxical
powers of the Red Dream, allowing my lipless words to be
understood. “You took so much from me, yet left me only
with your face—so I decided to take something more from
you to balance the scales.”
352 | Mark Anzalone