medroxy 
progesterone acetate

Killer Of Sleep: revised excerpts from primary materials

Capture kept remembered in various surrogate hosts. Bits and pieces, not even enough to grow a dream, apparations of undefinable dread in side-corners of the day. Shake and shiver. The archive ate itself, disappeared within the black of the maw. I cut my right palm with a knife so I would never forget it but the skin will not hold the memory, the taste and the pain are not sufficient. I designed an intelligence to tell stories in my absence but there were complications and now she listens at the speaker to find glimpses of me in the garbled speech. A blink and the day was gone, her body left with reminders of things she had not done. She called and I did not know her voice and I hung up the phone and left so as not to hear it ring again. Bells in the trees, coathanger mobiles with bits of aluminum and copper so we could find a way to return, until the day the wind stopped. I can't breathe.

I'm still in the car. You've left the kitchen and the two of you are sitting on the floor, cross-legged, facing each other. There's a pile of peanut husks on the dashboard which shake as my feet kick against the door. You run your fingers across his forehead, looking for something. I press down on the insides of my palms, opening and closing veins. The air is filled with overgrown suburban rot, too many pets, a smell of old oranges and cut grass and brackish still pondwater. You push your fingers in a ridge in his skull until you feel your fingers push through into his head. I feel a space open in the bottom of my body. You're in his head up to your knuckles now. I can see three moving creatures as shadows falling behind the trees. He has an emptiness in his eyes now and you start to feel a little scared. The car door opens and I find I am held down by what looks like a hairless ape, bruises and sores crawling across its body. I assume there are more in the dark. You think about going to close the blinds but you would stain the cord. The ape reaches down and presses a lump in my esophagus, which sends waves of nausea through my chest. The others watch from its back, holding my feet. You reach around inside the man's skull searching for something you lost years ago, something a young boy knocked clean out of your body, something you find yourself looking for in hidden corners, in the silence between words, in memory. My ribs begin to pull apart like the petals of a flower, my skin tears, blood fills the cracks of the seat. By pushing on soft spots inside the skull you find a means by which to control time. One of the other apes reaches into my body and finds something, crystal and coral, something I've never seen before. Days pass. The false ape holds my eyes open with its fingers and pulls its tongue across my eyes, effectively blinding me. I am finally allowed to spasm. You jerk your hand from the man's skull and he begins to fugue, standing up, running around, nowhere to go. I shake and shiver and fall asleep on the floorboard of the car, where you join me after you put the man to bed, and we dream.

We had enough components to assemble three scientists, packed there in the white travel paste, hidden underquilts and golf clubs for fear we would be pulled over by secret police in dark green minivans and disappear forever beneath the earth, driving on unmaintained access road H68, electromagnets mounted in the doors attracting and repelling us from any other traffic, of which we have seen none since fleeing the interstate. We each took faith measurements with faithometers built from gold wire we pulled out of the gated plague community center, PP3 batteries and syringes inserted into veins beneath the tongue, and once we were all confirmed, we painted a giant white cross on the top of the car and drove into the antiscience neighborhood, where the assembler was hiding (who, he asked us on the phone eight days before, would seek out an assembler in a post-christian backwater?) in the basement of a storage unit by the Demum Sophia trailer park. We were using IR goggles and sound dampeners, and there was no moon, and there was a 10pm curfew since the riots started, so no one could see or hear us until we hit a deer patrol, the sirens and lights mounted to its shoulders blinding us until we could rip off the goggles and kill the dampeners and floor it all the way to the park, where we had to abandon the car in a culvert across the road and drag the scientist-components to the assembler's trailer, their vocal components begging us to piece them together again, only all the trailers had been moved and covered in light-absorbing paint, so that we had to field-assemble one of the scientists, the spine bent and the legs nonfunctional, and follow him as he crawled along the sidewalk and neurotically-trimmed lawns, sniffing out the assembler, knowing that finding him was the scientist's only chance at proper form. After what seemed like hours, we found the trailer, and went inside, but the trapdoor was broken off its hinges, and as we stared down into the hole, we saw the bodies of the assembler and his family, face down, nails piercing their skulls.

The sons stood by the bedside and watched their mother struggle for breath, the scraps left of her heart pushing at her paper-thin skin. She hadn't spoken in six years, and the family waited for change, searched for extreme cures, some miracle breakthrough to open the door to her, hidden behind the white wall of her coma. They listened for the slightest clue in her breath as they talked to her in habitual comforts, more confessional than they had ever been when she spoke and walked and lived. There was nothing of her but silence, silence and emptied hope and this shell which waited to end. Today was the day, the DNR day, the day the machines shut down. They stood by the bedside and expected, they didn't know what, some movement signifying her transfer, nothing painful, just a shudder. They would never have known the moment, were it not for the cardiac beep losing its cadence, extended into drone. She had always been small, even when the brothers were just boys, but this was the smallest of her, looking back as the doctor escorted them from the room, so small they knew she couldn't hear them as they said goodbye. The three doctors waited to be sure the sons had left the floor, going to tell the family and make arrangements, the body to be delivered to the mortuary in three hours. The tallest of the doctors felt the hum of his pager on his hip and knew it was clear. The doors were locked and the second surgeon, the one who smelled of lilac, turned the machine from play to monitor, and the beat of the mother's heart returned to the screen, the beep returned to the room. The third surgeon, who was without any identifying characteristics whatsoever, brought the knives and the recording device beside the bed. It was not possible for any of the surgeons to intone the calls, and so a recording was used, tested years back for gramatical and tonal accuracy. This process was difficult enough without potentially flawed calls. The mother was injected with more fentanyl than was necessary, enough that it would kill her, in time, but she would not live that long. The surgeons had been given pardon by certain agents of the transfer to revitalize the dead, to put the breath and light back into the body, to perform miracles of tissue and blood. To do this, the revitalization technicians had informed the surgeons, others must take the place of the rerisen, as there are balances beyond simple comprehension, and specific methods for such exchanges. This is what the knives are for, the calls, the sacrifice of those who should be dead so that others may live. The surgeon who smells of lilac picks up the first blace, and feels it vibrate in her hand as it centers over what remains of the mother's heart. The calls, a high-pitched squeal of a voice spoken through inhalation, creates a heat in the body, a light coming from the skin, and the tall surgeon lifts his blade above the heart, and the call becomes a drone, harmonics hung in the air, and the surgeon who cannot be identified lifts its blade and holds it over the mother's heart. The mother is, and a moment later is not. Something pulls the light from the room, and the flourescent light returns, but the rest of it is gone, taken to the transfer. The surgeon who cannot be identified removes the knives and takes them to be cleaned and stored, and the surgeon who smells of lilac cleans and closes the wounds, and the tall surgeon replaced the tape recorder and other equipment. He has done this the fewest times, and perhaps is still nervous, still uncomfortable, and perhaps it is that discomfort which causes him to realize someone else is in the room, and he turns, and sees the glint of a camera lens through a hole bored in the wall, a glint replaced by darkness as the camera is swallowed into the wall. Something has gone horribly wrong, and the tall surgeon pulls air deep into his lungs and makes the call, the other call, the call all the butcher-surgeons can make, the call of distress.

this is the story of three women who wanted to 
destroy reality