August 2007
I almost vomited. And yet, my eyes returned, again, with a cave-man fascination for gruesome gore. Like a disfigured body that lies beaten, dismembered, and holds the eyes captive in disgusted awe. It is not beauty that enthralls us. It makes us smile, laugh, love and ponder, but it does not hold us. For ugliness is truly fascinating: we worship it. It makes us stand and stare, and cluck our tongue in thankfulness for being spared the misfortunes of others. It is the shock and awe of journalism; a break from perfect people and monotonous life. It is the guilt of an excited adrenaline rush when catastrophic events call for true remorse. And so, my eyes flitted from gruesome detail to the ground at my feet, never gazing long enough to feel compassion, but always straying back as if pulled by magnetic attraction. Her mangled flesh, an open-air autopsy of breathing tissue. Tendons, shedding their sheath in white frothy puss, quiver blinking from mole-like depths. Like a grenade had gone off in her chest, the hole gapes: as if some mad animal came in the night to feed, and left her rotting body for another meal. A vampire, perhaps, who keeps his victim’s blood alive — or else some poor soul had taken a rusty saw to her limb, but didn’t quite have the stomach to finish the job. This is a World War battlefield.
A swamp of living rot attacks my nose. In defense, I grab at my sweater, shoving my face within its depths, trying to drown this dying fish. It is a rotten salmon, sunbathing on river rocks, empty holes pecked clean by passing birds where once it saw, and swam. But here, too, it assaulted me. I was Grenouille, unable to escape the stench of life. The air grew moist, and heavy, as I gasped for breath through open mouth. But even swallowing had a putrid taste. I was in an Auschwitz gas chamber, lungs burning, as all around the gasping, clawing bodies crawl in vain for clear air. But it wasn’t flaring chemicals. It was scurvy, dysentery, and the cholera. A 19th century vessel, strewn with moaning, gagging corpses, their hollow eyes screaming for mercy from salted expanse.
She turned to me, with doe-like eyes, and took a step. She begged me to pet her, stroke her neck, and tell her everything would be OK. She could not see what I could; she could only feel the pain. She stood in her volatile cloud, and whimpered. I gagged. I couldn’t help it.
Leave a Reply