I didn’t know that blood had its own smell before the accident. It wasn’t until I leaned in really close, hoping to find some last words hidden within the wheezing and gargling. I held her ruined head close enough that her breath tickled my ear before disappearing entirely. Her blood felt like warm water and flowed freely over my trembling hands. I just held her and watched in a helpless daze, as the crimson pool bloomed on the wet pavement.
The smell would always come first. Well not the exact smell, not quite as fresh. It had a foul earthy stench that would hang thick in the air and solidify as metallic paste on the back of my tongue. When I smelled the blood, I knew she was close. I was gripped by fear and anticipation before her pale hand crept up the foot of my bed. I was paralyzed, drenched in sweat and struggled to obtain a full breath.
Her small hand remained feminine and delicate despite the patches of flesh riddled with embedded gravel. She’d grip the sheets and drag herself up the bed. Twisting herself in the fabric as she crawled on broken limps. I never see her eyes; they never stray from their target. Instead she leaves me staring into the giant wound that occupies the top of her head.
Over the course of our night visits, I watched the blood gradually crack and disappear. Little remained now but dry flakes, desperately clinging to the hair directly around the massive gash. I had a much clearer view of the damage this way. I could see the flaps of her scalp that had come loose from the skull over time. They swayed and lifted as she awkwardly pulled herself onto me.
The darkness used to hold the key to my salvation. All I had to do was close my eyes. Once I shut out the light, she’d be waiting. I’d see her face: smiling, comforting and most of all alive. It was the adult equivalent to pulling the blankets over my head. Now when I close my eyes her wound waits in the darkness. No matter how hard I focus, it’s always just that gaping hole inching closer to me.
That’s why my eyes are always wide open when she takes me into her mouth. In life she approached the act with apprehension and even then, I assumed, mostly to appease me. Now her motives seemed altogether different. She seemed to revel in it; to crave it.
My stomach ached; where pleasure may have once been, an intense guilt now tugged at my insides. I felt guilty for not hating it. It killed me that I didn’t miss her as much when she was with me this way.
The bile would constantly be inching its way up my throat. Tiny flaps of skin waved to me in unison as her head bobbed. No matter how hard I tried, or how much it sickened me. Despite any amount of guilt or lust or resentment towards the vile act, I couldn’t pry my eyes away from her wound.
Sometimes I’d catch glimpses of her brain; moist mounds glimmering just beyond the cleft of gnarled flesh. I could see where the skull had been forced apart; fragments of bone no doubt still lodged within.
When tears clouded my vision I’d catch the twinkle of eyes staring from within the cranial dungeon, hiding just beyond the flesh and bone. Could they belong to the child that may have existed in our doomed future? I half expected pudgy hands to grip the edges of her skull and my son to struggle free. He’d wiggle and pull until he dropped out onto my stomach.
Of course, the eyes always disappear; fade away back into the organic landscape. They’d leave me alone with her wound and my precious guilt.
In the morning, my penis would be glued to my thigh. A shriveled mess of semen, saliva and Christ knows what else. All the mystery, fear and excitement of the night before seemed miles away; only my guilt holds strong.
I’d give my life just to hear her voice again, even if it was just to argue. I’d take anything…anything but this…
___
© 2008 David Lounsbury
David Lounsbury is the author of several pieces of short fiction that you’ve probably never read. Hailing from Niagara Falls, Canada his work has been featured on Nossamorte.com and in The Anthology of the Living Dead by Triad publishing. Look for his first novella ‘Concrete Womb‘ due out next year. When not writing David spends his time working as a natural gas techinician and tattoo artist.
Tags: David Lounsbury, sex, zombie
January 9th, 2009 at 7:13 am
i love the way this story moves..it is set up so that the horror increases
with the healing. It is both fantasy & reality in a fight of dread.
wonderful work! really enjoyed the read!
January 9th, 2009 at 11:01 am
The word selection and the flow of your story drew me in immediately. The imagery was so well done I felt as though I was in the scene, so much so that my stomach became queasy. I found myself reading Her Wound to the end. Although this would never be a genre I would choose to read, the story is so well done that you have changed my mind. The changing of a reader’s mind is no small feat!
Well done David !
January 9th, 2009 at 1:27 pm
One of the more unusual stories I’ve read in a while. Nice work!
January 9th, 2009 at 3:22 pm
Lounsbury’s work tears away at the human soul. His grisly, fast-paced narratives punch you in the balls, and drag you down into a sick and desolate world. His remarkably-poignant characters pose as disturbing archetypes for the inexorable evil and suffering within us all. I enjoy reading all of his work.
January 10th, 2009 at 10:33 am
HER WOUND by David Lounsbury is an exceptionally well-written story that takes the reader line to line on a smooth ride only good writers like Lounsbury can offer. I enjoyed it very much.
Sal Buttaci
January 10th, 2009 at 10:37 pm
Thank you all so much for your kinds words. I really appreciate it.
January 11th, 2009 at 4:38 pm
Excellent, Dave!
January 18th, 2009 at 12:40 pm
Incredibly written. The bile crept up my throat a bit, but I suppose that means you did your job!