Short Story: Who, Who, Who

There’s singing in his head. Singing a lullaby to him as blood drains and drips from his body. Drip, drip, drips until he feels empty. Then it refills his veins with a burst of energy. Light covering him and wrapping around him with its icy grip of pain. White, white, white in his eyes and in his mind. White, white, white contrasting the red, red, red of his blood drip, drip, dripping. Or is it flow, flow, flowing, at this point? He’s not sure. Not sure of anything. Not even sure if it hurts. It probably hurts. Does it hurt?

        More singing. Sirens beckoning him to death. Sirens whispering his secrets to him. Sirens darkening the light. Glowing teeth, dying eyes, shallow breaths. Swish, swish, goes their tales. Swish, swish, goes their bodies. La, La, La, goes their voices. La, La, La they sing. Come home, they’re beckoning, return to what you once knew, they’re whispering. Genteel touches. Vicious bites. Icicles in his eye sockets. And white, white, white contrasting red, red, red.

            Feeling comes back to his limbs. His toes. His fingers. Little things that wriggle with blood. Cold. So cold. Frostbite is his first thought. Or his second. Or his third? His sixty-sixth thought. But what were the other thoughts? It’s his first thought. No… his third.

            Warmth in his chest. Stocky. Uncomfortable. Stiff. Pump, pump, pumping his blood. Beat, beat, beating him to life. Cycling. Cycling, cycling, cycling through every stage of life. Every stage of death. Every stage that wants him to visit their watery tombs where the sirens La, La, La. Their eyes are bleeding red; teeth glow brighter; voices scream louder. La, La, La sounds their screams. La, La, La sounds their laughter.

            Something should be coming. Right about now a shark should wrap around them to grasp their little tails in its teeth and shake its head back and forth, back and forth. Left-right, left-right. Blood and scales and flesh. Float, float, floating in the water. Staining the white, white, white which is contrasting the red, red, red. Their voices are still screaming La, La, La. They don’t stop—won’t stop—can’t stop. Stop is not a command here. Stop does not exist in his mind or theirs.

            Change, shift, manipulate—that is all he can do. But not much—not well. He’s not in control, after all, he is not the master of his own self. Not anymore. Not for a long time—a short time?—not since he saw the Siren with her dead eyes and glowing skin. The Siren who dug her little claws into his chest and dragged him under until he forgot which way was up and which way was down. He can’t see her face—but he can see her. Can he? She’s somewhere. Somewhere in that murky lake that is his mind (or is it just the water?). Somewhere floating around in a throne of her own creation with her fingers in his brain commanding his next movement.

            When he comes close, he sees the white, white, white stained red, red, red. Blood. His. Too much. Yet he’s not dead. Not yet. Not until she’s satisfied.

            Loop, loop, looping. Cycle, cycle, cycling around in a perfectly perfect circle of perfection. Drawing him away, away, away from that central point he always finds himself going toward. Away, away, away from something that is telling him to look closer at the white, white, white. Closer at the red, red, red—closer at the blood, blood, blood. The Siren isn’t so close to the center. The Siren isn’t so close to the color. The Siren does not glow with immortality.

            The Siren does not. The Siren is a mem-

            Red, red, red. Staining White, White, White. The Sirens are singing La, La, La. He wants to rip out their teeth and dig them into his brain until their singing shuts the hell up.

            Tick-tock goes the clock. Tick-tock beats his dying heart. Tick-tock beats the lullaby in someone’s heart. Someone far away. Someone away. Someone. Far. Someone.

            She’s waiting. Is he waiting?

            Who’s waiting?

            What’s waiting?

            Why??

            La, La, La, little boy.

            Fuck, fuck, fuck you, little bitch.

            Beat, Beat, Beat goes his heart. Beat, Beat, Beat is his fist against the prison. Beat, Beat, Beat is his mind against his skull. Beat, Beat, Beat is his flesh against the walls. Beat, Beat, Beat is her voice in his brain. Beat, Beat, Beat, in his memory.

            Wait, wait, wait is her voice. Don’t go, is her begging voice. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-

            Scream, scream, scream goes his voice. Scream, scream, scream goes his voice. Scream, scream, scream goes his voice. Scream, scream, scream goes his voice.

            Scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, scream, screamscreamscreamscreamscreamscreamscreamscreamscream.

            Silence.