Sixteen Small Deaths by Christopher J. Dwyer

mulberry. My body throbs and each jolt from her hands twists my veins until they pop and collapse. Her hand stuck to my bare chest, she slides it down to my pelvis, leaving a path of gashed skin and boiling blood. The virus is frightened and subdued. Even its powerful grip can’t stave off execution at the hands of the angel.
    The hair dangles in front of her face like charred icicles, her cheeks as white as virgin snow. The other hand digs into the new chasm between my chest and stomach. She pulls out a handful ofmy insides, steaming hot blanket of angry blood slithering away from the mess. She shows her teeth and in only three seconds does she stand up again. My hands wobble in the mud before the bone erupts from below the skin. She lifts a finger to the air and my body slides along the grass until the sound gives out to a wall of black noise.
    The curves and lines of a miscible disk of light penetrate my final visions. My eyes follow the comet trail of red dust dancing above my face. Night burns into a cavern of lost echoes, breaths swept away in a muddle of melting static.

The Sound of Gray
    A sparkling crackle of wind bursts through the open window in a short fuse of firecracker pops and rogue waves of moonlight. I count to four and tip the barrel of my gun to the sky, watch the cherry tip of her hair fall to the sidewalk like a glowing cigarette spinning downward into a concrete ashtray. Deep breaths slither through my lungs with the force of dozen dying angels. I drop the gun on the carpeted floor and sit in the corner of the bedroom, close my eyes and wait for the broken universe in my head to split through the center of my skull.
    Her name was Delilah and she’s one of three people that are responsible for killing my wife.
    I light a match and watch a twisted trail of gasoline and dust flicker into a dancing ray of fire and crimson. The apartment door slams behind me and for only a second can I hear Delilah’s final words echo in the empty crevasse of lies and gray ash under my boots. Quick stomps and I hurry down the staircase to the lobby, past the doorman with a wink and a smile. He has the eyes of a wounded soldier. In only a few minutes he’ll hear something pop and explode and forget who I am.
    Night tosses a tidal wave of cool air into my face, a blanket of burgundy clouds twirling in the sky like comet trails of blood. I fetch a smoke out of my jacket pocket and light its tip with the final match in the box. Nicotine swirls in my lungs and the moment is gone, behind me like a river floating out to sea. I won’t take my chances hailing a cab this late at night but I can smell the oncoming storm of rain and thunder. It sticks to the air like burnt sugar.
    Time floats past me on the sidewalk in the form of a thousand blurred faces. Slivers of black static glow with the wrinkled echoes of abandon, the loss of hope bruised into every lonely ghost. I finish my cigarette and toss it into a puddle of ash andrainwater, smoldering decay dissipating into the radiant blush of downtown’s neon globes. I ignore the floundering voices in the back of my head, try to flush them out with my wife’s sweet whispers. She’s been dead for ten weeks and I’m worried if I sleep long enough I’ll forget what she sounded like.
    I find my way to The December Club on the corner of Tremont and Boylston. I nod at the bartender and she waves a tattooed palm to the dirty air. The elevator takes me to the third floor. My room is on the very edge of the right side of the building, past the ice dispenser and cigarette machine. I slide the key into the lock with one hand and draw my gun with the other. I’m greeted with the thrush of silence. Shavings of moonlight peek into the room and slice the wooden floor into a dozen broken pieces. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the odd hum of exploding stars and a moon that’s slowly drifting away from its mother.
    #
    Eyes open to the bright edges of a liquid sky. I roll off the