Strange Carcosa

CHARLIE'S DREAMING: DAY 1

I stared at myself.

Mob-Charlie stared back, all made up. Their red lips looked like an open wound, liner and mascara framing their cold blue eyes. Black hair, coiffed. Suit, impeccable. A gun dangled from their manicured hand. Blood dripped from the barrel, pooling by their dress shoes.

Heels clicked as they sauntered forward with the unhurried pace of a predator.

"Say," mob-Charlie grinned, licking their teeth. "What you starin' at, huh?"

I ignored them, looking around the opulent room.

"Hey, cunt." I felt fingers dig into my jaw and choked, forced to look. Smelled booze and luxe cologne, the rust of blood. "I asked you a question."

"You ain't real," I grumbled, and mob-Charlie laughed. I felt something sticky on my cheek—pinpricks of blood seeped from under their nails, beading at their fingertips, and ran in rivulets. It dripped onto my battered coat.

"That's what you think," mob-Charlie grinned. Didn't touch their eyes.

"I ain't you no more," I snarled, shoving them away. I wiped the blood off my face. "So fuck off, huh?"

"Oh," mob-Charlie laughed distortedly, shaking their head. Their waves bobbed. "I sure fucking am. Pretend at being a saint, fella, it don't scrub what you've done."

They fished in their pocket, bringing out a blood-soaked pack of cigs.

Mob-Charlie shook one out; instead of paper it was rolled flesh, stretched till it looked like vellum. A lighter clicked, and the reek of pork spit and fat crackled in the air. I looked away from the black smoke, nauseated.

"Pussy," they sneered, shrugging off their suit jacket. "Fuckin' disgrace, what happened to ya. Makes me sick."

Mob-Charlie's teeth grazed their lip, and they flipped their gun, pointing it at my head.

"You can't do shit to me," I snarled. "Don't bother."

"You're a roach," they sneered. "You just keep comin' back and back."

BANG.

A hole opened up in my head and I staggered, catching myself on a chair before I crumpled. I caught my reflection in a grand mirror—a good chunk of my skull was gone.

"When you gonna learn," they smiled. "When's gonna be the time you join the loonies, for real?"

I wiped some brain off my forehead, staring at it. Blood dripped into my eye, caught on my lashes, and I blinked it away.

"You know your time's up," mob-Charlie jeered. "Nirga's fiddlin'. Hear that? Hear the pipers?"

I did. Faint, just on the edge of my consciousness. I grit my teeth.

"...Pipers can go to hell," I muttered, fishing for my own pack of cigarettes. I put one to my lips and it lit itself. I arched a brow. "You, too."

Mob-Charlie laughed.

BANG.

I went blind in one eye.

"Don't pretend like you don't wanna go back," they dragged on their cig, blowing out the reek of rotting flesh. "It was a high life. It was easy, baby, bein' nothin' but a trigger."

"This is gettin' real tirin', Charlie," I muttered, creaking into a high-backed chair.

"Wipe yourself off," they sneered, jerking their chin. "The Don's coming, and you're a fuckin' disgrace."

I said nothing, grinding my teeth, and shook my half-blasted head. A bit of brain slid out of my skull and plopped onto the table.

They threw their fedora at me. I caught it, canting it over the gaping hole.

The great doors opened. Between two goons glided the Don, tall, dressed in pinstripes. Beautiful as ever, their shaven hair catching the light, eyes the grey of a knife and just as piercing. Despite myself, I held my breath, feeling my heart pound.

Mob-Charlie smirked at me.

"Pay your respects, you fuckin' moron," they scoffed. I just shook my head, a lump crawling up my throat.

The Don snapped their fingers.

Like ghosts, the goons vanished. The doors creaked closed, and it was just us, then—a tear escaped me, cutting a rivulet through the blood on my cheek.

I watched helplessly as they had sex. My eyes lingered on the Don's svelte body, the scars on their chest I had traced so many times, the perfect wetness between their legs. I rubbed my face, staring down at the marble floor. Tears pattered my thigh.