If he were to describe it to someone, he couldn’t. It was quick and it happened at a speed light couldn’t even compete with. He knew he would always remember these spilt seconds with the amount of accuracy people remembered tragic things. Donald saw a creature or whatever it was leap out from the scattered leaves on the floor. He could have sworn that what was beneath the leaves was bare ground, dry and a little cooler than the hot brown sand around it, but bare ground all the same. But he saw it. He saw the devil in purple, shiny skin—something deep, dark and ancient—leap out immediately Joshua’s piss hit the dry mass of leaves on the ground. And the devil, in its oily, linty covering followed the curve of Joshua’s urine, enveloping the full length of his penis and vanishing as it did.
It was as if the barrier of Joshua’s skin and all that calcium and phosphorous that held the bones of his pelvis together were nothing. The creature drilled through without sound, without stress. Joshua’s scream didn’t make it to his throat. Instead, his face, white with the makeup of shock and death, stood suspended in time, staring, not into the dying verdure that stretched out in front of him, but into the eyes of the grim reaper which only he could see. His gaping mouth, minute in comparison with the hole that now stood between his legs, slowly closed. Donald eyes, fixed by shock on the perfect circle of blood and flesh and bones and white tissue, blinked at the horror. He saw Joshua’s knees quake and the tiny flesh that connected his legs together drip blood as his legs closed. It was as Donald’s eyes followed the blood to the ground that he realised that blood was the only thing from Joshua on the ground. It dropped, red and watery, thickening into a dark viscous red as it touched the sand. Joshua’s penis and most of the mass of cells that were his buttocks had simply disappeared. Only the portal between Joshua’s front and his rear was.
Donald felt his strength return as Joshua’s lifeless body made its descent to the floor. He felt his legs quiver as he set to run. He grabbed his penis—which was still pumping yellow urine to the ground a short distance from Joshua’s corpse—nervously pulling it back into the safety of his trousers. And then he felt it. It was cold, icy and then suddenly warm. It tickled him, hardened him and then he felt nothing. As pain replaced the feeling of nothingness, he knew: in truth, he would not remember. He would never recount this horror to anyone. And if he did, it would not be in this world.
© Joseph Bravo 2018.