i have escaped hell by creating it.

the bullet is devoured and my throat collapses. my ribs split open and a child, bare and bathed in blood, crawls out as i watch from the vents in the bathroom fan. the child is crawling out of the crimson coloured scene and i project myself out of the vents so my naked feet can follow it's clammy handprints.

the child makes it's way to the kitchen. i hear a curse and a wail; my father is dying on the second-hand sofa and the baby is clutching the dagger.

i sob into my father's chest because i need him to wake up so i can finally play baseball with him like he'd always ask. the baby is gone and i run to find it again.

the baby is standing in the garden with my sister and i smile because she looks so lovely when she laughs. when i blink, her head is severed apart and the baby throws aside the shovel.

i scream her name until the syllables tear my tonsils. i scream it because i'd never said it since she left town and i'm howling because she thinks i never cared.

next, we are walking together down the street and the baby knocks on a door. emily jane from 9th grade opens it and i gasp because i'd forgotten how beautiful her eyes really were. i feel like im a boy, savage and scrawny and shy, picking her up for the movies again. the baby leaps into the air and strikes her cheek until the flesh dissolves. my knees buckle and i stroke her raven hair, willing her to breathe, willing her to tell me she forgives me for the night i joked about her friend's cleft lip.

the baby takes my hand and, suddenly, i'm at the pub with the boys and mark has his arm around carl because he's had a rough night. the others chuckle at something he says and i wish i could remember what the joke was. i smile anyways because mark was always funny even when i'd tell him to shut his trap. the baby smashes the beer bottle against mark's head and blood pools from his mouth and i feel like i'm going to be sick because his warm hands turn cold and his eyes won't move anymore.

the baby runs out of the bar and i don't even realise i am shrieking as i follow it. we are at the church and my brother is kissing his bride. the baby is running towards the altar and the axe is splitting both their bodies in half — one by one. i can't breathe at this point and my fists shake as i watch the blood curl around the birthmark on her clavicle. my mind swirls like a tornado as it hurls image after image at me; parking a car by the motel, unbuttoning my pinstriped shirt, tracing the lines of a birthmark, icy blonde hair wrapped around my fingers, my brother punching me in the face, his wife begging him to stop. i can't feel the air in my lungs. i can't feel my hands, my tongue, my knees, my nose, my gut. i open my mouth to tell my brother i'm sorry but there are no words because i remember deleting his number from my phone and i can't recall the digits anymore. what were they? what were they? please...what were they?

they baby drags me along to the hospital and — oh, god. please, please, please, no! the baby sits me down next to my mother's frail body and a lone tear falls down her cheek. the nurse is consoling her; she's telling her that sons are just like that and it'll be okay. i wish i could just crawl back into the vent in that grubby fucking bathroom. my mother's voice is croaky when she tells the nurse that, "no, my boy is sick of caring for me; cancer's not an easy thing to be around." i'm so ashamed i feel as if the hospital ground could swallow me whole with a clinical, corrosive chop. i want to jump into her arms and tell her i love her. i love her so dearly and i'm sorry for the fight earlier, ma, i'm not sick of you, i was just having a bad day.

when the baby holds the revolver to her head, i don't even have the courage to stop him and i see her bleak stare so i close my eyes when the PANG echoes.

when i open my eyes i am in the vent again and the baby is on the bathroom floor. it's body convulses and the bones snap. the flesh expands to wrap around the lengthening limbs and it's jaw opens to welcome a fresh set of teeth. i'm banging my fists against the vent because i recognise my hair, my hands, and my face. i want to lurch out and kill this disfigured man-child. i want to tear him apart for what he's done but suddenly, he looks into my eyes and only then am i purged of my rage.

this is what i've done. i've ruined and ransacked ever memory, every person, every relationship i had. my hands have walked around the earth like the grim reaper's scythe and all this agony sired by me has no reverse. my soul is diseased and when there is a disease, you kill the bacteria to save the body. i have nothing to show for my pain except the bruised belief of everyone who ever loved me; that thought is so haunting that when the me on the floor picks up the gun, i exhale for the first time in my life. i taste the metallic snout of the metal and my last meal is appetized by the memory of my mother's sallow face.