Crimson: Introduction

Crimson has come home. Into the bathroom, she lights candles and incense, draws water. Discarding her outer clothes, washing off makeup, then her undergarments, she peels away the face her clients see. Submerged in warm, soapy water, her post-work ablations, removing yeasty sin, repeat.

After all traces of the day have been removed, skin covered only with alien scents, obscured by shadowy candlelight, can Crimson be peaceful, even while alone. Muscles pacified; the skin releases its death grip on bones. When the lids fully descend a nigh inaudible sigh echoes off tile.

Suddenly Crimson becomes aware; she was asleep, now underwater. Attempting to rise, realization comes; there is no threat of suffocation. A new horror takes its place as her body fails her, she cannot move. Looking up at the orange glowing ceiling tiles, Crimson helplessly flows down the drain as she dissipates in the water.

A nightmare rollercoaster ride in the dark, three dips in quick succession, then a plummet. On landing, Crimson splatters and stretches as the solution she has become spreads across the surface. There is nothing seen in the dark, but it stinks. No longer submerged, lying on a slime bed, it is apparent by her cylindrical shaped prison, Crimson is in a pipe. With some exertion, she reaches up the sides, all the way to the apex. Feeling along the "ceiling," Crimson finds a vertical rise not far from the landing point. Finding a tiny crack in the pipe, she delays. Contemplating turning around, a wave of water crashes down the pipe. The dreadful feeling of dissipation returns, and passes with the wave. Exerting what correlates to adrenaline in this perverse condition, liquid Crimson anchors against the walls. With fragile confidence, she turns to look out the pipe opening.

Looking up is the dirty, saggy faced bum sitting, appearing irritated. A blonde mop of hair obfuscates his unshaven face, turning to face two items before him. Lit by a small fire, at his feet are a receptacle of liquid and a skinned carcass. He puts the animal remains in the liquid and begins fingering matches. There is a pile of crumpled phone book pages under a lean-to of cardboard. By fire light, dirty and calloused hands, maybe a bit too thin, do not show aging. The fire maturing, the bum puts some twisted piece of metal wiring over it and the mystery meat atop that. He leans against the brick wall with a look of contentment. As his face relaxes, it is clear to Crimson he is middle aged, though worn and haggard with stress.

© Michael Mosher