“You have sudden sensorineural hearing loss,” the ear-nose-and-throat doctor tells me. When I protest saying that can't be it, that I've felt extreme pressure in my left ear for a month, he explains that this is how some people experience the inability to hear low register sounds.
“How did this happen?” I'm stunned.
“There’s lots of potential causes,” the doctor says, “often we can’t pinpoint what it was, sometimes it’s reversible, sometimes not. In that case, we can always try a hearing aid.”
I nearly cry, it’s one day past my forty-second birthday.
Help.
I'm trapped between a monster and a demon.
The monster is a ravenous black hole, fleshy and pulsating.
The demon is invisible, but I can hear her constantly whispering, moaning, infiltrating my electromagnetic field, sending me messages through my flickering screen.
Let me explain:
I'm going to try to write myself out of this conundrum. I'm going to search for a so called arsenic to lure out the demon behind this text which is this city which is a monster which is my body: writing as exorcism, or maybe as a way to extract a microchip I suspect they have implanted inside me.
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They will consume you again and again through makeup ads and strip club billboards and violently pornographic dead-girl-in-a-bathtub detective shows that emblazon television screens like torches in night-dark houses, like a burning bush in suburbia. Look how sexy your corpse can look, though, bra strap torn across an ashen, blood-smeared shoulder blade. They will follow you around a Walmart even when you are pregnant, watching you. You will grow teeth in the soft places between your fingers, lace keys through them, learn where to strike, tear items off a shelf at a salvage store because some creep is staring at you from the end of an aisle with his dick in his hands –– eat grass, scream, make a scene. The animals are in cages, but all the monsters roam free.
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