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Splitting Headache

By Paul DeCirce

Joshua's headaches didn't stop Wanda from jumping his bones. She'd screw him headache or not. Then, after a while, it got worse and they didn't screw at all. She just stared at the ceiling at night. Sleeping was impossible with his tossing next to her and his complaining. Something would have to be done.

So she took him to the doctor. They did a head scan and it came back nothing. He told Joshua to drink more water.

But the doctor didn't have to be at home with him. Wanda did, and soon she hated his guts for being sick and hated her own because she didn't have the guts to put him out. She'd just try to tend him, while at the same time thinking of the tattoos belonging to Brad, the new line cook at the restaurant. She'd smooch Joshua's wrinkled forehead, tell him to get some rest and then, thank god, she'd be out the door to work. At least there some people didn't need constantly from her.

Joshua lay, day after day, on the couch. The strong Tylenol the doctor prescribed him took the burning edge off, made it bearable around the ridges of his eyes. He watched the horror of daytime television, flipped lazily from each sickening channel to the next, hating it all.

On the tenth day he watched Wanda slam the front door, leaving in a huff. She was undoubtedly further disappointed in his condition, and his disinterest in sacrificing to please her physically or emotionally. The pain was just too great; he couldn't focus on anything but the spikes driving through his brain.

Though the doctor told him nothing was wrong, he knew better. This was no dehydration. In the thick fog over his mind he kept hearing the sound of Wanda slamming the front door. It reverberated in his mind, adding to the throb. He could only lie back and work the remote to forget the pain. Court TV. Shopping Channel. Oprah.

He turned it off in disgust. The prospect of any more days like this depressed him. He looked on the coffee table for the remnant of the joint he'd smoked with Wanda before she'd gone to work. He fumbled with it, lit it and sucked until his fingers burnt. It wasn't helping.

He got up and went to the window, kicking debris along the floor. He didn't have any kind of savings, couldn't just go to a specialist; he figured he was screwed. He parted the blinds of the front window and looked out to the sleepy street; a stray dog trotted by, his tongue lolling.

"Want to get out and get some fun?" He said aloud. He snuffed in response and turned away from the window. He walked through the dining area of the kitchen and turned into the bathroom, starting himself a bath. He looked at his face in the cabinet mirror; his eyes were red and dim. He rubbed them until he saw stars, then looked again. He almost didn't recognize himself. His eyes seemed furious, reddened like an old man's.

Stripped naked he sat down into the lukewarm water. Goosebumps rippled along his upper arm and he sank down, trying to warm himself. Lying back, he looked up at the light bulb and noticed a moth trapped inside the frosted glass shade; it was weak and in its death throes.

His head throbbed in time with each twitch of the bug; its landing on the glass was a crashing thunder in Joshua's mind. He rubbed the base of his palms into his eyes.

"What is happening to me?" He asked. The bug stopped moving, dead now. The pulsing didn't slow, though; each pound in his skull was like long tin wings slapping down onto a concrete floor.

He reached up to his head and pulled at his hair, digging to find the flesh covering his skull. He pulled at it, whining, and soon the pressure of his pushing was too much, and he let himself sink below the water. Beneath the surface, his headache pounded and amplified, and soon his scalp was sore from his pulling. He gave up on it and got into bed, not bothering to dry off.

The next morning was no different. Wanda had given up the façade of compassion now, and just watched him with disgust as he groaned.

"Why don't you just go to the emergency room if it hurts so bad?" she asked, picking up her purse.

He watched her leave again, and closed his eyes. Days were passing now and the pressure didn't subside. It only worsened, and soon Joshua was having conversations with himself to avoid the pain.

"Why don't you go? Where? To the emergency room?" He looked around the filthy apartment, as if reacting to someone speaking to him. "Why the hell would I want to go to such a shitty place?" And so on he went, talking and answering himself all day.

He'd finally passed out in bed when Wanda got home. She'd brought Brad from the restaurant home. When Joshua came out into the hallway, only in his pajama bottoms, he stopped at the sight of them. They were smoking a bowl, and she was laughing at something Bradley had said. Joshua recognized him; it was the new assistant manager's little brother.

He used to be the assistant manager. Now I'm home on the couch with a blinding migraine, and she's bringing home guys from the bar, he thought. He went into the bathroom, ignoring them, and turned on the ceiling fan to drown them out.

He looked himself in the mirror; I'm changing, he thought. I don't look like this. He ran his fingers over his mouth. His eyes, they were red again, enraged. Why was there such hatred in my eyes? He wondered.

Then he thought of Wanda again; had she brought this guy home to screw him? He wondered. Christ, is she that much of a nympho? He thought, but then wondered if he was the problem. He hadn't felt up to having sex since the headaches, that much he could remember. But how long had it been since they did it?

Behind the cabinet door he found two of the strong prescription painkillers. He sucked some water from the sink faucet to swallow them.

He went into the hallway and announced he was going to bed. He shut the door then turned and put his ear against it, listening. He heard Wanda's disapproving tone, then laughter. He slid down to the floor, the throbbing in his head making it impossible to listen.

He crawled over to the bed and climbed into it, covered his head with a pillow. Ten minutes, twenty minutes and no sleep would come. He sat up in his bed, determined. He looked along the floorboards and found a hardcover trash novel Wanda had started. It was weighty. Trying to stop the pain, He swung it up against his forehead. The blow split him open. The book slid from his hands and he fell back onto his pillow, his eyes fluttering. Blood began trickling from his nose.

When he came to, he coughed, sending blood spattering all over his chest and the sheets. He sat up, his vision blurry but clearing. He touched his nose and was shocked by the sight of his blood. He stumbled out of bed and finding he couldn't stand, Joshua crawled to the hallway.

In the living room Wanda was screwing Brad on the couch. Not caring, he quietly crawled into the bathroom. He pulled himself up on the sink and began rinsing the blood from his face.

So what are you going to do, he thought, just let her sit there and fuck this kid? Right in your own living room? Get up, you pathetic piece of shit. Go out there and pulverize the both of them.

The pain in his head was pounding louder now as he admonished himself. He looked up in the cabinet mirror and saw the diamond shaped gash at his hairline. The blood had clotted and was running down his forehead in a crimson stripe.

He looked at the wound on his forehead. At first his fingers gingerly played at the torn flesh, but soon both his hands were busily working it wider. His own reddened eyes were confirming what he thought; that the pain was right behind that torn flesh, just beyond where his finger could reach underneath the scalp if he could pull the flesh back more.

He pushed his index finger too far underneath the gash, and it burned; this further fueled his rage and soon he had either corner of the wound ripped opened, each held by a thumb and forefinger.

He pulled slowly at it to see inside the wound to find the place where the pain was, but there was too much blood. He cursed it, wound out a gob of toilet paper and jammed it into the gash. He hissed in pain but soon had most of the blood cleaned away. He had to soak it up every few seconds while he worked.

He pulled at the wound again and when he did he wondered at the relief. He was exposing the pain and it helped, it made it better. The crimson streak curtained his laughing face as he realized all he had to do was pull, pull and open his head up to let the pain out.

He grit his teeth as he opened the wound up to his hairline; satisfied by his progress Joshua began to dig beneath his flesh. He ran his fingers over his skull.

He touched the source of his pain, and hissed through his clenched teeth when he found it. He pushed fingers underneath his flesh and pushed hard against his skull. The pounding agony was trying to leave him now; he could feel it pulsing right beneath his fingers.

"Let me out," he hissed at himself. "Let me out and I'll take care of the bitch."

He moaned, tears streaking his bloody face, and he heard the wet cracking sound as it came out of his head, gurgling.
He didn't see the exact grown replica of himself climbing wetly from the crack in his skull. His scalp and face were distended as the new Joshua, bloody and writhing, was born on the bathroom floor.

In the living room, Wanda was climaxing loudly. Brad held on for dear life beneath her as she moaned dramatically, then was suddenly silent.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Oh God," she said and her grinding stopped. Brad tried to crane his neck to see what was she was looking at. She got off him and found her slacks. It was her live-in loser, naked and covered in blood. He grinned at them.

"What the fuck?" Brad said. Joshua rushed toward the couple as she moved away from the couch. He landed on Brad and began swinging wildly. Younger and stronger, Brad withstood the blows. He shoved Joshua. He bumped the coffee table and landed in the chair behind him. "Stay away from me, freak!" Brad hollered, pulling up his pants. The water pipe, a two-foot hard glass bong, fell over when he hit the table, its stinking water spilling out onto the rug.

Joshua was up now and seized it. He swung before Brad could raise his hands and it cracked apart on his temple. Dazed, Brad reached up to his forehead and fell back onto the couch.

Wanda had moved back into the hallway and stopped at the bathroom. Open, she backed herself against the wall in horror at what she saw. A second Joshua was lying on the floor, his head split open. A bloody pool was congealing around him and his brains spilled out onto the ceramic tile.

She screamed, but it was too late. The living Joshua ran to her from the living room.

"I'm Joshua now, bitch!" He said, wrapping his bloody fingers around her throat and squeezing.

She raked his face and he just laughed at her. She drew blood though, and it dripped into his eyes. He only squeezed harder, pushing her head into the wall. In the bathroom she saw movement; the fallen Joshua raised his hand, a finger pointing toward them.

She tried to pry the bloody fingers from around her throat but couldn't. Too strong, crushing her larynx. She was blacking out but saw Joshua, the one on the ground, crawling toward them. He managed to get one hand into the hallway and around her attacker's ankle.

He groaned from beneath them. "No," he said.

The choking subsided, his attention turning to the hand below him. She slid down the wall and began crawling toward the bedroom with her last energy.

"No?" He asked. "You wanted to stand up to her, man! You wanted to be tougher, to stop letting her push you around, didn't you? Well now you're doing it, boy, now you're really standing up and telling her what for!" He grabbed her ankle as she tried to crawl away.

"He never told you about his twin baby brother, did he?" He dragged her toward him. "He didn't tell you how I waited, all these years, inside, watching him be a pussy. Well no more!" He cried, kicking his fallen brother in the head. The blow distended the brain matter, slopping it onto the baseboards in the hall. Joshua rolled onto his back, lifeless.

She screamed as he dragged her by the hair and pushed her face into the leaked brains.

"Tell him you're sorry, bitch! Tell him how you laughed at him, ridiculed him!" He laughed loudly.

She sobbed, inches away from the steaming mess of flesh and blood. He grabbed her throat again and pushed her onto her back in the hallway. He sat on her chest and squeezed. Her eyes widened, stretched to their limits in their sockets. He slid forward, sitting heavily on her breasts.

"Now I'm in charge," he said. "Now I get what I want. Now Joshua is going to take life by the balls, and not let anyone push him around ever again!"

She gagged, foam spilling out of her mouth. Her thick tongue poked up straight. He smiled as he squeezed harder.

His headache was finally gone.


















































































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