fromMore Light
Blake Butler

He opens his eyes. What he's made in the wall is like a puckering, a way in. He punches the center of the shape with his fist and listens with pleasure as it falls into the hole. Then the wall is open. He puts his head in and peers around. Inside, the space is roughly large enough for an average-sized adult. There's not enough light to see much else. He pulls his head back out and takes the hammer and begins to jack at the opening with the butt-end, ripping away chunks of sheetrock in showers on the carpet. The hole begins to widen, a yawning. He drops the hammer and begins pulling at the flaky edges with his whole hands, dust falling on the carpet, on his shoes and in his hair. He flings the pieces behind him, spilling crumbs, yanking and sweating, ticked up in some kind of bizarre joy. He can feel the particles spreading down his nostrils, into his throat. On the stubborn pieces, hung with nails, he pulls harder, at one point ripping a long cut down his forearm, dripping bright blood on the carpet. The color is brilliant, pilled in spots. It seeps into the fiber and the wood beneath. He doesn't stop. His heart throbs now more than he can last remember. He feels good; his head is light. The room spins around him like it's on an axis, some translucent wheel. And the music. He hears music somewhere inside him: a song he can't remotely recognize or remember. So much music, he thinks. He laughs.