Clordbedded ahst forb, said the father, alone upstairs. He had his head against the bathroom wall. He could not remember how he’d gotten through the house back to the bathroom. Froth hung in long ropes from his mouth. Blossbit ein vord cloddut, he said, choking. Cheem cheem murd bot. Loif oissis oissis oind.
There was a music in here with him, all of woodwinds and deep bass. He could feel the pen inside him, writing.
Unk barnitt weedumsissis, quoth the father, eicheit undit pordrondoid blerrum misht. Misht eichlitt leichord nord ip beebit. Juinfurr hossis, mekkum dha.
He could not feel his hands.
On the other side of the wall, in the guest bedroom, someone had hung a picture of the father. A pleased pre-father father at a party in nice clothes, surrounded by bodies, openmouthed. They were together singing or saying something.
Behriddit meemle boikend, the father said. He could remember that night inside the picture like it was this one, in his skin. Borkind. Borsis borsisisis. Messalond.
Through his voice, in replication, the father heard now someone pounding on the door. Pounding so hard the house around him wiggled. The father stood straight up and looked around. He’d stripped. His pubic hair was bright white. His thumbs were bleeding and on the floor around his feet he’d made a symbol out of toothpaste. The small twitch inside his eye again. A party.
The person at the door struck four times, four times, four times.
Fine. I’m fine. Logborsis, the father shouted. He wiped his thumb blood on his gut. Busy cleaning. Nothing’s the matter. Go on a minute. Slarsords. Almost done.
The father turned toward himself therein reflected, in the mirror, through the wall. He saw himself seeing himself, and then himself seeing himself seeing himself, copied, copied, on. His eyes inside his forehead looked so small—surrounded. Inside, his skin went on for miles.
In the bathroom the father saw his many selves reach up to turn the lights off, and the father saw the dark.