Cory Aitchison

“Giles’ head is full of blood. In capillaries it chugs busily up and down the hills and valleys of his brain. In his imagination it streams down from the sky and moves in the water. He scratches a scab on his wrist and flakes off layer after layer of skin until the blood pours out. Pieces of metal whine out of the blue sky towards him and smash into his body, scooping out his intestines. His bowels trail along the deck. Yellow globules of shit, their journey through the colon interrupted, huddle together inside the slit open pipes. The eyes of his friends are continually attacked. They appear and disappear. Each part of the ship is a weapon. The clews of his hammock can strangle, the guard rails buckle and toss him overboard; the lifeboats fall and crush him. … Giles, looking up, feels the shafts of his eyes penetrate deep, deep, past the light and into the blackness of space. The sky is the palest, palest blue … Death stalks them. … The horrors of his imagination are real. This is war. This is the purpose of war. To give shape to the menacing blackness of space behind the blue sky, the silver death in the water, the streams of blood behind the smooth forehead. This pale forehead, grey brown hair crusted with salt, frizzing more than ever in the fresh, damp air, these straight eyebrows, delicate veil of lids, jumping eyeballs, hide many patterns and possibilities of death. Those he has been trained for. Those he has seen, heard or imagined. Those he fears. Death lurking in the pure blue sky is not new to him and now he can put a name to it. … Sometimes they happen to other people and you are still alive. Sometimes you make them happen to your enemy and you are still alive. Sometimes they happen to you and you are dead. Or you are still alive, having lost a lump of flesh, a yard of skin, a pint of blood. Picking over what is left a doctor can make something of it. A catalogue at least. If you can know or name what is left, nothing so dreadful has been lost.”
― Dinah Brooke, Lord Jim at Home