I’d say it was a normal night, the night I met Intestine Dress Girl. A waning moon hung idly above silhouetted treetops (how could it not hang idly, one might ask, but you’d get no answer from me, no siree), and the air held tension – an unstable vacuum – cold and dry like a witch’s freeze-dried teat.

A midnight jog. That’s the best time to jog, you ask me. No people with their faces. No sun inside your eyes. No nothing.

And then, moments before the moon fell from the sky, she emerged from the darkness with the sound of a hundred broken bones, and before I had the chance to adjust to the morbid absurdity of her, she was upon me. Below me. On top of me?

Imagine a dress. But it’s not a normal dress. It’s an Intestine Dress. That’s why I call her Intestine Dress Girl, you see, because she wore an Intestine Dress.

Long, thin, flappy innards, about more than ten and give or take less than infinity, coated in viscous mucus, dripping unsteadily, drippy-drip-drip, painting the snow-covered concrete with festive flesh-juices as she danced a hearty jig before me.

“My insides don’t feel the same on the outside,” she noted.

That’s when I noticed that it wasn’t just an Intestine Dress. It was her Intestine Dress – a deep gash in her milky-white abdomen, from whence there glooped out guts and innards and intestines, forming a quite fashionable garment dangling down from around her waist.

ohfuckfuckohfuckfuckoh

“What’s that?” I asked.

“They don’t feel the same on the outside,” she repeated, stroking a serpentine gut-piece against her chin, trails of muck-brown mucus and blood staining her pristine features.

“No, the other thing, um, voice,” I said.

fuckfuckfuck

“It’s best if you ignore him,” she murmured. “It’s best if you stay with me.”

The scent of her breath reminded me of the depths of my fathers depression, and how I could never escape that, even in sleep. Clink-clonk, wading through bottles. Even in dreams.

you’ll be okay fuckohfuckfuck

“No, I must, um, see, must uh-understand,” I whispered, momentarily confused by the unmistakable imprints – tire track patterns? – in the intestines of the Intestine Dress Girl’s Intestine Dress.

“Then un-close your eyes,” she said.

I did as she suggested, and un-closed my eyes.

“Ah, I see,” I said, as I saw.

A deep gash in my abdomen, from whence there glooped out guts and innards and intestines, forming what looked like quite the fashionable garment spread down my many-angled legs.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuck it’s okay,” the young man mutters, tearing at his hair, stumbling around maniacally.

“I’ll call someone, okay? They’ll fix you, they’ll save you.”

He never once meets my gaze before stumbling out of sight.

A car door opens. Closes.

Wait. Don’t leave me here all alone with the silhouetted treetops.

A car engine starts.

They, um, they don’t feel the same.

A car drives away.

My insides don’t feel the same on the outside.