On some of the earth's very best days, one hundred and fifty thousand people die, and so for that reason I find donating blood and organs to be very important. My blood type is relatively rare, and so I'm a person who finds themselves frequently giving in to the demand of their assets. I've been a blood donor since 1996 after I first murdered a teenage girl in the yellow corn fields of Illinois. I was told I saved three lives that day, and I have no doubt that I did.
I spent a good deal of time building my house, which is very quaint and stands like a single, unmoving tooth that juts from the earth, as if the planet's crust was punctured by a wooly giant who had tried to devour it in a single crunching bite. Sometimes I live in Iowa, and sometimes I don't, when the steely grass sways like pieces of wire beneath a silver Midwestern sky and I miss the smell of Florida. They found the woman I dismembered in the same year I donated bone marrow for the first time, and it was also the year I nailed a little Polish girl to Saint Peter's cross. They were unable to locate the head, which I still have in a small box somewhere.
I became a registered organ donor in 2006 while I was living in Tucson. A single organ donor can save up to eight human lives, which is very interesting because I take about six human lives in about an eight month period. I believe that this is around the same time that I started donating skin grafts to burn victims, but it could have been later than that. I remember that in 2008 a woman who was wearing strips of my left thigh on her melted face shook my hand and thanked me in a garbled, drowning voice. She could have been smiling, but I'm not sure because it looked as if she had been born made of rubber.
The home that I have in Washington is in a suburban area. Though I'm there only infrequently, I keep my lawn and landscaping in the most perfect order, although the inside of the house has very little in it. It was mid-summer when I strangled the landscaper with a garden hose until his face was blue and his neck wore a fat circular bruise like a necklace of permanent pain. I would have buried him in the rich, brown mulch of the garden that he'd put together for me, but I had an appointment with the Red Cross so I folded him like a dirty shirt and shoved him into a crawl space instead.
My arms are lined with the black bruises of sacrifice and my skin ripples with the many bubbling and dimpling scars of my vicious selflessness. I give and take with such violence and kindness that it often seems as if I swell with duality, that a black ocean of pluralism rocks and sways inside me like dark wine in a shaken bottle. I am cleansed with salt, I am covered in oil. The world is crushed beneath my hand and I am swept away in a gust of wind where I disappear forever.
A few weeks ago I found a road kill cat at the side of the highway and I smashed it against my wooden floor so the smell of wet decay would seep into every inch of every thing that I owned. I shoved my fist into its oozing belly and disemboweled it with my hands, tearing apart the pink and purple ropey intestines with my teeth, ripping like a hungry dog, roaring like a monster and lapping at the jagged, flapping abdominal wound. I tore the meat and fur away from the bone and cracked the spine away, pulling it from the appendages like a child ripping the cardboard strip off a new box of breakfast cereal. In my walk-in closet I slid the head through the triangle space of a clothes hanger, the long column of bones dangling like a skeletal tail. I scrubbed my floor on my hands and knees like a dismal Cinderella and it took me three hours to realize I had been using a flayed handful of cat flesh as a rag.
Some time recently I bought a nail gun from a hardware store and used it to shoot holes in two sisters that I was keeping in my master bathroom. They made sounds like moaning cows, as if they were communicating in a secret language of suffering. One gurgled through the hole in her cheek and I couldn't make out what she was saying and I wanted to, but it was time for me to donate platelets. I killed them quickly later and I know they would have thanked me for eternity for the release.
In the very depths of my heart I know that my time is coming to an end. I am running out of things to give. I popped off my thumb nails with pliers and taped the bloody shapes to the wall in hopes that someone would come and take them, but no one did.
I am on the brink of inequality. I am on the verge of singularity.
The organ donor card that I got for myself those years ago is in the breast pocket of my shirt, and it's there beside my heartbeat, being drummed by the stampede of pulses. I killed her, a young woman, fat, pretty, and I slid my knife into her like she was made of the silkiest butter, imported from the dairy farms of France. She was screaming and I killed her, and while she was still alive I pulled apart the slits I had made so I could see the curdled yellow mush of fat that bloated her carpet of skin. I broke her face with my foot for no other reason than because I could. She was making bubbly groaning sounds when I tried to lift her into a dumpster. She was too heavy so I left her hanging mostly over the edge, her thick ankles sticking in the air like tree branches stuck in mud.
I jumped from a chair and broke my neck in a final act of ultimate balance. And I can't move or really see, but in the ambulance I become very acutely aware that I'm going to die. I am peace. I am chaos. I am duality. I have achieved equality.
There's someone putting an air mask over my face though I know I'm about to die, and the person adjusting it seems to know this as well. He's saying that they found my card, and it's a good thing they did because they just admitted someone with the same rare blood type as me. I could probably save her life. They found her not too far away. She was stabbed fourteen times and needs a transfusion.