My roommate gave me one of his
drawings before he moved to California.
Two suited men with short haircuts
are holding a shirtless man over a pit.
I can see this drawing propped up
on the edge of my dresser,
encased in its black frame,
leaning against the brick wall behind it.
I lie in bed with my computer
on my stomach, the fan breathing heavily,
burning my stomach in a comfortable way,
the drawing just to the left of the screen.
While staring at the computer screen,
I see one of the men in suits move.
I stare at the drawing for a few seconds.
No movement, nothing happens.
Looking back at my computer,
I see the same suited man move again.
My eyes dart back to watch the
movement in full this time.
The man lets go of the lower half of the
shirtless man and creeps towards
the edge of the drawing, moving slowly
till he reaches the edge of the frame.
His two-dimensional body easily slides
between the glass pane and the metal
bindings, and his flimsy ink arms help lift
him into an upright position on my dresser.
He sees that I am watching. I am unafraid.
His eyes were never etched because
his back was facing the viewer’s perspective.
Still, he stares back, I swear I can tell.
He takes a step. Still, he stares.
He takes more weak steps,
supported by the remnants of
a felt tip pen from three years ago.
He stands at the edge of the dresser.
I cannot see his expression because
he is so small and I am still 8 feet away.
But I can feel his glare.
In one quick motion, he leaps.
I watch his legs disintegrate when
he is halfway to me, an arm detaches
and then his jaw drops off.
I am witnessing the death
of a cartoon, a man with no eyes
who is watching me regardless
as he dismembers and is caught in a scream.
The remainder of his head rolls onto my chest
before turning into a black smear on my skin.
The shirtless man in the drawing
falls into the pit.