The Sublimator

Hollis Reid Carson has been working hard to prepare for his big night, collecting all the tools necessary to teach a beautifully violent lesson to an unsuspecting world.

The squealing warehouse door rolls closed between one man’s secret and the rest of the world. He throws the latch and double checks the lock. Some unlucky asshole wandering in off the street at this stage of the game would pose a major problem, and Hollis Carson isn’t ready to kill anyone quite yet.

In the unheated building, his breath becomes a ghost following him everywhere. He turns the knob on a kerosene heater and it clicks until the spark turns to flame. It radiates a pale orange heat, but he can never seem to feel the warmth until he is close enough to get burned.

By the time he has transferred the supplies from the van to a long plywood table, his back is spasming and his head hurts enough to make everything a blur. On a workbench, he cuts a length of black PVC pipe into five sections and lines them up in a row. Caps fit snugly on the ends. He starts with the tenpenny nails, filling one pipe about halfway, then another with the ball bearings, then the little star-shaped metal jacks, then broken glass, and finally the fishhooks.

•

5/31/89

Mercy Hospital ER

MR: 55839378 Carson, Hollis R

Clinical counselor note:

Patient is an 8-year-old male presenting the ED for removal of a fishhook from left cheek. After surgical treatment and recovery, step-father of patient attempted to remove him from the hospital AMA. Security intervened and SW was consulted to evaluate.

Social History:

Father deceased. Mother currently incarcerated. Patient lives with step father Douglas R. Phipps along with the mother and brother of Mr. Phipps. Multiple visits to premises by local PD with DV complaints. Lengthy history of involvement with children’s services.

Mr. Phipps claims patient “caught one in the lip” when he cast his line without looking. “I told the kid to stand back.” Patient corroborates report in presence of stepfather.

Dr. Valentine was going over discharge paperwork with Mr. Phipps at about 1700 and I asked Hollis if he would like a root beer. We were able to walk down the hall and around the corner to the vending machine. I asked him to sit and after half a root beer and some chatting, I asked him about the hook. He was reluctant and I did not want to upset him, but he indicated that Mr. Phipps had gotten angry when Hollis didn’t want to catch fish. He said he was worried that the hooks hurt the fish and that’s when Mr. Phipps pushed the hook through the patient’s cheek and stated, “if didn’t kill you, it ain’t gonna kill that bluegill.”

Recommending emergency guardianship and foster care referral in this case. Patient does not engage well verbally. May consider integrating music or art therapy.

•

There are plenty of knives already, more than enough, but he picks up a KA-BAR at the flea market off the interstate anyway. In a corner of the warehouse is a bench-top grinder with a filing wheel, but it sits cold. There is something about running each blade by hand, one at a time across the whet stone, finding the rhythm, rocking back and forth, the metal scraping and swishing until it nearly glows with a clean white sharpness that is soothing to his ragged nervous system.

A meditation.

Like dark rocks tumbling in his mind until sickly smooth, he revisits violent ideas while he works at the blades.

His visions flow with the rhythm of the steel.

•

1/16/93

Mr. and Mrs. Yantel

I wanted to write to you about Hollis and how he has been doing since starting in my classroom. I know that he hasn’t been living with you folks for long, but I am worried that he has become a bit of a target when it comes to the other boys.

On several occasions, I’ve seen Hollis approach a classmate and pinch him, or flick his ear. The other kids were confused at first. Him being new, they didn’t know what to make of it. But he’s been pushed down and roughed up a little by a couple of the bigger boys and keeps right on doing it. I’m afraid he is going to get himself hurt.

I worry that he might want to get hurt for some reason.

If he has a doctor, please do talk to him about Hollis. I don’t want to give offense, but I have the feeling that things could get worse if he isn’t given the proper help.

My very best to you,

Ms. Heather Ford

McKinley Middle School

•

It proves to be cheaper to stockpile guns than ammunition. Guns are everywhere. He finds them at swap meets and gun shows. He buys them from open car trunks stacked with greasy metal. He steals a few from shitbags who owe him money.

They are arranged on metal shelves lining the walls of the warehouse. His hands are stained and they stink of oil after days of cleaning revolvers and pistols, shotguns and deer rifles, AKs and Uzis. They have all been dissected and polished and reassembled until nearly new, their menacing angles gleaming black in the chill.

But rounds, those cut into the budget.

Unlike guns, there’s no such thing as cheap, used ammo. Casings that have been carefully scavenged and reloaded with powder, one by one, are costly and rare.

Besides, Hollis likes the shine of new brass. Stacks of various caliber sit patiently like identical golden teeth. Ready to bite.

He gives every gun a trial by fire, out in the back field behind Stu Washington’s place. It is important that they operate—that their innards are initiated by the searing flash of combustion. Each time a melon explodes on a fence post, Hollis sees skull fragments. Brain tissue.

Teeth scattering like seeds in the grass.

•

IRONTON POLICE DEPARTMENT: ARREST & BOOKING REPORT

Date/Time: July 2, 1999, 21:15 / Case Number: 2026-04289 | Booking Number: BK-98821

ARRESTEE PERSONAL INFORMATION

Full Name: Hollis Reid Carson

• DOB: January 28, 1981 (Age 19)

  Physical Identifiers: Male, 5’11”, 185 lbs, brown hair, blue eyes

  Distinguishing Marks: Tribal tattoo around right upper arm, small scar on left cheek

  CHARGES:

  Primary: Attempted murder

  Classification: Felony

  Bond Amount: $100,000 (TBD at Initial Appearance)

  INCIDENT NARRATIVE:

  Information gathered from suspect and eye witness report. Suspect claims that his mother passed away of cancer two weeks ago and that her spouse, his step-father, refused to get her medical care, took her pills himself, and allowed her to suffer and die. In response, the suspect entered the victim’s home with a firearm and a military knife where he held the man against his will, threatened him, and then assaulted him by beating him with one of the weapons. The victim is in critical condition and charges will be reevaluated pending medical status and outcome.

•

He spends weeks in the warehouse, preparing his morbid legacy. Endless cans of Red Bull, disposable bowls of ramen, and soft packs of Camels. The work is exhausting. He loses twenty pounds in the process. He continues even when his hands cramp and his back aches and his head pounds.

At night, dizzy with fatigue, he drives past the crowded gallery on Summit Street. The space is sprawling and white, surrounded by clean glass, accommodating several hundred visitors on busy nights like opening receptions.

Like tomorrow night.

He watches the fit figures in their designer clothes, munching shrimp canapes, swirling glasses of red wine and flashing their bleached teeth. They point at terrible paintings while nodding their heads at each other. They brandish check books and credit cards.

Packed in tight, they slowly circle the artwork, more concerned about the next drink than their state of naked vulnerability.

“They won’t know what the fuck hit them.”

•

3/15/24

State of Ohio Parole Board {mandated psychological evaluation for release}

Case: 384775774833-3332

To Whom It May Concern:

RE: Hollis Reid Carson

In brief, Mr. Carson has been able to display progress in a few areas for limited periods of time. He is quite intelligent, driven, and creative. But his negative thoughts, anger, and impulsive urges tend to show up randomly.

Most patients with anger problems feel calm at baseline, but get triggered too easily, their symptoms get too intense, and they don’t have the tools to cope. It seems that Hollis is in a perpetual state of rage but exerts great effort to suppress it much of the time. His episodes do not seem to be a trigger followed by a loss of control as much as a wearing down and giving in to violent and destructive impulses that are always there awaiting expression.

It is my understanding that concerns about facility overcrowding have already prompted a decision in Mr. Carson’s parole, so this clinician’s opinion is apparently moot. However, I would strongly recommend the most strict probation requirements and mandatory wrap-around services from his local community mental health center.

He has potential for rehabilitation if he accepts help and dedicates himself to change. He requires an outlet for his rage. If not, then like many men who feel they are not valued by the world, he is all but guaranteed to continue lashing out against it.

Lynn A. Burrows, PhD

•

The day arrives.

Hollis keeps the van parked behind the gallery all evening, getting every last detail prepared. He takes a single bullet from a pocket, heavy and warm in his palm, and considers for the thousandth time the possibility of ending things right there. Erasing the unsolvable equation from the board. But then he would miss their faces. The shock and terror.

He is here to witness.

So many people flow through the front door of the place that the owners give up and prop it open with a cinderblock. A congresswoman and a senator chat in one corner. Art critics scrawl furious notes and snap photos on their Nikons. Even a few children mill about as their philanthropist parents nibble caviar-laden blinis.

Hollis enters through the service door in the alley, his black ball cap pulled low. Some people watch as he zigzags through the crowd, his long coat and work boots brushing against Versace dresses and Italian wingtips.

There are whispers.

Adrenaline beats a harsh rhythm in his temples.

He turns a corner and a hand meets his chest. He stops, fists clenched deep in his pockets.

An old man stands before him, daring to look into his shadowed eyes.

“I can’t wrap my head around this. What you’re doing,” he says, his aged face twisted with confusion and wonder.

Others turn to the two of them and begin to encircle Hollis. His teeth make crunching sounds inside his head as they grind against each other. Yards and yards of pristine white walls are filled with hanging sculptures, the hardwood floor of the gallery studded with display boxes, overhead lights angled perfectly to illuminate their complex dioramas.

Each work of meticulous art is a different play on a singular theme. Juxtaposed with the clean surfaces and the cloth-covered tables of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres are lumps of plaster that perfectly mimic bullet-riddled faces drawn long with agony, intestinal ropes sliced from abdominal cavities, compound fractures oozing needles of fragmented bone and fishhooks and broken glass, all of it drenched in acrylic blood, crimson and glistening with lacquered wetness. Entwined with these terrible tangles of imitation flesh are all manner of blades, firearms, models of pipe bombs in various stages of explosion—each carefully bedazzled with polished bullets of every imaginable caliber.

A woman touches his arm, her face vampiric.

“I am speechless, Mr. Carson.” Her lip trembles between each word.

Hollis frowns and nods.

A young man with perfect hair steps through the mob. Hollis thinks he’s seen the face on television. Socialites slide from out of the star’s path in deference.

“Your work is incredible,” he says, offering his hand like a gift. “Stellar. I think you are going to be remembered for this. I’ve already purchased two pieces myself. Now, I’ve heard that you’re too good to talk to us lowly collectors, but I have to ask, what’s up with the name of the show? Why call it ‘A Sublimation’?”

Hollis engulfs the man’s slim fingers within his own calloused hand. He waits a beat, looking into his eyes, then leans his head to the right to expose the words tattooed along his neck.

The young man squints and reads, “If you’re not using it, then it’s using you.”

“When I was in prison for second degree murder,” Hollis says, “a guy carved me up with the sharpened edge of a belt buckle. I asked the surgeon who was stitching me back together why he’d want to do a job like that all day and he told me that if he weren’t cutting people open on the operating table, he’d be doing it in a dungeon somewhere.”

The man says nothing. Hollis pulls him closer in the tight space, speaking softly.

Those in the vicinity tilt slightly toward them.

“If I weren’t transforming my hatred of you and every human on the planet into this work here, we’d all make the news tonight.” He adds a few more pounds of pressure to the squeeze and resists a smile when something tiny inside the man’s hand pops. “I do thank you for the patronage, though.”

As he walks away, the collector’s mouth continues to hang open, showcasing beautiful teeth. In his palm he finds a single warm bullet with the initials HRC stylishly engraved into the brass.

Hollis leaves him there and wades into the crowd, steeling himself for the questions, the selfies, the handshakes and hugs, already envisioning their horrifically mangled faces as part of his next solo show.

•

Last year, I began sharing a weekly post about the story I’d come up with for that week, along with some of the writing strategies I had been contemplating. Below is the post that accompanied the creation of this story.

The Ribbon and the Wood