A mixture of water and black soil. No, not loam soil, I said black soil. The paste is thick and dark. He pours dark green leaves into the paste and grinds it; it's a very potent brew he is making, the stench fills the room as the greenish smoke arises.
Time can be a slow cook, especially when one would rather have something pass by like a rocket. The brew on the fire gives only a slight simmer, the pops occur once in a while. He sits staring at the brew intently as if his eyes were able to speak. His stare is distant, like he were now in some world of Pandora.
He gets up, goes to the door and places a brick against it. He picks the knife laying carelessly on the floor. Without a thought, he thrusts the knife at his chest and doesn't even flinch. Already drops of thick red blood are dripping but he goes ahead to tear apart his chest.
He reaches inside and removes the object of his interest, covered in red paste. He lowers it into the pot. It slowly sinks in, not immersing fully at once but slowly, drowning into the green paste.
"Pop...pop..pop" The brew is excited. Bubbles appear and burst in intervals.
The man, oblivious of the boiling reaches into the pot and removes the object. His hand is scarred but he never flinches. He inserts the object back into the crevice and then suddenly starts convulsing, and writhing. He begins to throw up; falls on the ground, kicking the air, punching the unseen- he ends up covered in dirt, vomit, green paste and red blood. He smells.
It goes on until the madness starts to fizzle out. The kicking lessens, and the throwing of punches; he stops rolling in the dirt slowly and eases into a trance. Sleep whisks him away and soon he is not moving.
When he wakes up, the wound is bound up, no dirt, no vomit, nothing. He picks up the knife and slits his wrist- the sensation is ecstatic but he looks and no, it isn't red anymore, that which used to be scarlet is now green as bile.