Jordi is checking the contents of his briefcase and Jacqueline is putting her designer coat on, both preparing to leave the office for the day. Although I’ll stick around to work overtime, they are spreading their vibe, making me feel like the weekend has already started.
My beloved wraps her red scarf around her neck, then she leans in towards me and hands me an external hard drive.
“Here, so you won’t miss me tonight,” she whispers furtively. “Along with its USB 3 Micro-B cable, in case you don’t have one.”
I know what any external hard drive associated with my girlfriend contains, but I would have figured it out due to the look she’s giving me: that of a pervert sharing naughty stuff with a fellow connoisseur. A sudden heat ripples across my skin.
“And call me tomorrow morning, alright?” Jacqueline adds.
I want to thank her for the gift, but I’m blushing, so I just nod. I grab the hard drive and slide it under my monitor screen to hide it from prying eyes.
As Jacqueline straightens her back, Jordi joins her at her side. An anchor grey, heavy wool coat covers his impeccably ironed white shirt and black pants. In the reflection of his glasses, my shy self looks like a criminal about to crack.
“I hope you manage to rest enough this weekend, Leire,” he says with a warm smile.
I’ve whined repeatedly about the soreness in my muscles, and our intern is the kind of guy that cares about other people’s pains. I shrug and smile like a kid that emptied out the cookie jar.
“I doubt I’m going to let her rest enough,” Jacqueline says proudly, “because we are going on a date. But she’ll be alright.”
“Nothing to worry about, then,” Jordi says.
Our boss exits his den and locks the door behind him. My shoulders tense up. I lower my gaze and pretend that I need to brush dandruff from my keyboard. I must appear insignificant to dissuade him from approaching me and putting a hand on my shoulder, or patting me on the back, or groping me in nastier ways.
As Ramsés passes by our table, he wishes us a good weekend in the monotone voice of someone too busy to care. I’m glad he seems as eager to part ways with his employees as I am that for a couple of days I’ll be free from his enslaving ways. However, he still takes time out of his afternoon to glance at me. I feel naked.
When the last of our boss’ footsteps vanishes, I exhale in relief.
Jacqueline’s gaze turns from the front door to me as if she had expected our boss to return and annoy us again.
“That’s our cue to leave.”
She squeezes my shoulder, then both my coworkers head to the exit. Before the door closes, she shoots me an ardent look through the gap. I smile back at her.
Until tomorrow, my sexy, glamorous queen.
I slouch in the chair and close my eyes, but my mind presents me with a vision of that fiendish boss of ours moving his greasy hand down my back, then daring to fondle my tits. My cheeks burn with shame, and a rage surges up inside my belly. How many times has he forced me to visualize him fucking me into submission? He’d get on top of me, smack his lips and drool on my face. I can almost feel his weight pushing me down. His fat cock would plunge into my womb until he filled it with a messy load of baby batter. Then he would order me to clean him with my tongue. He’d make me relish in the humiliation.
I wish I could punch that bastard in the face hard enough to dislodge his brain, but I’ve never hit anyone in my life. I’m afraid I would get punched in return. Besides, I’m a pitiful shell of a person, ill-equipped for murder. I’m only armed with these skinny arms and legs, and a rabid swarm of depraved thoughts. To the majority of people, I must be almost unrecognizable as a human being, so the most frightening thing I could do is reveal myself to them.
I’m in deep shit, a deep shit in which I’ve sunk my teeth and claws as far as I can. I shouldn’t have to sit at my workstation five days a week and endure this torment. I guess I need to find some other job that doesn’t involve me having sex with the boss. Ramsés would replace me in a matter of weeks; plenty of women out there would love to be manhandled by that dirty pervert.
I’ve begun to sweat. I rub my face with both hands, then I sigh deeply.
“I’m alone,” I say to the empty office.
I listen as the doors to other offices along the hallway open and shut. Streams of footsteps march out eagerly. On the parking lot, a bunch of car engines start up.
I scroll through YouTube idly while the business park closes for the day. Once the world has quieted down, I stand up wearily and leave to get a coffee from the vending machine. Now that I’m pushing my body to walk, its muscles and bones complain of soreness and exhaustion. I feel as if I’ve been dead for a month. Last night instead of sleeping I took two long naps; I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, but when I returned to Jacqueline’s bed, her eyes were glowing like beacons of desire. They seemed to be asking for proof of my devotion. I ended up with my face buried between her thighs, blowing my breath into her hot vagina. The wetness came flooding out of her and spilled down my face and throat. If both of us had fallen asleep then, I wonder whether I would have suffocated or drowned.
Lost in a reverie involving pussy juices, I only notice that a straggler is passing by because the guy clears his throat. He caught me yawning. I cut it short awkwardly, then I lower my gaze to the faded vinyl floor, that reflects the fluorescent bulbs. Over the last few years, this floor has received plenty of my sweat and other bodily fluids. I should apologize to it.
“Have a good weekend,” the guy says.
What business is it of this stranger if I’ll enjoy my weekend?
“Yeah,” I reply hoarsely.
My body shudders as I imagine the stranger’s rough hands groping my naked flesh. He’ll stroke my breasts, my hips, my belly, my inner thighs. He’ll then plunge his swollen cock deep inside me, and I’ll welcome it with all the gratitude of a filthy slut. His frantic panting and my whimpers will be muffled by the sound of my skin smacking against the vinyl floor.
I shake my head to make its demons dizzy, then I suck in air and quicken my pace.
When I make my way back to the office while holding a hot latte, I lock the door behind me. The fluorescent lights are beaming their pale glow on the three computer screens. I stare at the daisy white walls and ceiling, the porcelain white desk that seats three people, the row of three frost white utility cabinets, and the cloud grey worn carpet that some arcane presence vacuums regularly under the cover of darkness.
Regarding the furniture, only the three futuristic office chairs suggest that someone equipped with an ass has ever visited the room. Otherwise, this space was built for robots or monsters, or possibly robotic monsters. You could waste a thousand years here without anything of value happening, and once you disappeared, no recognizable proof of your presence would remain. It’s a lair for the undead, for those who spend their lives with their eyes closed.
I turn the lights off. I’ve never understood why people prefer such brightness at work; I need the environment to be dark enough to promote a mental state where I can concentrate for hours on end. I’d prefer it to look like midnight in the deepest dungeon.
Now that I’ve turned this room into a shrine to solitude and depravity, I saunter over to the window as I hold the hot cup of latte. I take tiny sips while gazing past my reflection in the glass. The coffee tastes as good as it smells, which is to say, like mud. But the caffeine should kick in soon enough, or at least I’ll delude myself into believing it does.
“What a crap latte,” I say to nobody, although part of me hopes that my words will reach some ghost that will possess my body and force me to quit this job.
Above the boxy, three-story high building on the opposite side of a tree-lined path, one that Jordi and Jacqueline traverse during the lunch breaks as they head to their usual restaurant, the indigo sky of this October evening lacks any looming threats, except for a couple of cumulonimbus clouds dyed tiger orange. Such a haunting sight humbles me and risks convincing me that life can be pleasant for brief periods of time.
I close my eyes. I picture myself as a hawk soaring over a field of sunflowers. The leaves are as broad as my wings, the tall stalks as thin as my legs. I’m heading towards some snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance.
I remember that I’m supposed to sit down and keep programming. I’ve tortured myself by working overtime often, so why do I feel different today? I used to stick around at the office in the afternoons partly because I can only focus and relax properly when I’m alone, but I was also reluctant to return to my dreary apartment in Irún, where I would face the heap of garbage bags, as well as the dust that has gathered on the furniture and on the pile of unplayed board games.
Wasting my evenings here I communed with my natural relationship with the world, that the voice and presence of other humans would mask otherwise: under all the noise, I was alone, always and forever alone, inching ever closer to the brink of madness. I was a speck of dust drifting in the breeze. Even those who had noticed me would forget me in minutes. Once I died, I would be gone as if I had never been born; the universe would have corrected the terrible mistake of having contained me in it.
My mother had given birth to me while she was already pregnant with another child. Instead of a gift of life to be kept and treasured for years, I was always a bastard unwanted by everyone, even my own father, who only considered me for a couple of years and then forgot about my existence. He was the kind of guy who got rid of his garbage by throwing it out of the window.
The sight of my frail body sent my mother into despair, as she was cursed with a second mouth to feed. She refused to let me suckle her breast, and she hid me away in a corner of the house like a filthy rag. I spent most days locked away in an old armoire.
When I turned seven years old, my mother gave me up to an orphanage. There I contracted scabies, and my hair quickly transformed into snakes. The boys poked fun at me for lacking a dick. The matron punished me every day, by sending me to scrub the floors with my nails while wearing a black sack over my head. I grew increasingly terrified; I knew that when I turned sixteen, I’d be sent to a whorehouse to become a prostitute for old men.
A month after my sixteenth birthday, the matron informed me that I would have to become a whore to pay for my care. I refused, but she had me drugged with a large dose of valium. I was taken away in the middle of the night and dropped off at a brothel, where I was stripped and given a shower. The doctor that inspected my body declared that my genitals were useless. As the pimp shepherded me to my assigned bedroom, I heard women screaming from the nearby rooms, but the pimp said that it meant they were happy.
I wanted to cry out in rage at this universe that had stolen my life away, but instead of doing so, I injected myself with a lethal dose of horse tranquilizer. As I lay dead in a morgue, my mother visited me and told me that I was dead. After an awkward silence, she put her arms around me and added, “I’m very sorry that all of this had to happen to you, but now you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on what you did wrong to deserve it.”
My mother kept the promise of a small headstone on my grave to mark that I had existed. It read, ‘Leire XXX. She lived only for herself, and died to prove that she didn’t matter.’ I had told them to write instead, ‘Lived like a whore, died a free woman’, but they hadn’t listened.
I was never sad to die; I was never happy to live either. In the vacuum that remained, I became a drifting piece of nonsense floating in an infinite void.
The hard, sharp edges of many memories are carved into the skin of my chest, the rough ridges of a painful wound. Now I’m a miserable whore that has to keep working until death visits her again, but in between all the pain and sorrow and regret, at least someone in that putrid world out there will wait for me to rejoin her, and when I do, she’ll wrap her arms around my rotten old self and suck the marrow from my bones.
Tonight I’ll return to the transitory apartment for which I’m forced to pay, but tomorrow I’ll go out on a date with my woman. Later on I’ll sleep in a place that feels like a home. When my eyes open in the following morning, I will take in the face of the woman that I desired since I first saw her. My heart will beat in joy, my mouth will curl up in a smile. I’ll gaze into those cobalt blues like a prisoner looking up at the sun for the first time after decades of confinement. I’ll be moved, I’ll be shaken, I’ll be amazed. My pussy will get wet; I’ll feel it throb and pulsate inside my panties.
The annoyance and loneliness of having to work overtime has become meaningful: it will free my mind from some of the pending tasks so I can think of Jacqueline that much more. No matter the nonsense that life slings at me, I can open up to my beloved, and she’ll listen.
I wasn’t a monster after all. I wasn’t born from the dirt and the mud, or the darkest recess of a cave where demons live. I didn’t emerge from an egg with a bloodied shell, nor was I formed from the decaying matter of a rotting corpse. It took nine months for a woman’s body to grow my bones and flesh, and my birth wasn’t conducted in the basement of some run-down, crumbling ruin, but in a hospital room. The mother was a human instead of some genetically engineered chimera created through an experiment that combined the cells of various animal species. I was a baby like anyone else: a daughter, a son, a sister, a brother. A human mother must have smiled down at me, kissed me, then fed me a mixture of warm milk and blood. I became a child who wanted to be held in the arms of a woman who would love me, who would cry over my grave.
Author’s Note: as I mentioned in my previous update, I’ve been working on this scene for a good while. It was supposed to be at least twice as long, but when I woke up this morning I got the feeling that I could divide it into at least two chapters, because they would feel independent enough. Getting through the final iteration has proven that point, so here’s the first part.
I’ve been listening to plenty of distinct stuff recently. Last year I listened to PUP’s first five or so songs from their album ‘Morbid Stuff’ like a couple hundred times, and songs like ‘See You At Your Funeral’ are the reason why. Very down-to-earth fellow. I also love this song by Glass Animals. As I have done for literally twenty five years, I’ve returned to the only album in Spanish, my native language, that I have ever listened to repeatedly: Los Rodríguez’s ‘Palabras más, Palabras menos’, due to songs like ‘Diez años después’, ‘La puerta de al lado’ and ‘Todavía una canción de amor’. The whole album is timeless, though. I even dared to listen to Joanna Newsom’s old stuff (whom I’ve long suspected to be autistic as well, not that she’d ever confirm it).
I think I went on enough in the update I’ve linked earlier about the recent nonsense I’ve had to deal with. I hope you enjoyed this one, Jen (namedropped out of nowhere!). No reason why you or anyone else would enjoy this chapter more than others; I just thought it would be fun to freak you out. Anyway, see you all later, bitches.