We’re Fucked, Pt. 106 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial

Adrift in a fog of hormones, unsteady as if my bones had softened to clay, I unbutton my shirt, pull it off, and toss it onto the toilet seat cover. I kick off my sneakers into a corner. I shimmy my trousers down, leaving them bunched up around my ankles, then I step out of them. I unclasp the bra and discard it atop my shirt. I hook my thumbs in the elastic waistband of my panties and tug them down. After I shed my socks, the ceramic tiles send a pleasant chill through the soles of my feet, a contrast to the heated flush lingering on my skin.

From my peripheral vision, in the mirror above the sink, I glimpse my doppelgänger. She’s daring me to confront that slimy abomination, the viscous goo dribbling down in thick trails, those gaping, ragged holes instead of eyes and a mouth.

An icy dread numbs my guts, the familiar fear that creeps up whenever I’m about to square up to my reflection. My heart is pounding. I take a deep breath that smells of floral air freshener, then I turn toward the sink. I lean forward to plant my left palm on the mirrored cabinet door, covering the reflected face. My auburn hair frames the pale hand, which has lost enough subcutaneous fat that the veins and tendons appear in relief.

The halogen glow of the lighting fixture is throwing my form, the canvas my consciousness has been bolted onto, against the glass. A pair of ample, bell-shaped breasts hang in contrast to my thin frame, swaying lightly with every breath. Protruding ribs, stark as the rungs on a ladder, curve around the torso in an exhibition of skeletal architecture. Below, my abdomen hollows into a sunken landscape, and my flesh is stretched tight across the prominent hipbones.

I’m a revolting corpse-like wreck, but at least corpses are spared from having to face the outside world again.

“Look at you,” I mutter. “An avatar of death in the guise of life.”

At the bottom of the mirror peeks out a patch of auburn curls, perhaps a symbol of my unruly nature. I push myself off the cabinet. While keeping my gaze down, I stand on my tiptoes until the glass reflects my vulva: the hood that protects my button of joy, and the vertical flat mouth, coated with glistening moisture, nestled within the untamed curls like some shell-less mollusc.

Using my forefingers, I spread my pussy open. The white light draws stretch marks on the rose-pink insides of my flesh pocket. At its bottom, two pliant folds peel apart to reveal a black void. As I caress my labia, the clitoral hood retracts, unveiling the rosy bean. Suddenly I’m worried that if I keep my pussy open, a passing mouse might leap in headfirst to build a nest inside.

In a matter of minutes, mommy will recline on her queen-size bed, her head against some faux-fur pillows, and I will lie on my tummy between her thighs to lick her pussy like a dog after spending weeks away from its master. She better be ready; the sandwich I ate for lunch ended up as vomit in a wastebasket, so I’m ravenous.

As I slide my fingers along my slit, probing its wetness, a thrilling shiver shoots through me, arching all the way up my spine. My breathing has grown shallow, and my heart is drumming against my sternum. When I press the sides of my labia together, my engorged clit protrudes from its shelter. I rub that sensitive bean in slow circles.

“Eat me up,” Jacqueline purrs in my mind, “slurp me up, my precious darling, and I’ll take care of you.”

A musky scent reaches my nostrils. The rosy flesh of my pussy, that shines in the mirror like slathered in petroleum jelly, is filling with a rush of warm juices while its insides clench around nothing, craving to be filled. I dip my index and middle fingers with a squelch into my leaking tunnel, whose slick fluids are gliding down to my ass crack.

“Oh, Jacqueline,” I whisper, breathless, as my vaginal walls clamp around my fingers. “I never wanted to be human, I was only born as one, and until I met you, I hated everything about my life, every goddamn thing. La vie est faite pour la mort. If only I could take a piece of you and stitch it into my own flesh.”

I pull my fingers back with a wet slurp. They are coated in an obsidian-black, sticky substance, and tethered to a catenary of goo that stretches out, clinging to my skin, like a thread of rotten honey.

As my feverish daze begins to lift, and the world returns in a carousel of blurred colors and shapes, I find myself gripping the edge of the ceramic basin. My body is thrumming with arousal, but I’m getting a whiff of the blob’s stench mingled with my stale sweat; I picture a wet and moldy mound of garbage crawling with worms and roaches. I was supposed to wash off the grime, not make it stickier.

Once I step inside the shower cubicle, I adjust the temperature with the metallic knob. I turn on the shower to let the water heat up, and the showerhead sputters before it begins to spray a steady stream, filling the cubicle with a rhythmic drumming. I take a deep breath, then walk into the warm flow. Its droplets burst against my chest, against my face. I tilt my head back and stand stock still, arms hanging limp at my sides, eyes closed, mouth agape, surrendering myself to the downpour. As I lean forward, the cascade bathes my scalp with a tingling warmth. Rivulets stream down my back and neck, and trickle between my breasts.

I reach for the shampoo bottle that, tucked away on the corner shelf, with its bright purple hue, stands out like an alien splotch against the tiles. I squeeze a generous dollop of cream onto my palm, and the scent wafts up along with the steam: lavender and chamomile. At first I massage the shampoo into my scalp, soaking the roots of my hair, then I start scraping the skin with my nails, trying to purge every particle of muck buried within the follicles.

I snatch a bottle of shower gel with one hand and a loofah with the other. I pop the bottle’s cap open, then I squirt enough rose-scented gel to drown the sponge. I’m scrubbing, scrubbing away, lathering every inch of my body, every crevice, to wash away the dried sweat and grime from my armpits, limbs, thighs, genitals; anyplace that may be drenched in the blob’s filth. The cascade of hot water must be washing off the grime and layers of pollution, along with the viruses, bacilli and amoebae that tattooed themselves onto my being. The stink of sewage and doom must be fading as the liquid of life glides down my slippery skin. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling of decay that clings to me, nor the black thoughts scrawled across my mind. I wish I were scrubbing myself with a wire brush, raking my flesh down to the bone.

I drop the loofah, then turn off the shower. My skin tingles. I shiver, I shrug, I press the fleshy bases of my thumbs against my eyelids.

“This is fine.” Foam invades my mouth. It tastes bitter, chemical. “You, Nairu and I can live happily on our own private moon.”

Down on the shower pan, the remnants of my day, a pit of brew turned shadow-gray, are spiraling and gurgling down the drain.

Author’s note: today’s song is “Tous les garçons et les filles” by Françoise Hardy.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and sixty-nine videos so far. Check them out.

Psst! Do you enjoy audiochapters? Check out this fresh new one.

I was introduced to Françoise Hardy and her music back in primary school. Our French teacher showed the music video of that song on an old CRT TV. I was enthralled, and from then on, French ladies became a matter of mystical beauty. It didn’t hurt that most of the French girls I met when going to the beach in Hendaye, or that visited our town, were usually lovely. I have to assume that Françoise Hardy inspired Jacqueline’s depiction, although I wouldn’t be sure to what extent, as I don’t plan those things consciously.

Last I know of Hardy, back in 2021 she was dying of terminal cancer, and begging the French government to euthanize her.

My septuagenarian father has covid. This Saturday I will travel to Vitoria so I can attempt to pass an exam on Sunday, that will determine how often they will call me back to work for the next few years. See you on the other side.