published as fiction in earthwords undergraduate literary review issue 45
The body clenches as it desperately tries to fight against itself; to hold everything inside. Futile. It shakes violently, then tenses. Every limb stiffens, skin tightening and stretching over the gaunt frame of an atrophied skeleton, still so full, and aching with the depth of its weight. Hands growing cold against the smooth porcelain of the toilet bowl and slipping on condensation, the hair dips its split ends into polluted water. A finger worms itself into the hole of the mouth, reaches deep into the burrow and prods at the raw, dangle of flesh, flushed red with irritation. At once, the body lurches and releases all the poison it has left inside, drains itself clean until the throat is sore, caked with acid. From the lips, a string of stray spit sways and elongates, then pools with the rest of the bowl’s waste. The lungs exhale, heavy with relief, and are punished as the ribs cramp, skewering the internal organs they’re supposed to protect. An arm cradles the torso, bracing itself against the force of its own cruelty, and the body slumps from its squat to lie on its back, the crisp tile of the floor cooling the heat in its head. Eyes, blurred and burning with the salt of tears, resign to stare at the ceiling, creating faces from the ridges and valleys of its textured roof.
You are a creature of habit.
“Hi, Katie?” The voice over the phone rings uncertain, hesitant. It tiptoes to even speak your name now, but you still hear how it stomped down the hallways and pounded at the door of your childhood bedroom before forcing its way in. “This is your mother.” You know. You’re sure she knows you know too. Her title flashes and blares like an Amber Alert on the surface of your cracked screen almost every other day. “Please call me back.” You won’t. She knows that too. She pauses, and you press your cheek closer against the device. Close enough to hear her breath stutter before she says, “I love you,” like she means it. “Please just let me know you’re okay.” There’s another moment of silence as she pulls the phone away from her ear to end the call. The automated voice breaks through to ask if you want to delete or save the message. You don’t respond, and instead, hold down the power button until everything quiets all together.
Sometimes the body feels that it can only truly breathe underwater, naked as it lies alone in the bathtub, sinking to the bottom of the basin. It gulps air then submerges its head. Counts the seconds until its chest begins to burn, then waits longer. Its mind clears in the dark of its personal pool, the voices muffle. It hesitates to rise but eventually jolts to the surface, gasping. Its hair glues itself to the nape of its neck and it shimmies to keep the whole of its body cloaked in warmth. As the body drowns, its fingers wrinkle and pucker. Water soaks further and further, and the body begins to bloat and swell. Its organs soften and become sodden like a waterlogged sponge. The skin becomes gelatinous; begins to slide from the bone like ice cream that melts and drips down the sides of a sugar cone. Its hair pulls away from its scalp slowly, and one by one. The strands become snakes, slithering off, and tangling into dark, wet clumps that get caught in the drain. The bones begin to deteriorate and mold, breaking apart like rotted wood. Soon the body becomes sludge, dissolves, and becomes homogenous. Tug the wetted serpents out from the filter and watch the body swirl into the void, gurgling as the last of its remains filter through.
“Katie?” A knock.
The body breaks suddenly from its decomposition and stands on shaky legs. Its bare skin pebbles and it shivers, stepping out from the bath and onto a towel on the floor. Water meanders a trail from its hair down the length of its back.
“Yes?” Its voice quavers.
You’re a monster.
“Are you almost done? I think I left my hair dryer plugged in.”
The body glances towards the counter and catches its eyes, wild and flashing, in the mirror. Its gaze trails down the length of its naked body to the hair dryer, follows the black cord to the outlet. It swallows hard.
You’re a coward.
A wet hand reaches out and takes the wire at its root. It tugs the plug from the socket forcefully, then cradles it in its palm tenderly like the bulb of a flower. It feels the surge of its electricity. Feels the heat of its power. Then, it swings the cord around its neck and with it, whirls the hair dryer around, watching with a grin in the mirror as the rope wraps tighter and tighter and tighter around its throat until it closes. The body stares in fascination as its face purples. It stares and it stares and it stares.
Then it blinks.
You are deranged.
You wrap a towel around your body, cover the scars. Dry your hands, pull the hair dryer from the socket, and open the door just wide enough to give it to your roommate.
“Thanks, Kate,” she says. The door closes. Your body shakes.
Have you eaten?
It’s Ian, your boyfriend.
Thumbs hover over the keyboard and twiddle back and forth in the air. You’re lying in bed, nauseated. You’ve eaten a sleeve of saltines and can still feel the sweetened mush embedded in the crowns of your molars. Lash at them with your tongue, try to get it out.
Yes, you answer.
A bubble forms, and your eyes fixate on the circulation of dots. It disappears.
You start to type, hurriedly, panicked. Did you want to—
Do you want to— Are you— Do you—
You erase it all.
The body has been told it is a fortress. Impenetrable. But sometimes when it’s walking home late at night, the wind blows so strong that the body feels as though it can fly, or rather that it might be flung. The body is withered so that any force will break it, chip at it, make it fall. Sometimes the body stops its movement, stills completely, and becomes a wall. Its eyes close, its world becomes void, and all it feels is the wind.
Slowly, the body begins to rise from the ground like a balloon. It bubbles and then ripples in the air like a kite, floating further and further from its starting point as its tether to the earth unwinds. The body becomes a feather, weightless, soars through the night sky and becomes a cloud. There, it suspends and hovers, stretching its plumes overcast a sparkling river, reflecting the dust of stars. It sheds a single tear, then fades into nothing, almost like it was never even there at all.
You are nothing.
Shea Winters 