I can fix this
Warning!
This short story is not appropriate for a young audience. It contains elements of violence, abuse, sexual abuse, strong language and mutilation.Reding time: 6 minutes
I’m sure there is another way to wake up.
I know there is, I know it’s possible, (do I really?) but I can’t remember I ever did. The morning light shining through the curtains, the distant sound of the alarm, my brother’s loud snoring; I know those things are real, as real as the moon landing, but I can’t say if I was the one experiencing them. What I do know, is that once I liked sleeping in the foetal position, on my left side, but now, as soon as the tiredness wins me over and the body automatically curls up seeking comfort, a dreadful pain strikes at my flesh and drags my mind back to consciousness; back to the nightmare. The right forearm leashes out an electric shock that runs towards the oozing pain haloing from my left hip and they clash somewhere in my guts, birthing nausea, taking my breath away.
I’m used to this; I even manage not to puke all over myself nowadays. I’m growing fond of it, I’m afraid. I know, it seems crazy, but it actually makes a lot of sense, all considered. The queasiness fills me up and I can’t think about anything else, at least for a little while, and that’s a luxury in my position.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here, (forever?) I can’t even remember the last time I stood up. The peeling, dark walls and the yellow light bulb are my only reality; (was there ever another one?) sturdy, unwavering, so unlike my metamorphic body. And then, at last, there’s the door (no). I feel it staring at me, (don’t come in) but I don’t want to think about the door (don’t come in, I beg you).
My mind seems to ponder often over the concept of time, even if lately (since when?) I can’t get the hang of it anymore. The time I can think of is the one belonging to my nostalgia, though I can’t say whether the memories are flooding from a real spring or they’re just the evaporation of washed out fantasies; nevertheless, I keep remembering. How else could I spend my time? I remember (daydream?) blissful moments up until the effort wears me down and I fall asleep. Remember, sleep, repeat.
I constantly brood over the music, over how it used to set me free, how it unchained emotions I now doubt they ever existed. I remember (yes, remember!) I could create music; I was the one—what’s the word? Playing? Yes. I could play. I’m certain of it. Music poured out of me and made me happy, made me feel alive. Now it scares that life out of me. At times, (no, not again) when the door opens, (please, no) foggy musical notes seep through from a distant universe and my head bangs against another reality: the reality beyond these walls. The notes infect me with the information that I could have been somewhere else. All of this doesn’t last long, just the time for the door to close again, (don’t come in, I beg you) but I don’t want to think about the door now. I really don’t.
Photo by Marius Masalar on Unsplash
Music, good music, used to make me want to sit down and place my fingers on that thing; (how’s it called? That thing. The plane? The pain? No. The piano, yes, the piano!) and let them dance on the keys. Those fingers are mine, (wrong) they belong to me, (not anymore) they’re the antennae of my body, which reminds me—and that’s a trigger for my dusty tears—that my body is rotting in this room.
I can feel it even before I look at it. I taste the perpetual ache; I welcome him like an old friend, so different from the searing pain that wakes me up; the violent convict imprisoned forever within me. This warmer pain gently gropes my bed sores, smouldering my skin ever so slightly. He cuddles my spine, twisted by the constant lingering on the soaked mattress, soiled with the few drops I am still able to pee. I can feel the anguish of my own urine and her shame, so alike mine, buried above my womb and gushing out of me, next to the bloody spot that used to be my clitoris.
I find it unbelievable that, once upon a time, I used to think of sex as an enjoyable activity. How could you desire something inside you? How can this give you (what’s pleasure?) pleasure? Nevertheless, I remember craving for it, even longing to get laid a few times, and now the thought makes me so mortified. Something nobody tells you is that you get used to the pain. That initial rift grows more bearable after each time, the most delicate areas become leathery and the scars harden, making it difficult for them to tear again. The hips can collapse only once and I know how to stay still like a corpse, so now my legs have wasted away and I can’t feel a thing if I lay motionless, letting him do whatever he wants (no, not again). You get used to the pain, but never to the shame.
I’m not sure whether I made this up or if it actually happened, but when I am ravished by panic attacks I always have a memory popping to my mind. I’m little, and my gorgeous, blonde braid is resting on my shoulder; accompanying perfectly my lovely pink dress. My dad’s reading the newspaper and I’m playing next to him, holding a fancy tea party for my favourite doll, Marybelle, and for the first time I get to use an old tea pot and two china cups—proper china, can you believe it? One of them is secure in the doll’s hand while I’m holding the other with my thumb and finger (are they really mine?). Out of nowhere, my cup slips like a slimy frog and shatters in a million pieces on the floor. I look at my dad, unconcerned, and I tell him: “Daddy, fix it please.”
Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash
He gives me a sad look, puts away the newspaper and kneels down to my level. Stroking my head he says: “I’m sorry honey, I can’t. Now, let me pick up the pieces before you cut yourself.”
I don’t believe it; I can’t believe it. There must be a solution, some sort of remedy, a rewind button, a time machine; something to bring things back the way they were. My china, my precious china, forever shattered? Tossed away? The helplessness invades me like a hoard of scavengers whilst tears drown me in panic; eventually forcing me to face how time makes life irreversible.
That’s why I must remember how it used to be, (was there ever anything before?) because while I can still remember, I know where to go back. While I can still remember, there is an end to this tunnel. Remembering is my last grip to sanity; the only reason to stay alive. I try to be brave, (don’t) I decide to look at my body, (stop it) to prove to myself that everything’s fine, (shut your eyes) that I can fix this, (shut your fucking eyes!)
I watch my gaunt legs. My ankles look oversized; the skin’s yellowish and scabbing away. My knees, those enormous knots in the middle of two sticks, lay far from each other, dropped by the hips’ missing support, and they’re so light, so insubstantial, they could float away with a breath of wind. So far so good, I lie to myself. A bit of physio, a bit of exercise and they’ll get back in shape in no time. I stare at the tiny bush of pubic hair, sticky with black blood and I find myself thinking that, with some rest, that butchered area will heal back and I promise I won’t use it ever again if not to pee. I look at the ribcage, at what it used to be my breasts, and I tell myself that if I eat, (will you ever eat again?) they’ll grow back and ripen like plums on my chest.
This is when I sin with optimism (don’t do it). My eyes begin to wonder over my shoulder, propelled by my foolish belief that I’ll be able to fix this (stop). I can feel my fingers dancing as if I was playing the piano (he knew it). I can feel the tendons flexing, releasing and flexing again, and I tell myself it’s not as bad as it seems (he knew you were a pianist). Naturally, my eyes keep scrolling and I look at my armpit, my bicep, my elbow. At the forearm my heart drumrolls madly, (why?) and suddenly I can see the handcuffs strangling me, (why did he do that?) deforming the purple skin around my bones. I move my hand—I can unmistakably feel it—clench and unclench the fist, and suddenly I know that looking was a mistake. Above the handcuffs, where there should have been my wrist, there’s nothing now. What’s left is a messy clump of septic flesh, awkwardly stitched together and sprinkled with pieces of fabric belonging to a joke of a bandage attempt. I breathe heavily, I swallow air, (my hands! My hands!) and set my body in motion (where are my hands?)
How do I fix this? God, please, how do I fix this? At this point I lose my mind, I tighten my imaginary fists and try to break free, feeling my hands but unable to see them. Shivering, crying, I pull with all my might. A stabbing agony bursts from the stumps, my hips turn into snake nests, and they’re biting their way out of me while I scream, I scream in despair. No, not my hands, please. I want to play. Give me back my fucking hands!
Oh my God. Did I say it out loud? I shouted. Oh my God. No. Shut up, for Christ’s sake, shut up. What if he heard me? What would happen then? Please, please don’t come downstairs, don’t come in, don’t come in, no, not again.
I hold my breath, quivering, a single drop of cold sweat prickling down my neck. I can’t hear a thing. Maybe he’s not in. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe I’m safe (you’re not). I exhale and the lungs deflate in a vacuum. Even breathing is exhausting. I’m barely aware of my shivers, the rusty bedframe giving them away, then it happens.
Photo by Nathan Wright on Unsplash
The door. The handle lowers and the door creaks. No, don’t come in. Please, don’t come in. No. Let me die. Don’t come in don’t come in don’t come in! But hell opens his mouth and the cruel music starts to feast over my soul.
Just fuck me. I beg you, just do it. Please, God, please. Let it be one of those nights when he just wants to come inside me. Please, I mutter, just fuck me. The shame doesn’t matter anymore; nothing matters. The only miracle I’m asking for is for him to go away, but the door opens and I see him and I haven’t been breathing for God knows how many years. He cleans his spectacles and I cry the most inaudible cry.
“I knew you could scream,” he says, smiling. “Why don’t you do it when we make love? Why don’t you scream like the whore you are? Why? You know you have to stay quiet when you’re alone. You know it, and yet you scream, while you don’t make a sound when I want you to.”
He steps forward and I have to break free, I have to slither away, but I am paralysed, cold, dead, yet suffering all the pain of the living; all of them packed in my guts.
“I’m disappointed; so disappointed in you. Do you really want to scream?” He lifts his arms and shows me the hack-saw. That hack-saw. “Ok then: I’ll make you scream.”
He approaches me slowly, and leaning over my face droops saliva like a rabid dog.
“No, please don’t. I’ll behave. Make love to me, I beg you. Don’t cut me.”
“Too little, too late, honey. First, I’ll cut you; then, if you ask politely, I’ll also fuck you.”
“Why?” I wheeze between sobs. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Why?” he seems so surprised I don’t understand it. “You really don’t know? It’s because I love you, honey.”
The fantastic staff of the Terni Horror Fest published a short film adaptation of the story above on YouTube. If you can speak Italian, you should watch it!
