Zander and I stayed awake all night. There was no chance—no possibility—that I would waste the last moments of my feeble life snuggled underneath shallow covers, next to him, without as much as pouring whatever distilled life I had out left into his pitcher. To be with the man I loved, to be in a position of exuberant love, without as much as showing it. I couldn't do that to him, but I knew it would haunt me if I did it to myself.
Right now, we were sharing a prickly plate of poison, getting high off the euphoric emotions we had for one another, and even if it came from a lack of love, from a string of lust, I enjoyed the hell out of it.
A knock came at the front door at 7 am, or what my internal clock told me was 7 am. My mind rushes back to the present, and I lean upward, wrapping the stained bed sheets around my chest—tucking it in so my modesty remains intact. The only one who deserves to see the lines, the marks, the blemishes, and the scars of flawed existence is Zander, the one my obsession hinges on. I exhale rapidly, griping Zander as he leaves me.
"Don't go, babe," I say, voice heaving, pleading and simmering with anxiety. It inflates into something abstract, into a sparkle of enthusiasm, into a display of clinginess, into more than simply words. I crinkle the plain grey tee, "Zander, stay with me."
Another knock. Zander looks to the door and then at me. His eyes dance with a commitment to appeal to everyone, everything.
"I'll be quick," and he, gently separating my grimy fingers from his side, walks on in silence. He peeks out the peephole, shooting me a frown, then, like a gust of wind, adds, "Minerva and Apollo."
I cast him a look of displacement, worried about my disheveled figure, of my nudity. "Shoo them away," I say. But I knew, deep down, that they were here for me, for us, not for belittling us for our disgusting behavior.
"You know I can't," Zander says, but I can see right through the disguise, the mask. He's scared, alone on a tiny island, all by his lonesome. A shaking baby turtle washed on the shores of an unknown island, far from his family—from the people he grew up with. That's what Zander is.
And me? I don't know—but I'm unfamiliar with what glares back at me in the mirror. The girl who didn't even cry when her best friends died. I'm the same one who balled her eyes out when I got my gaming equipment stripped away. I've undergone a frustrating evolution, a chain reaction of events that have subdued my emotions and forced them under a semi-truck.
No longer am I the Violet who played the viola, no longer am I the Violet that fell in love with the devil, no longer am I the girl that dreamed of her parents dying because I hated them so much, no longer am I the constipated bimbo who thought she could manipulate the feelings of those around her with without consequences. I'm a sedated butterfly, a worthless crumb.
I'm someone who reciprocates the well-being of her friends without showing it. I'm a shell of her former self. A has-been, a celebrity that's gone and gained weight, so no one thinks she's worthy of praise or attention.
The hotel room door squeaks open, and the dimly lit faces of Apollo and Minerva peer at me. They move in tantum, perfectly replicating the move set of the other. One two, one two, one two three.
Minerva places one of her prim hands on my bloated stomach and one on my face. Soft, smooth, she's so mindlessly pretty. And I? I'm so hideous, like a snake or a hedonistic pig.
"Today's the big day," she smiles nervously and, to my surprise, kisses my forehead. Her lips stay there, but I don't feel anything, not love, lust, or a sense of likeness. It's just a platonic kiss, a soothing reminder that something I never thought would love me loves me. "Are you ready?"
YOU ARE READING
Parasite
Fantasy"You're pregnant." Certainly not the words a lowly highschool girl wants to hear. But what can I do about it? Nothing, absolutely, positively nothing. How do I cope with being pregnant with a parasite? I contemplate ways to die. Hell, that's all I...
