Kjumnib 5

Kjumnib 5








The air in the old bar is acrid. You can taste it on your tongue when you leave your mouth open too long. As though caustic bacteria are landing on it and multiplying. As though they are feeding on it. That is why no one talks when they sip their drinks. They converse only with the barman when they are ordering the next one. Then it’s back to their seats with wrinkled faces and dark eyes. Dark, tired eyes.

The front door has been boarded shut for as long as we can remember. No one has entered or exited since I have been here. No one wants to. We just sit and wait, drinking polluted alcohol and hoping that one day we can sleep. Because it has been a while. The smell of wet wood. That cloudy puddle that leaks in from below the door. Ever since the darkness came none of us can close our eyes and dream. We just float around tired and disorientated as though we are in one. Under amber candlelight too.

I do not remember the world before the darkness. Some people claim we used to venture outside and once slept on beds but I cannot recall this. Apparently we all had families too. Some of the older men once tried to describe what a family is to me back when we used to talk, but I can never picture it. I am the youngest person here. The closest person to my age is a middle-aged man with a yellowed top lip who always sits by the bar. He must be about ten years older than me. I do not know his name. No one knows each other’s names. Have we forgotten them? Or do we just not care anymore? Is there a point?

There is a clop from the room above. A high heel against wood. Everyone flinches. We watch quietly and trace the path of the shoes as they make their way across the floor and begin to descend the old stairs. It is Cynthia. She has awoken. She is the only one unaffected by the darkness. Not in the same way as the rest of us anyway. She enjoys this dark time. Perhaps because she is the only female left here. Stroking her long hair and parading around on her long legs. We watch the stairs as her footsteps grow closer. Some of the old men playing cards huddle closer together. Their game has been going on for weeks. They pretend to still be consumed by their game, but cards are the last thing on their minds now that Cynthia is on her way.

She comes into sight and I feel a shudder running up my body. Last time Cynthia made an appearance she watched me for a good ten minutes before settling on someone else. For a while I thought I was going to be chosen. The relief that flooded through my body when she pointed elsewhere was euphoric. I felt no sympathy for the man being led upstairs even though I knew he would not return. This happens once a month.

Today she is wearing black suspenders and a tiny top over her yellowed skin. Her fingernails are long and broken and a milky white colour. Traces of chapped nail polish speckle their surfaces. The nozzle of her gasmask hangs between her withered breasts. Behind the eyeholes she scans over us greedily. There are around thirty of us left. Thirty tired, depressed men. She makes her way slowly towards us, barely staying upright on her high heels. Attempting to look sexy. She drags a finger across someone’s back seductively as she passes. He shudders and chokes on his filthy pint, sending foam down his chin and across the table. She lifts another’s beret from his eyes, revealing his withered forehead. Then she stops in front of me. Her hoarse breathing stutters as she inspects my face. My heart stops. My lungs refuse to inflate. I look back up at her like a lost child. Or a puppy about to be trampled. She must like this look because her breathing begins to quicken. She stutters more frequently. A rasp of delight from her withered throat.

How old are you now, boy?
Sixteen.
Sixteen? Hm. When did you turn?
Three days ago.
Fresh meat.
Yes, ma’am.
How do you know?
Sorry?
How do you know your age? Most of the others have no idea how old they are.
It’s on a card in my wallet.
I see. Hm. Well, come on now.

She leads me by the hand. Her fingers are long and peeling dry skin. I reluctantly follow her up the stairs. My heart is racing now. My lungs are in overdrive. The black, cold liquid in my stomach splashes up the fleshy walls with every step I take. I feel like I am going to vomit as I ascend into the darkness. We make our way across a sticky corridor until we come to a single door. She opens it and beckons me in. I feel like running, but where would I go? I sag as I enter the room. The door closes behind me.

There must be thousands of candles around her bed. Towers of them. A great lair of yellowed wax. She slinks over them onto her filthy mattress. About forty pairs of shoes of differing sizes are piled up against one of the furthest walls. On another of the walls is a great splintered hole the size of a manhole. I cannot see far into its darkness.

She is already naked aside from her gasmask, the nozzle still hanging between her breasts like an obscure phallic toy. Her legs are spread invitingly, revealing her leathery body. Her vulva is pale and slightly glaucous. Strangely, I feel myself becoming aroused at this sight. This is the first woman I have ever seen with my own eyes, and here she is offering herself to me. I go to her, my adolescent urges taking over. That night I am able to sleep for the first time in as long as I can remember, at least for a little while

She uses me for weeks. The long hours are exhausting. It is fantastic at first, especially for the beginning of the first week. I almost feel like I am not in control of my own body. It is almost as though she is. She has the sex drive of an adolescent. The sex drive I should have. The sex drive I might have had if my diet was normal, if the air I breathed in was clean. Every time I make love to her I feel as though she is trying to swallow me whole. Like a spider digesting its prey. Her eyes never leave mine the entire time as though I am being monitored. Or hypnotised.

Soon the lust I have for her fades. I begin to notice just how unappealing the situation is. Her body reeks of mould and dead things. Her arms are insect-like and the underside is coated in purple bruises. Her breathing becomes hoarse as she approaches orgasm, like an asthmatic having a violent attack. Sometimes I wish she would have an attack and die so that I can rest. It seems like I am attempting to satisfy her over ten times a day. She wakens me when I am trying to sleep and wants more. I rarely have more than an hour at a time. If I deny her she becomes violent, glaring at me from behind her eyeholes and breathing like a predator readying for an attack.

Three weeks pass and I am lethargic. My ribs protrude from my chest and my eyeballs almost hang from my skull. It is as though every time I ejaculate I am losing a part of me. As though I am being drained from the end of my penis. I have a suspicion that Cynthia no longer desires me the way she once did. Her sex drive seems to have died down. I hope this is not because of my appearance. Perhaps she is just bored of me. Perhaps she longs for something else. Just now she gazes at the wall disinterested. We have not had sex all day. I paw at her leg for attention. My arm is frighteningly thin. Am I being drained? Is she feeding off me with every intimate encounter? She ignores my touch. Probably because there is not much left of me. I am not surprised that she is indifferent to my presence now. It feels as though a few more sexual encounters will kill me. It is ironic that the only thing I desire now is her, whereas a few weeks ago all I wanted was to escape.

It is getting harder to even move now. Each breath I draw seems to take more effort, as though the flesh of my lungs is getting tighter with every inhalation. I managed to convince Cynthia to let me make love to her earlier, but after five minutes I had to stop. I thought I was going to die. Cynthia just stared at me afterwards. I could see the hate through the eyeholes on her mask. The look she gave me scared me more than anything I have ever seen before. And the fact that she kept glancing at the hole in the wall behind me, there is something I really don’t like about that. I want her to help me. I want her to hold me and tell me everything is alright.

Do you still love me?
What?
I said do you still love me?
Hush, boy.
You don’t do you?
Of course I do. Now be quiet, it’s late.
Sorry.

I am unable to sleep again despite Cynthia no longer constantly wanting to make love. When I do manage to drift off it is rarely for longer than a minute. All I see when I close my eyes is dark twisting images. Blackened shapes pulsating and throbbing and oozing seminal juices. Bodies bent in postures that shouldn’t be possible. Frightening wails that I do not have the words to describe. For a moment when I awaken I am always thankful to have escaped such horrors. Then I realise that I have awoken from one nightmare to find myself in another one. I try to nuzzle into Cynthia, to feel her embrace me back. She never does though. Just growls like a territorial animal and kicks out with insect like legs. I am always left cold and lonely. Now when I ask if she loves me she does not even bother to reply. She does not even acknowledge me.

I have just awoken in the night to find her staring at me with cold eyes. I know that it is over, know now also why it is always a month that Cynthia chooses to make a reappearance downstairs. Because by that time there is nothing left of the man she started on. By that time she is ready to move on. Like she is disposing garbage she hauls my pathetic body over her shoulder. Weakly I try to fight, but can hardly move. My arms and legs writhe in pathetic motions. After a moment I let out a quiet sigh and give up. I am so lethargic I do not even feel fear. Slowly, I am carried over to the hole in the wall. I cut open my arm as I am sent through it but there isn’t much left to bleed out. I watch sadly as the room disappears and I tumble through the air into the darkness for what feels like an eternity. I feel nothing as I crumple hard into the floor. I break through what feels like branches of wood sending pieces clattering.

For a while I carry on living in the darkness, broken and paralyzed. The sound of dribbling water and the scrabbling of insects is all I have as company. My sense of smell has diminished, but there is still the vague essence of decay. I am left with only one emotion, the rest lost to apathy, the rest meaningless in comparison. This emotion exists only because of a single woman. Cynthia.

Love.







2,010 words