Contributor: Dirky Henkel
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Standing by the window, Odessa scratches that itch which never stops. This one is new, two days old. Her vagina's growing more swollen, turning light blue like her eyes, her pubic hair falling out in lumps. Every now and then she can see her vaginal walls move. And she knows it's a virus inside of her, another unwanted Hypherian baby, sucking its way into her womb as though there aren't enough of them leeching the planet. That's what shit like her is used for these days, breeding. She killed the first little fucker, because she found out. Giving birth to their young is suicide. They say you dissolve like acid. Rumours travel fast, even here in Block A329, a hundred floors up. There's comfort in complacency, especially when you're being fed pills.
The haze from the outside creeps through the grille and makes her face look like a checkerboard of fire orange. There's no day or night, no sense of time. She wonders what's beyond those dark clouds permanently casting shadows on the city that used to be, what those fast-moving, neon lights are below, how much longer those airborne star machines, with their protracting claws and flickering beacons waking her up mid-sleep with their noises, will be demolishing all the surrounding buildings. Everything's going, being replaced, yet nothing's really changing.
It's mostly lonely but she's used to it, these four walls of prison hell. She's seen much, enough. Sometimes she gets visits from that scaly bastard, Warden Ainu, whose only services are meals and abortions, the latter of which is to his gain, running a foetus-selling business on the black market which thrives right at home. Warden's not much different from the prisoners he watches, just male, old, one of the last surviving of his gender. Like them, his freedom's severely restricted, confined to the block. And he's not the first warden. Without him, they'd be dead. Without them, he'd be starving. Trust is mutual.
Something slides underneath the padlocked door, what she was waiting for. A piece of paper.
“Ready?” it reads. “Need the protein. Got your solution.”
She dips a stick in a bucket of faeces, scribbles on the paper, “Y,” and sends her message.
There's a buzz. The door clunks open, and the warden sneaks in with his briefcase of tools and motions for her to lie down. She does so, setting her legs wide apart, pulling up her johnny gown of brown blotches. She's then bare, being poked and prodded in inspection. It hurts when he feels that bump above her scarred clitoris, even more when he inserts a pair of pliers inside to fish for the parasite. But she knows it must be done. Her face compresses. She bites her lip. Her eyes roll back. She screams in her mind, but not from her mouth. She hasn't had her tongue since she was two. No human does. The cold, invading steel seems like it's about to puncture her intestines, inciting a need to urinate. Liquid runs down the back of her legs. It's not her essence. The thing's already out, being pinched between the pliers, wriggling its last. It resembles a glowing tapeworm. That's what they look like in the early stages. Warden Ainu throws it into a jar with formaldehyde, and leaves. Odessa has her survival.
Ten days since the abortion. The meal compartment in the door opens. She holds the tray just long enough to get a look, trying to spot the odd change, and sees. There's another warden. Ainu's gone. This one is more anemic, corpselike, torn from reality. Different. She tries to meet his eyes to communicate, but he shuts her off. She slowly sinks on the bed, lost of appetite.
From under her blanket, she hears the door open and close. She doesn't open her eyes. She can hear it cooing, tracing the ground with those viscuous tentacles, coming nearer. The blanket leaves her side. Her gown gets torn, and her body goes bouncing onto the concrete floor. She loses consciousness, but not before she feels the Hypherian thrust inside.
She's still bleeding below, that throb between her thighs ceaseless, her entire gown damp. She gets up in time and limps over for another serving, hearing those wheels squeak in the passage. As the tray gets handed through, she snags the warden by the tie. Suddenly, an alarm goes off, and she backs off ruefully, staring at the door, waiting. In enters a droid that shoots a canister of gas. It makes her sleep.
It's getting bad, the itch, really bad. Those fucks have her good this time. She can't move. She's not sure what they gave her, why they keep coming in, but she knows it's getting worse. She keeps fading in and out. The thing inside isn't in her vagina anymore. Looking down, she notices how her stomach is inflating.
They're standing around, watching her like this is some kind of sick show. How many days has it been? All she can see is their silhouettes, and all she can do is turn her head, wring silly smiles. The pills make her want to laugh. They overdid the dosage. She realizes why. It's happening. The veins on her forehead tense. There's an eruption in her abdomen, a sensation of needles plunging outward, and then she can finally scream even though it sounds more like a deep grunt. The dome of her stomach pops, sending blood on her face, everywhere. The thing's head rears from her organs. It's a wet, hairy ball, like a spider as big as a dog, and it scampers away to join its family. Odessa's skin is burning, disintegrating, and she can see the bones in her fingers. The light from the window isn't orange anymore.
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Dirky Henkel writes from Berlin, Germany. Follow her on Twitter at @DirkyHenkel.
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- -
Standing by the window, Odessa scratches that itch which never stops. This one is new, two days old. Her vagina's growing more swollen, turning light blue like her eyes, her pubic hair falling out in lumps. Every now and then she can see her vaginal walls move. And she knows it's a virus inside of her, another unwanted Hypherian baby, sucking its way into her womb as though there aren't enough of them leeching the planet. That's what shit like her is used for these days, breeding. She killed the first little fucker, because she found out. Giving birth to their young is suicide. They say you dissolve like acid. Rumours travel fast, even here in Block A329, a hundred floors up. There's comfort in complacency, especially when you're being fed pills.
The haze from the outside creeps through the grille and makes her face look like a checkerboard of fire orange. There's no day or night, no sense of time. She wonders what's beyond those dark clouds permanently casting shadows on the city that used to be, what those fast-moving, neon lights are below, how much longer those airborne star machines, with their protracting claws and flickering beacons waking her up mid-sleep with their noises, will be demolishing all the surrounding buildings. Everything's going, being replaced, yet nothing's really changing.
It's mostly lonely but she's used to it, these four walls of prison hell. She's seen much, enough. Sometimes she gets visits from that scaly bastard, Warden Ainu, whose only services are meals and abortions, the latter of which is to his gain, running a foetus-selling business on the black market which thrives right at home. Warden's not much different from the prisoners he watches, just male, old, one of the last surviving of his gender. Like them, his freedom's severely restricted, confined to the block. And he's not the first warden. Without him, they'd be dead. Without them, he'd be starving. Trust is mutual.
Something slides underneath the padlocked door, what she was waiting for. A piece of paper.
“Ready?” it reads. “Need the protein. Got your solution.”
She dips a stick in a bucket of faeces, scribbles on the paper, “Y,” and sends her message.
There's a buzz. The door clunks open, and the warden sneaks in with his briefcase of tools and motions for her to lie down. She does so, setting her legs wide apart, pulling up her johnny gown of brown blotches. She's then bare, being poked and prodded in inspection. It hurts when he feels that bump above her scarred clitoris, even more when he inserts a pair of pliers inside to fish for the parasite. But she knows it must be done. Her face compresses. She bites her lip. Her eyes roll back. She screams in her mind, but not from her mouth. She hasn't had her tongue since she was two. No human does. The cold, invading steel seems like it's about to puncture her intestines, inciting a need to urinate. Liquid runs down the back of her legs. It's not her essence. The thing's already out, being pinched between the pliers, wriggling its last. It resembles a glowing tapeworm. That's what they look like in the early stages. Warden Ainu throws it into a jar with formaldehyde, and leaves. Odessa has her survival.
Ten days since the abortion. The meal compartment in the door opens. She holds the tray just long enough to get a look, trying to spot the odd change, and sees. There's another warden. Ainu's gone. This one is more anemic, corpselike, torn from reality. Different. She tries to meet his eyes to communicate, but he shuts her off. She slowly sinks on the bed, lost of appetite.
From under her blanket, she hears the door open and close. She doesn't open her eyes. She can hear it cooing, tracing the ground with those viscuous tentacles, coming nearer. The blanket leaves her side. Her gown gets torn, and her body goes bouncing onto the concrete floor. She loses consciousness, but not before she feels the Hypherian thrust inside.
She's still bleeding below, that throb between her thighs ceaseless, her entire gown damp. She gets up in time and limps over for another serving, hearing those wheels squeak in the passage. As the tray gets handed through, she snags the warden by the tie. Suddenly, an alarm goes off, and she backs off ruefully, staring at the door, waiting. In enters a droid that shoots a canister of gas. It makes her sleep.
It's getting bad, the itch, really bad. Those fucks have her good this time. She can't move. She's not sure what they gave her, why they keep coming in, but she knows it's getting worse. She keeps fading in and out. The thing inside isn't in her vagina anymore. Looking down, she notices how her stomach is inflating.
They're standing around, watching her like this is some kind of sick show. How many days has it been? All she can see is their silhouettes, and all she can do is turn her head, wring silly smiles. The pills make her want to laugh. They overdid the dosage. She realizes why. It's happening. The veins on her forehead tense. There's an eruption in her abdomen, a sensation of needles plunging outward, and then she can finally scream even though it sounds more like a deep grunt. The dome of her stomach pops, sending blood on her face, everywhere. The thing's head rears from her organs. It's a wet, hairy ball, like a spider as big as a dog, and it scampers away to join its family. Odessa's skin is burning, disintegrating, and she can see the bones in her fingers. The light from the window isn't orange anymore.
- - -
Dirky Henkel writes from Berlin, Germany. Follow her on Twitter at @DirkyHenkel.
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Dirky Henkel
