Jon Ureña's Blog, page 50

We're Fucked, Pt. 25 (Fiction)

Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better
---

I swirl the coffee around in my mouth as I struggle to gather my words. The glass panels of the front door have darkened, but the rain keeps drumming on the windows. The tinny speakers over the counter are playing a melancholic guitar riff dampened by the murmur of conversations, which makes the song sound like someone is practicing in a lonely corner.

Jacqueline takes a sip of her mimosa. As her tongue glides across her plump lower lip, I dare to speak.

"These days my dream job is to die in a traffic accident. My corpse will rot in a ditch until someone finds my decomposing remains and wonders why my clothes are torn and my face is swollen. Through my driver's license they'll learn my name and address. Once they find my family, they'll call them and tell them what a terrible person they raised. The insurance company will send my parents a letter stating that the damages were deemed unrepairable because the body is so badly mangled that nothing remains of my breasts or my vagina."

Jacqueline tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me, but when she smacks her lips, another flood of words runs off my tongue.

"When I was three years old, my mother evicted my alcoholic father. He refused to accept defeat, so he broke into his former home and kidnapped both me and my infant sister. Then my father drunk-drove us off a cliff into a lake. My sister was rescued, but I drowned to death. With every rising swell of water, my hair and clothes floated around my waterlogged corpse from which my soul had escaped. My eyes were closed tightly shut, my hands crossed over my chest, my mouth frozen open, and bubbles of blood were stuck at the tip of my protruding tongue. But somehow I ended up uploading my unbodied consciousness into the mainframe of a machine, that now contains my mind and memories. I've become ones and zeroes as part of this giant network of ghosts trapped in machines. There's no one to talk to other than a robotic nurse and a sadistic programmer who intends to involve me in his VR porn scenarios. As for my father, well, no one knows where my father is, but everyone assumes that he's rotting away somewhere with nothing but worms crawling around in his skull for company."

Jacqueline runs her fingers through the length of her raven black hair, as if to calm herself down from the storm of emotion she must be feeling at the prospect of becoming insane like myself.

"I thought your father was supposed to be in the car with you and your baby sister," she says quietly. "Whatever disaster totalled your car, as you put it, must have done a number on you, sweetie. But I'm glad you are opening up about it. You need a shoulder for your troubles and comfort for your fears, right?"

My heart beats faster with guilt and self-reproach. I swallow my bitter bile and vomit-like thoughts back inside my gut.

Jacqueline's hand rests on mine and holds it. When she lets go, she smiles at me with those piercing cobalt blue eyes of hers.

"Leire, have you ever been with anyone? Like with a guy in a romantic sense?"

This whole time, Jacqueline believed I was a virgin?! I must dispel this notion immediately.

"Of course I've been in relationships before! For example, my latest ex is in prison after he was found guilty of having sex with my corpse during a night of heavy drinking."

Jacqueline chuckles as she traces the rim of her glass with her index finger.

"I can see how that would put you off relationships for a while."

I rub my eyes. My heart is beating fast. I fear that I'm widening the chasm between us. Maybe Jacqueline has ceased to appreciate my presence, my stories or even my existence anymore.

"W-what, do I seem as if I have never dated anyone?" I ask cautiously.

"You always gave me the impression that people make you uncomfortable," Jacqueline says with concern as she rests her cheek on her hand, "that you deal with human beings because you don't have a choice, and you hope to be left alone soon. You can't keep up with the world and its changes; you can only watch everything from afar like a bird that sits on a window sill. You prefer computers because they aren't attached to you emotionally, and won't judge you for anything you might say or do wrong, right? Such a personality sounds unsuitable for romance. Why are you here tonight, sweetie, instead of sitting at home and thinking about how much you want to be free from the world's expectations and demands?"

My cheeks burn. Is Jacqueline, in her saintly patience, trying to make me realize the mistake of having invited her out on a date? I drink my latte as a thunderclap rattles the windows of the pub. The dim light bulbs flicker.

"I dated a few guys, long ago," I mutter, then I clear my throat. "And I learned from those experiences what I would learn from placing my hand on a hot stove: I ended up burned badly and with an awful smell permeating my flesh. Also, that when I close my hand around a man's hard penis, the sensation can trigger a fire alarm because erections can heat up and cook a woman's soft tissue. In any case, it took two more tries for stupid old me to learn my lesson. I doubt I'm built for human relationships."

What the hell am I saying?! Am I not trying to date Jacqueline?! Maybe my own subconscious has realized that I have embarked on a suicidal quest and is urging me to relent.

Jacqueline offers me a lovely smile. And those cobalt blues of hers from up close make me want to weep, throw my arms around her slender neck and bury my face in her raven black hair to beg for forgiveness.

"Sweetie, I get why you feel like that about romantic relationships," she says.

"You do?!"

How would she, when she likely gets fucked by four or five guys every week?

Jacqueline's gaze darts around. She shifts her weight in the stool and lifts the slice of orange from the rim of her glass. She tears off the juice vesicles with her teeth, then she leaves the rind on the table. Her eyes light up suddenly, and she shoots me a mischievous glance as she swallows.

"Besides, who needs to deal face to face with people when you can always play with yourself on the phone, isn't that right?"

I did call Jacqueline yesterday while I was diddling myself on my bed. I guess I deserve the many references to that choice she'll be throwing at me from now on. I sigh heavily.

"To be honest, I sometimes fear that I will vanish from existence due to a stroke caused by excessive masturbation."

We're silent for long seconds as the rain pours down outside. A gloomy feeling has descended upon us, threatening to engulf me. I'll have to slog my way back home in that downpour. I wish the owners of this pub would let me sleep in a corner.

"I... masturbate so much because I need to feel good at least for a few seconds, and I'm too lazy to figure out which of the drugs out there would suit my needs best. Also, I've sought solace in self-pleasure whenever I faced a dreadful problem or I was drowning in anxiety, and I become increasingly anxious from the moment I leave my apartment, so..."

"I get it, sweetie. Taking care of yourself feels great."

"I-it's this garbage job of ours and the stress and monotony it inflicts on our lives. My waking hours are spent staring at computer screens. Even when I refuse to work overtime, I waste my free time between exhaustion and worry about the tasks I've yet to finish, because tomorrow looms over us like a monster waiting to devour us. When I look in the mirror after playing with my clit, I see nothing but darkness. I'm an aging spider caught in its own webby tangles."

Jacqueline pats me lightly on the back of my dress. I'm used to wearing hoodies over T-shirts, so her touch lingers on my skin.

"As far as I'm concerned, you are a tiny little baby. You are talking to a forty-four-year-old lady, remember? I always hoped that someone would have invented a way to remain young forever. But no matter what I can do, I will grow old and die eventually."

I clutch my glass as I straighten my back. I'm tasting my coworker's bitterness for the first time, and it feels like home.

"Let me tell you, Jacqueline: you can easily pass for thirty."

Jacqueline snorts, then sips her mimosa.

"You're right. I can pass for much younger if I want to. But my mind remains that of an old, single lady who has spent years on self discovery to find happiness through romance, gaining painful lessons along the way."

"Oh no, I won't let you call yourself single when you get fucked by ten men every week. You've likely made love to half of Spain's population without getting bored with their body types and tastes. So that's an insult to those of us who have to diddle ourselves in odd places while a horse stares at us."

Jacqueline laughs softly, her shoulders tremble. It warms my heart. Before I figure out how to cause such an exquisite sound again, she twirls one end of her raven black hair between her fingers as she addresses me.

"What's with you and horses? But Leire, I've wanted to tell you for a while, because it pains me to see you miserable: life is beautiful and worth living if you don't think hard about anything. Regardless of your capacity for happiness, just let yourself enjoy what you love."

Jacqueline relies on clichés, like the majority of the flesh and bone robots that populate this world. I need her to be unique, so maybe I let myself be deceived by yet another delusion. My hand trembles as I reach for my glass, which I'm tempted to empty out, as the latte has gotten cold.

"I'm alive, so like most people I've heard the notion that one should stop thinking and just be happy," I say hoarsely. "Is that truly applicable to anyone? My brain thinks by itself constantly. I snap out of a daydream I didn't choose to fall into, only to realize I was supposed to pay attention to the pavement and the traffic lights, or to the code I have to program, or even to the road as I'm driving. Such daydreams, or waking nightmares, often force me to confront everything that has gone wrong in my life."

Someone's footsteps approach me from behind, which startles me. A college-age girl with long blond hair passes by our table. She eyes us with curiosity, then disappears behind the brick pillar. I had forgotten that a mixed group has occupied the nearby table, which robs Jacqueline and I of our privacy.

"We can try to believe that happiness will be possible for us," Jacqueline says carefully.

"I guess I'd rather be miserable in truth that happy in deceit."

"If we can't convince ourselves, at least we can hope that someone will help us along the path that leads to happiness."

Why am I getting annoyed? This lovely woman whose attention and embrace I crave is trying to improve my mood, yet I feel like shooting her down with a thousand barbed words. I rub my eyes and take a deep breath.

"So you've been feeling bad because you had to deal with my miserable self at the office. Jacqueline... I appreciate that you were looking out for me although you felt like you couldn't approach me. I guess I scare off most people."

When I dare to lift my gaze at Jacqueline's face, she gifts me a sad little smile. I'm tempted to brush one of her locks behind her ear, but I don't deserve to initiate contact with anyone.

"Also... I doubt I'll ever forget how you held me in the bathroom when I broke down and wanted to die." I shiver, then I look down into my glass. "But if you expect me to ever be happy, you might as well wish upon a star for it to land in my lap. Another shooting star, a shining silver fragment, already pierced my eye back when I was a baby, punching a tiny hole that turned everything murky and miserable."

We remain silent. Jacqueline tilts her glass to drink her mimosa, and when she sets the glass down, her gaze is unfocused. I would have never expected Jacqueline to look deflated. I want to scoot closer and nuzzle up to her. I can only properly connect with people when they become so depressed that they wish they hadn't been born. If I have to drag them down to that level, then so be it.

"Life sucks ass for everyone except robots and psychopaths," I say in a thin voice that sounds as hollow as my head has become, "and merely looking around whenever you leave the safety of your home will tell you that soon enough this society will come crashing down into dust, along with many others. We're forced to engage in a barbarian struggle for survival in a hostile world filled with hungry monsters that wait at our doorsteps to gobble us all up, and we're not special in any way other than living brief lives filled with suffering, sickness and death."

I picture a future when Jacqueline wanders around a desolate landscape, trying desperately to keep herself sane while a crazed lunatic rants at her from a distance. Maybe once a robot has eaten the last horse whole, there won't be a thing left in this world but a few people with broken brains wandering about aimlessly until they finally starve to death, like lost children abandoned by a cruel parent in the wilderness.

The college-age blonde from earlier emerges from behind the pillar, which startles me. I avert my gaze. Her blurry legs pass us by as she trails the smell of soap. She must have done something nasty to her vagina to have cleaned herself so thoroughly.

I wipe the sweat from my brow. I riled myself up with my speech, so I continue.

"But I already ceased to care about this world long ago, when I faced that I should have never been born in it. Also, we are ruled by machines that control our minds through technology so complex it's impossible for us to comprehend. What scares me these days is that my mental faculties may fail me and I'll get trapped inside my own mind for the rest of my life. I refuse to imagine the monster I'll become once I lose the ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Unfortunately... Let's say that nowadays I feel close to crossing that red line."

Jacqueline has furrowed her brow as she studies my expression.

"What do you mean, Leire?"

My heartbeat echoes loud throughout my skull. I gulp nervously. Why did I bring it up? Do I believe that Jacqueline would understand, or at least comfort me?

"I... might be losing my mind. That's the clearest way I can put it. Some vital part of my brain must have gotten scrambled. Also, I lied to you, about my car I mean, when I suggested that I had an accident. I nearly killed myself in it. Before I could realize it, I was veering into oncoming traffic. I guess... I truly wanted to die. I even convinced myself that my old Renault Laguna was driving itself! This must be the onset of some kind of dementia, or one of those diseases of the brain that nobody wants to learn about unless they affect a family member or themselves."

Jacqueline's eyelids quiver. She grabs my left hand, squeezes it gently and keeps holding it. My heart flutters.

"Don't worry," she says soothingly. "When you told me about your accident, I feared you may have done it on purpose. I'm glad that you stopped yourself. You must want to live at least that much. But look at the bright side: I'll get to drive you around from now on."

The sparkle in Jacqueline's eyes advertises how much she has grown to care for me. I hang my head low to avert my gaze as she rubs my left palm with her thumb. What have I done for someone like her to care for a rotten bitch like me?

"Whenever I look back to figure out where I went wrong, it feels as if I was broken from the beginning. Every day is a struggle to achieve what comes easily for others. And why struggle at all? You can't expect a broken thing to ever stand straight, can you? I've done little else than stumble along as I hold the broken pieces of myself, which constantly threaten to slip my grip. And let me tell you, I'm fucking sick of holding everything together."

Jacqueline's fingers caress my knuckles, but she remains silent like a mother allowing her child's tantrum to subside. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I try to calm my racing pulse.

"I feel like we understand each other much more, Jacqueline," I say gratefully. "Below that gorgeous, seductive facade of yours, you are a barren middle-aged woman with a few remaining years of romance to squeeze out of life."

Once I finish that sentence, my blood freezes as if my heart was pumping icy water. Jacqueline's hand is closed around mine, but has become inert. A sepulchral silence buries us as I listen for any change in Jacqueline's breathing, until she smacks her lips.

"I've always wanted a family," she says hoarsely.

The hurt in her voice must have cracked some dam behind my eyes, because they fill with tears that drip on my right palm as I lift it to cover my eyes. Jacqueline drapes her arm around my neck and pulls me closer. She rests her chin on my scalp.

"C'mon, there's no need to cry about that," she whispers gently.

My ragged breaths inhale Jacqueline's perfume mixed with the musky aroma of the sweat between her breasts. The tears roll from the corners of my eyes and dribble onto my bare knees.

"I knew those words would hurt you," I mumble. "That's why they came out of my mouth. I'm suffering all the time, so I need others to suffer as well. I'm a rotting, diseased rat who should be stomped on and thrown into a landfill. I have nothing good to offer to this miserable world."

Jacqueline swivels on her stool towards me and she embraces me properly, burying my face in her warm neck, squeezing her tits against my shoulder blades, as she wraps her arms around my torso. Her hair brushes my skin with a light caress as it settles on my shoulders. The shock paralyzes me until a relief builds up in my depths. The pressure I had been containing escapes through my mouth like air leaving an untied balloon, and my heartbeat slows down until it matches Jacqueline's rhythm.

She slides a hand under my hair to stroke my nape. I hug her back. I feel the intricate texture of her lace dress on my fingertips, as well as the cold chain of its zipper running up her spine.

"What I'm about to tell you," Jacqueline whispers near my left ear, "I haven't shared with another human being in a long time. Back when I was eighteen, I believed I was in love with a much older, married man. He took my virginity and treated me like a treasure. In just a couple of months, he got me pregnant. Even at my young age, all I wanted was a big family and to be a good mom, so I intended to give birth to this baby. You can figure out how that man reacted to my decision, right? He convinced me that we should wait a year or two, that he'd figure out how to divorce his wife without getting fleeced. I wanted to keep that man as well, and he'd resent our child if I went ahead with the pregnancy, so I opted for an abortion. I never recovered from my decision, in more ways than one. Something precious had died inside me, although I didn't want it to die. I was a wreck. Back at my parents', for a few days I did little else than lie in bed and cry. I felt ill, but why wouldn't I? I could have created something beautiful. I was actually sick, though, in physical pain. A foul smell was coming out of me. When I went to the doctor, it was too late. I had developed an infection that spread to my ovaries. They treated me for a couple of weeks, but the tests revealed that my tubes were... scarred. I was one of those unlucky cases in which the damage makes you infertile. I have forgotten the weeks that followed, but I think that I cracked. For years I couldn't care about anything. When I thought about spending my whole life unable to make my one dream come true, I needed to scream and break anything. My parents gave up on me, and I don't blame them. From then on I figured that if I wouldn't get out of life what I had always yearned for, I would have as much fun as I could. If anyone got too clingy, I moved on to someone else. After all, what was the point of settling down with someone if I would never have a family of my own?"

I'm stumped. The muscles around my heart have tightened painfully. I feel a person inside the warm frame that's holding me in her arms, as if her consciousness was kicking through the bones and flesh.

When Jacqueline pulls away from the embrace, I want to complain until she locks her arms behind my back again. The sadness that lingers in Jacqueline's eyes reminds me of an abandoned house on a winter's day.

"You... always seemed like you were enjoying yourself," I mumble.

She rests her forehead on mine as she sighs deeply, warming my lips with her breath.

"Oh, it's been a rollercoaster. But I've always needed something else."

Guitar practice (06-12-2021)

Today I could have either developed the scaffolding of the next scene of my ongoing novel, or I could have played the guitar. For now I've done the latter. Maybe a mistake, because the booster shot caused me some lung issue and after singing it's gotten harder to breathe.

As usual, I uploaded to YouTube the whole session of me playing the guitar and singing poorly. The link is below.

Guitar practice (06-12-2021)

We're Fucked, Pt. 24 (Fiction)

Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better

---

I haven't fully recovered yet from the Moderna booster shot, but at least I don't have a fever anymore. I spent the day after the jab with temperatures close to 39ºC. The following day they averaged about 37.5ºC. Besides the inevitable decline of my cognitive abilities during the fever, I experienced muscle pain, a troubling, pulsating headache at the base of my skull, and maybe worst of all, I developed something of a bronchitis, for which I'm still taking asthma medication. Still, it seems I'll have to continue this life of mine.

Anyway, I had been working on this scene for days, and frankly I wanted to put it out there and move on. I'm not entirely content with the result, but it achieves all it was meant to.

---

Jacqueline and I walk arm in arm under her umbrella along the puddle-infested pavement, as we head towards my coworker's chosen pub. Raindrops are pelting the umbrellas and plunking against car roofs; only the occasional motorbike's engine sounds over the white noise of the downpour. Rivulets run across the street and into gutters where they turn white with froth. With each inhalation, watery air enters my lungs. Jacqueline and I remain silent as if we had agreed to wait until we reached a shelter.

We pass the courthouse, and after we hurry to cross a short zebra crossing, we continue along a leaf-littered pavement lined with nude trees. The umbrellas of the strangers that pass us, as well as ours, sway and dance in response to the gusts of wind. Rainwater falls from the ends of the fabric in curtains while cold raindrops hit my bare legs like tiny daggers, as if the water was trying to push through to enter my bloodstream and feed on my living tissue.

By this point of human civilization, when most things are airtight and insulated from nature to prevent damage to buildings or our vulnerable lives, stormy weather should have been forbidden by law, yet it continues to make everything on earth quiver and shiver and whimper in terror at the sight of the freakish beast known as rain. However, being so close to Jacqueline's warmth has given me goosebumps on top of those the cold provided. With every breath I take, her scent invades me. It's musky with an undertone of rose petals and honeysuckle. This also causes a slight but noticeable warming of my genitals.

My mind drifts to daydreams in which I'm lying in a stroller with the canopy down. I've never quite known which way to go, but with Jacqueline driving me around, I don't have to worry.

Jacqueline slows down as we reach the end of the canyon made of wheat brown apartment buildings. Beyond a small square with a garden enclosed by a green and yellow, knee-high hedge, a daisy white building, that likely contains one or two hotels, hides the view of the La Concha beach. The air is damp with the smell of the ocean, a touch of seaweed mixed with brine.

"That's our pub," Jacqueline says.

She tugs on my arm so we won't miss the green light. The shopfront of the pub is wooden and painted charcoal black, which clashes with the building it's embedded into. The fake, gilded signs written in English evoke decades long past. Must be an Irish pub.

Jacqueline closes her umbrella as I pull the pub's door open. In the interior, thick wooden beams run across the ceiling, the dimmed bulbs highlight a few cobwebs, the pillars are made of mortared bricks that remind me of an old factory, sets of stairs lead to raised platforms where they've set up a few tables, and wooden banisters have divided up areas like a row of tables next to the windows, or the mezzanine. A musty aroma permeates the room as if mildew had grown in the wood paneling. The room is also filled with the low murmur of conversations, mixed with soft rock music that comes out from a tinny sound system hanging above the bar counter.

The brass umbrella stand is stuffed full, so we walk further ahead while the floorboards creak beneath our footsteps and our umbrellas leave a trail of rainwater. Groups of men or couples sit at worn out wooden tables with scarred surfaces, furniture likely made with love, at least of money.

"Let's see if my favorite tables are free," Jacqueline says cheerfully.

She walks ahead, but as she disappears past a pillar, the sole of my right sneaker slips on wet wood, and I stumble backwards onto my ass with a loud thud. I suck in my breath and hold it as my ass cheeks complain.

A guy sitting at a nearby table is eyeing my crotch while he nurses his beer mug. What the fuck is he looking at? Ah, my legs are spread as if I were about to give birth, and I'm wearing a damn dress, so I'm flashing my panties. I bang my knees closed, mortified. However, the guy had already averted his gaze to stare into his beer. He had a chance to ogle my barely covered vagina, but he rejects it? Am I that disgusting? What has my life become that some pervert wouldn't even bother checking out my privates for more than a second?

I try to stand up quickly, but Jacqueline approaches me and stoops to help me up.

"You okay?" she asks.

"I mean, besides the embarrassment."

"Don't worry. We can sit at one of my favorite tables, so we'll be fine."

As I hurry up beside Jacqueline, I avoid glancing back at the fiend who had gotten an eyeful of my likely wet panties. We walk up a short flight of stairs. Jacqueline guides me to a high-top, round table next to a decorative barrel and a pillar that hides us from the rest of the pub except for the bar counter, the bartenders and a nearby table occupied by a mixed group in their early twenties.

We lean our umbrellas against the banister. As I drag a tall stool to our table, Jacqueline unbuttons her designer coat and takes it off, revealing a crimson, lace dress with long, sheer sleeves and a choker neckline that pushes her large breasts together. The skirt of her dress ends mid-thigh, but black, opaque stockings hug the rest of her shapely legs. Her dress is tight enough to display the curves of her stomach and her wide hips.

I swallow.

"Holy fuck."

Jacqueline laughs softly. She helps me take off my thick corduroy jacket, and we drape my jacket and her coat over the barrel.

"A bit overdressed for this place," Jacqueline says mellifluously, "but you had waited for a good while to see more of me. Oh, and look at that, your nipples are poking right through your bra and dress as if taunting me. As I thought, you have surprisingly big boobs for someone so skinny. It's a shame that you choose to hide them with hoodies and sweaters."

I'm dizzy and speechless as a flush of warmth spreads throughout my midsection. The next thing I know, I'm perched on my stool, and Jacqueline has dragged hers close enough that her thighs almost touch mine. But I'm disappointed that she hasn't taken me in her arms and filled my mouth with her tongue. A part of her must be afraid of becoming too involved with a creature like myself.

Jacqueline brushes a lock of my hair behind my ear as her cobalt blue eyes lock into mine, causing goosebumps to erupt all over my body. I can't look away, although my face is burning up.

"You are much cuter when you blush like that," she whispers.

I discern the webs of striations in her irises, that encircle the black holes of her pupils. That gaze captivates and possesses anyone who meets it, and the longer she stares with hunger into the eyes of a victim, the more they lose themselves, becoming so engrossed in lusting over Jacqueline's presence that they forget the corpses strewn about the ruins of this society. It may also lead to madness and eventually death for those unlucky souls unable to fight back.

"So, what do you want to drink, sweetie?" she asks.

"W-well, just travelling to Donostia has worn me out, so I need a coffee."

"Alright. What kind?"

"A latte would be fine, but I should be the one..."

Jacqueline shushes me up. She stands up, then steps gracefully past the brick pillar.

My coworker has taken the lead in this gathering. She's turned into a predator that'll try to drag her prey into her cave. I can't wait for her to turn me inside out and devour every morsel of my flesh.

Jacqueline reappears once she reaches the bar counter. A female bartender, who is wearing a white T-shirt tucked into black trousers, approaches my coworker and greets her as if they know each other. Jacqueline nods towards the backbar, where the rows of liquor bottles glisten in the dim light.

From this angle, her dress delineates her firm ass cheeks. I need to knead that ass and stuff my nose up her asshole. She must work out, while in my spare time I barely retain enough energies to trudge up to my sofa and pass out. I avert my gaze partly because I fear getting so horny that I'll become incoherent.

Two of the young guys sitting at the nearby table, and facing the bartenders, crane their necks to check out Jacqueline. One of the girls, who looks like a college student, looks over her shoulder to figure out what has titillated her pals. These girls may be much younger, but they ain't Jacqueline.

My coworker is taller, stronger, healthier, more beautiful than me. She has the passion and drive to succeed in life. Jacqueline surpasses me in every parameter, except programming. I'm quite sure that she can't program for shit, so I have that going for me. What am I doing, though? Would it be possible for a woman like Jacqueline to fall for someone aged by stress and who lacks any charm, a creature with no redeemable qualities other than having a job with a decent paycheck, the occasional urge for self-abuse, a fetish of collecting unplayed board games, and a penchant for masturbating to elude her despair? How did I dare to invite Jacqueline out on a date? I'm a cockroach that skitters about in this world of towering humans.

I rest my elbows on the table and hang my head low. The rain is beating on the windows, which muffles the murmur of conversations and the clinking of glass. I close my eyes and listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers' 'Californication', that's playing on the speakers. A song that never got old, and that makes me nostalgic for a youth I never had.

When someone's footsteps approach me from the nearby pillar, I open my eyes and find myself staring at Jacqueline's ample thighs. Her legs appear taut and muscular underneath her black stockings. I straighten my back. My coworker's cobalt blue eyes sparkle with mirth, her teeth gleam white, her lips are full and red, her neck slender and smooth.

Jacqueline places my latte, served in a glass, in front of me. A fork-length away, she places her glass, which is filled with a yellow liquid. They stuck a slice of orange on the rim.

"What the hell is that?" I ask hoarsely.

Jacqueline chuckles as she climbs onto her stool.

"A mimosa."

"Sorry, I don't know shit about drinks."

She smacks her lips, then rubs my nape with her warm hand.

"What's got you down, baby doll? I wish I knew what's going on in that head of yours."

If Jacqueline knew, she would regret it and never look my way again. I wish I didn't know about the monster that dwells within the confines of my skull.

"I wonder... why an exquisite creature like you, with all your charms, wastes her time working at our shitty office surrounded by miserable people, or at least one miserable person and that happy-go-lucky intern of ours. Shouldn't you be out there conquering the world instead, maybe starring in movies?"

Jacqueline caresses firmly, but slowly, the muscles in the back of my neck. My heartbeat accelerates as my chest rises and falls with deep breaths.

"Oh, you just think so because you are seeing me through your adoring eyes, sweetie," she says in a sultry voice.

I dare to hold her patient gaze for a second before I focus again on the cracks in the wooden table. I sip my latte, then wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

"I don't know. Our job feels like having settled for a boring, dead-end life with no meaning other than being employed."

Jacqueline takes my chin and turns my head towards her. That beautiful face framed by raven black locks fills my vision. Her sapphire earrings contain a polygonal, distorted version of my own visage.

"Leire, you know you can relax." Her voice is low and husky, with hints of that French accent that reminds of wine in an old oak barrel. "Back when I drove you to the train station, we spoke without issues, didn't we? We had no problems getting along, no awkward silences or anything like that. Right?"

I can’t remember anything about our conversation during that ride, just that my heart beat fast and that I wanted her to drive me to her home and take care of me until morning. Now I wish I could press my lips against hers and taste her warm saliva, at least to forget for a while about my life and this shitty world.

"S-sure," I whisper, "but these are different circumstances."

"Because you have invited me out on a date?"

Jacqueline fixes her lips in a reassuring smile. Is she testing me to clarify my intentions? A woman who only sees another as a potential intimate friend wouldn't invite her on a date. Maybe I have mistaken why Jacqueline agreed to meet me today, and I'm about to be shot down with the harsh truth of how reality works.

"Yes," I say.

She touches the tip of my nose playfully.

"You've already been brave enough. Now we will open up about the inner workings of our minds and hearts so that a budding romance can blossom between us. Surely you can say whatever happens to pop into your brain."

A shiver runs down my spine. I shift my weight in the stool.

"You have no idea the kind of ruination you've invoked."

Currently sick

I got the Moderna booster shot yesterday; I had little choice in the matter, given that I live in the province with the highest number of cases, I work at a hospital, and the politicians are moving towards restricting access to everything if you aren't vaccinated "enough", so likely in the near future unvaccinated people will have issues even buying food. Your ability to complain will be curtailed too, of course, for your safety.

Anyway, I woke up at three in the morning with severe diarrhea and a fever of 38.6ºC. Not sure why I'm even posting this development on here; my mind doesn't work very well at the moment.

If I happen to die from this nonsense, nothing of value would have been lost. The world would likely be a bit better, too.

We're Fucked, Pt. 23 (Fiction)

Link to this entry on my personal page, where it looks better

---

Thick raindrops keep racing each other on the windowpanes, forming tiny rivers that run down the glass surface and reflect the living room lights with kaleidoscopic patterns. Beyond the window, the visual noise caused by slanted lines of rain blurs the facade of the opposite apartment building, although grey shapes appear briefly every now and then; possibly pigeons looking for shelter from the driving wind. I picture them getting struck by lightning, which would cause my window to crackle as if filled with static electricity, making the glass vibrate with white sparks of energy. The wings of those birds would catch fire, and then, unable to escape from the electrical discharges zapping their bodies, they would die screaming even before they shattered some bones by crashing into trees.

Any other day, I would have welcomed the patter of rain hitting my window, as well as the distant thunderclaps, but in a couple of hours I must abandon the safety of my dry apartment and venture through the drenched cold of the outside world so I can meet my French queen. I have paced my apartment frantically for the last thirty minutes, as my stomach acid breaks down whatever remains of the spaghetti, but the weather remains indifferent to my plight. Or maybe it's punishing me for daring to pursue Jacqueline as my lover.

I plonk down on the sofa and I wipe my eyes with my palms. Where is that stupid horse hiding? That abomination had scarred himself mentally by interrupting me at work as I masturbated, but when I need someone to calm me down, he's nowhere to be found. I can't rely on anybody but myself. Although I've always known it, every time I relive the same realization, it takes a chunk out of my sanity.

I need to empty my mind until it becomes an open vacuum waiting for a spark to kindle and set off an explosion that wipes everything out, me included. It's better to spend one's life in loneliness rather than embrace love blindly and end up crushed and mutilated beyond recognition, like a piece of candy broken between somebody's teeth.

Jacqueline must be standing by her window. I picture her sighing as she caresses her large breasts and twiddles her nipples. The deluge has procured the excuse my coworker needed to cancel our date, but she's reluctant to call me in case she has to hear me stabbing myself on the other end of the line. I should contact her instead, and bow out gracefully from this mess.

I blow my nose quickly as I wait for the call to connect.

"I'd figured you would call," Jacqueline says warmly into my ear.

"Yeah, I..." I clear my throat. "I guess you want to cancel."

The rain sounds like thousands of water drops bouncing off metal foil. Jacqueline sighs.

"Is that how little you want us to meet, that regular old rain should cancel the opportunity?"

My heart pounds fast. I sit upright and wave my hand at the emptiness above my coffee table.

"No, not at all! Rain is wonderful! But I feared you would want to."

Jacqueline laughs lightly. I picture her twisting a lock of hair around her finger and tilting her head to stare at herself in a full-length mirror. She's wearing nothing but stockings, panties, a garter belt, a bra, and lace gloves that reach up to her elbows. Her body radiates warmth. I need her to wrap her arms around me and hold on tightly for the rest of my life, so I won't feel again the coldness of even a single raindrop splashing against me. If only we could be together tonight, inside, on a bed or floor with a blanket spread over us, away from all dangers and monsters. Otherwise there's no point in continuing with this charade of being alive.

"You have a low estimation of your ability to adapt and overcome, as usual," Jacqueline teases gently as if she was talking to a toddler, which makes me wet all by itself. This must be a trivial topic for everybody except me. "Leire, just make sure you don't drown on your way to the Buen Pastor cathedral. We'll see each other in a few hours."

"At s-six o'clock, right?"

"Still six o'clock," she says melodiously.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"I can tell, sweetie."

Jacqueline hangs up. I slump on the cushions and listen to the pelting rain as my heart settles down.

After I take a deep breath, I close my eyes and fill the theatre of my mind with Jacqueline's tits. Her hands knead them, and with each upward motion she caresses her flesh buttons to expand those soft globes. I suckle gently on one of her hard nipples as she squirms and lets out throaty hums. I feel the heat rising from her breast, I inhale the musky scent of her sweat. Jacqueline observes me from above with pleading eyes as her mouth quivers. I take her nipple deeper within my mouth and massage it with a firm suction as my tongue swirls about its length, savoring every curve while my lips slide across the silken skin. When I pull back from her breast, a drop of honey seeps from its puckered center as if following my tongue. Once I'm done with her breasts, Jacqueline cums blissfully as I lap up her pussy with my snake-shaped tongue.

***

The cold air rushes to my lungs as I exit the Amara Euskotren station along with a throng of travellers, some of whom are holding briefcases or bags, or have glued their cell phones to their ears. I'm held up in a jam behind a wall of people who are either opening their umbrellas or huddling under the awning. Those who dared to continue on their way are rushing over the zebra crossing, although they can't avoid stepping on puddles. Heavy clouds hang overhead like bloated balloons made of lead and filled up by hundreds upon thousands of gallons of water droplets.

I shudder. I chose to wear my thick corduroy jacket over the dress I bought yesterday, and by the time I realized that the combination looks silly, I had to hurry to the train station. My bare legs, that I went through the trouble of shaving for Jacqueline's sake, are wet and covered with goosebumps. I want to rub my thighs together to warm up, because even my pussy has gone numb.

Once the mass of bodies has thinned down, I cross the zebra crossing as I hide my shame behind the inner canopy of my umbrella, but I realize that the downpour was muffling some chanting along with irate shouts. A crowd has packed the adjoined Easo square. Half of the people are facing the train station as they awkwardly hold banners along with their umbrellas. The banners feature the portraits, many upscaled to pixelation, some mugshots, of men that belong to a mixture of races. These demonstrators demand justice, and for some people, presumably the men featured on the banners, to be brought back. The other half of the crowd is counterdemonstrating. As I walk by the low wall that delimits the square, a big guy who looks like a construction worker makes a bullhorn with his hands and shouts angrily, "Good fucking riddance to those rotten bums and thieves!" The rain has plastered his wet hair across his forehead as the thick raindrops keep slapping him upside his face.

I follow other pedestrians, nearly bumping into their umbrellas with mine, to bypass two police vans parked on the pavement. Pairs of Ertzaintza officers, covered as best they could with black raincoats that hang loosely down their backs, stand around like they'd rather pull out their fingernails than stand out here in the rain to handle this mob.

As I trudge towards the nearby Buen Pastor plaza, I only peek out from under my umbrella to make sure I'm heading the right way. Millions of raindrops strike randomly against stone, metal and glass like tiny artillery shells fired by angry angels trying to find out where heaven hides. I must be walking awkwardly as if I feared pissing myself. My legs have gone numb, but thankfully I brought tissues, because I keep sniffling.

When I spot the tortilla brown, palatial public library, I cut through the smooth pavement of the plaza. Some trees obscure the view of the cathedral, a gothic marvel of architecture from likely centuries ago, and that looms over the nearby buildings. Those spiky spires look like they'd hurt if I shoved them up my ass.

A couple of minutes later I'm standing on the raised platform where the cathedral was built, and that overlooks three square gardens marred by slippery patches, where pools of mud have accumulated thickly like sludge oozing from somebody's rectum after a rough bowel movement. More importantly, the platform overlooks the nearby street from which Jacqueline should appear in about ten minutes.

I only feel giddy and tingly for a minute, until the wet cold wins out. I'm clenching my teeth and shivering. My anxiety is building up like rainwater in a glass placed on the pavement, and my hands tremble as if I were possessed by the restless souls of the recently deceased. My thoughts are stuck in the mud of my mind like worms that can't find their way out.

As I scan the view hoping that any of the umbrellas that bob through the plaza hides Jacqueline's face, a few of the passersby glance up at my solitary self, instead of to ogle my bare, pale, soaked legs, to wonder what kind of moron would wait for someone under this barrage of falling water. I avoid their gazes; any quick peek informs them of the hideousness that lurks inside me, a beast so malformed and unsightly that it would frighten even street-tough orphans.

My hair is matted, has fallen out at random, or is congealed with the blood of others; my face is too thin because I survive on a diet of spoiled roadkill; my eyes are sunk deep into their sockets; blood oozes out from fissures and cankers in my rotting gums; my teeth point inward and to the sides due to terrible genes, are clogged with bits and pieces of my dead friends and relatives, and whenever I eat I need to keep my gnashers from rattling loose from their sockets; my mouth is dripping with spittle, drool and vomit. Also, due to excessive use of my vibrator, the edges of my mouth have become permanently numb, which hinders my ability to smile properly, and those I force come out creepy.

I snap out of a trance, because a luminous figure is strolling towards me between the rows of elm trees. She tilts back her umbrella, which is black with a white and tiger orange butterfly motif, to reveal a red smile that would make most women put aside their love of cock for a while. Jacqueline walks with her back straight and her shoulders squared. Her raven black locks are bouncing with her rhythmic strides, while a long red scarf hangs loosely off the shoulder of her designer coat, trailing its crimson hem along her body and emphasizing her tall figure. Her long, stockinged legs lead to the box pleated skirt of her coat, that barely conceals her curvy hips. She attracts the attention of a couple of passersby's like a lodestone sucking in the ferrous metals around it.

I can't tell if I'm shivering or shuddering with lust as Jacqueline ascends the steps to my level. Earrings of gleaming sapphires dangle at her ears. As she greets me with a wider smile, her dimples deepen, and the skin at the corners of her cobalt blue eyes creases as she squints like a cat.

I want to tear off Jacqueline's clothes and shove my tongue deep inside her pussy until she begs for mercy.

I shake my head slightly to wake the fuck up and pretend to be sane enough, but I've barely stammered a greeting when Jacqueline steps closer, places her free arm around my shoulders and presses her warm cheek against mine. Although the contact lasts two seconds at best, it sets my face on fire and makes me achingly aware of how hungry I am for Jacqueline's blood and meaty innards. I swallow deeply a breath filled with longing and despair.

"I didn't recognize you for a moment," Jacqueline says.

"Huh? Ah, you wondered why a wet homeless woman was staring at you."

I fear that Jacqueline will confirm my suspicion, but she closes her eyes and lifts her free hand to her mouth as she chuckles.

"I meant the dress, idiot. You bought it so you could wear it for me, didn't you?"

"Y-yes. It's not like I would wear this of my own volition. I mean, I usually wear hoodies and stuff."

Jacqueline checks me out brazenly from head to sneakers and back again. I gulp. She seemed about to point something out when she blinks twice and leans in to inspect my neck.

"Are those perforation wounds?"

I clench my teeth. I had forgotten about the consequences of that time I thrust a fork into my flesh to see if anything lived there. Just how long do wounds take to heal?!

"I might have done something nasty to myself," I admit sheepishly as I avoid Jacqueline's concerned gaze, but I'm eager to change the topic. "What about you, though? Both of your chosen mascara and lipstick are bolder than usual, and I've never seen you wear this expensive, comfy-looking coat. Did you want to look that good for me?"

Jacqueline lifts the left side of her upper lip in a flirtatious smirk. She steps back, and as she holds up her umbrella elegantly, she twirls like a schoolgirl. White noise rushes to my crotch. I press my thighs together, mostly because I can't shove my hand down there now.

"You know it," Jacqueline says. "Anyway, let's get going, shall we? Aren't your poor legs wet enough?"

As she strokes my cheek, worry creeps into her blue eyes.

"Sweetie, you are shivering. It's too cold to bare your legs like that!"

"Y-you'll have to warm me up then, won't you," I whisper hoarsely.

Jacqueline's eyes widen and narrow rapidly, then she giggles. She pushes the bottom spring of my umbrella and slides it closed as she covers my head with her own umbrella. She nods towards the nearby street.

"Grab my arm. This pub I like is dark and warm, so it will suit us well."

Guitar practice (28-11-2021)

I hadn't played the guitar since my current contract started. I could have either written today or played the guitar. Well, I can't play the guitar at work, while with some luck I'll progress on my latest novel tomorrow morning, turning the otherwise pointless Monday workday into something meaningful at least for me. Although there's a good chance that the guy I'm covering will simply appear at the office, so I'll have to turn around and go home. This is my life as a thirty-six-year-old guy who wishes he was either born as a giraffe or not at all.

Anyway, I uploaded the guitar playing session in two parts. I get into it quite a bit, and I sing poorly.

Guitar practice (28-11-2021), Pt. 1
Guitar practice (28-11-2021), Pt. 2

We're Fucked, Pt. 22 (Fiction)

I've endured through a hellish week at work that involved me visiting numerous medical departments and befriending their nurses enough so they would cooperate with what I was tasked to do. It was one of those weeks in which I remember that although I can act well enough, my nature doesn't tolerate having to deal with so many human beings and the nonsense they impose upon me. I wish I worked at a remote lighthouse.

In any case, that meant that I wrote far less than other weeks, although I have rearranged my notes, and added some more, for my ongoing novel 'We're Fucked'. I have accumulated about nine thousand words of unimplemented notes, so that means I still have at the very least about 27000 words left to write of this story. I have already figured out its remaining major plot points, including the ending, so I should have little issue getting there, assuming I can find the time and mental energy to do so.

---

A dead face stares back at me in the bathroom mirror. It glistens with stale sweat that emphasizes the rouge pink eye bags, and that has drenched the tresses glued to the forehead, where a lifetime of stress has carved wrinkles that stretch from one side to the other. Those wide eyes, vulnerable and defenseless as a cow's, and yet burning with an obsidian black gleam of madness, speak silently of a hunger for sustenance beyond mere calories, for something nourishing that doesn't come packaged with a label and a barcode, a craving born of desperation because everything valuable has been stripped from existence, and what remains is a hollow, hungry soul with nothing but despair to feed upon, that waits endlessly for death although it finds herself forced to struggle as a humanlike construct.

Soon enough, the hair will turn patchy and wispy, the skin will start rotting, the eyes and nose and ears and lips and genitals will fall prey to decay. The extensive loss of tissue will cause the circulation to collapse, the blood vessels to rupture and hemorrhage and empty out into puddles. But those dead eyes will remain wide open, unblinking and unmoving, the jaw hanging slack, the threadbare facial muscles locked into an expression of mindless stupor.

I scream. I consider screaming again when I admit to myself that dead people are rarely covered in stale sweat, particularly those corpses that look as if they've been lying in a ditch for a couple of days, nor could the dead imitate my nervous movements so minutely. The mirror reflects the ghastly creature that I've become, the same that somehow believes herself worthy enough of meeting a French queen.

I hadn't bothered to pick up my panties after I got up from my bed and shuffled to the bathroom, so now that I've stepped back in disgust, the mirror shows me a pair of slim legs covered in downy hair, and a wiry patch of pubic hair sprinkled with vaginal juices and even tangled in tufts that I've twisted absentmindedly. My hands are wrinkled claws with sagging veins and yellow nails sporting dirty spots of accumulated shit and urine, the fingers bent backwards and resembling mantis appendages. My eyes stare from behind their blinds because of all the grime caked upon them, mud gathered beneath the lashes, the irises coated in dirt, the pupils reflecting my own demented thoughts. There's nowhere to flee, not from my home in this rotting corpse.

I imagine myself daring to stand proud, with my feet wide apart and naked from the waist down, to offer Jacqueline a proper display of my feminine charms, but she doubles over and vomits.

I'm about to hyperventilate, so I fill the sink with frigid water then I dunk my face in it. I let the cold liquid seep into my brain as a stream of bubbles rolls up each of my cheeks. I don't want to be a disgusting, pathetic excuse for an insect anymore, a living being that squirms helplessly inside the belly of a vivisected carcass while a parasitic worm gnaws on my skull and another parasitic parasite crawls into my ass and takes residence within my rectum's dark recesses. I want to prove to her majesty how amazing I am by displaying various degrees of affection for her person, including my gratitude towards having received royal patronage to fuck her as much as I please.

I snap my head back and fill my lungs with air. As the foam on the surface of the water fades away into thin strands of bubbles, the liquid turns murky with organic waste matter drained out from a sewage system built by worms with tiny little worm intestines. The fetid pool reveals my past reflection staring back at me: that of my mother.

Although I have calmed down, I feel filthy, so I step into the shower to rinse off all the crap on me, as well as all the dirt lodged deep within my pores. I turn on the water to a scalding temperature to help loosen the debris. The spray feels like the blast of heated jets hitting the body of a bikini clad creature riding atop a horseman, and I wish that I could wrap my arms around the coarse coat of his neck while the two of us race across hills or prairies or desert plains or snowbound mountain tops, galloping at full speed as the wind blows my wet tresses around my face like some wild woman of the forest that rides the back of a unicorn whose hooves churn the ground like a raging storm. The animals seek shelter from our racing approach; we're dangerous beasts driven mad by lust for blood, that kill without remorse because we've been starved of pleasure for far too long.

While the water rinses off my limbs like an overflowing waterfall washing down the mountain slopes and carrying soil, stones, sticks and leaves, along with dead bodies, I marvel at its powerful suction force. That's what this shower invention does to a body immersed under its spray: it sucks away the dead weight weighing on its bones until the true form emerges from the shower like an amphibian freed from its chrysalis.

After I have dried myself off, I'm returning naked to the bedroom when my stomach grumbles. This unusually turbulent hunger justifies how woozy I've felt for the last few hours. I'm forgetting how swallowing nourishing food feels like, which would improve anyone's life despite the horrors that lurk beyond these walls. Still, I don't want to go through the bother of trying to whip up a meal out of the expired contents of my fridge, so I look up online if there's any nearby Chinese restaurant willing to deliver me some food.

At a quarter past two I'm in the kitchen and sitting in front of two tupperware-type containers filled with either beef in oyster sauce or noodle stir fry, and both smell like they would provide nutrients. The long, greasy strips of beef are tough and stale as if this restaurant cooked the food a few hours ago and just reheated it, but I'm desperate enough to risk poisoning so I can nourish my dying brain. I may have been tempted to bite a chunk out of a rat. How could I complain about the food quality, anyway, when I'm tasting juicy flesh that oozes with fat and is seasoned with salt, oil and herbs?

I've emptied both containers. I lean back on my chair and I sigh heavily. Now that I've fulfilled my duty as an apex predator, I have to focus on how I can make myself presentable enough that tomorrow afternoon won't end with Jacqueline running away in tears. No way my French queen will see me naked during our first date unless she really wants to watch someone undress, but suddenly the probability that I might pull down my trousers in front of her has increased from zero percent, so just walking alongside the woman I desire while my trousers hide my hairy legs and wild bush will pump up my anxiety tenfold.

I open my wardrobe forcefully, which causes my collection of hoodies, sweaters and T-shirts to sway in their hangers. Years ago, in my distant youth when I considered myself dateable, or at least that some men would want to fuck me, the few that dared to hold my hand, kiss me, fondle my ass, fumble with my bra, lick my pussy or shove their cock into my vagina, also lived with their parents, so they tolerated my imperfections. Few cared about how often I wore hoodies once they got to slide their hands under them to grab my tits. But I have already hit thirty. Everyone that interacts with me assumes that I'm an adult instead of a teenager whose body grew old.

Jacqueline always shows up at the office with what I would consider business attire, but she rocks it so well that anyone that works with her will eventually develop a fetish for secretaries. If I dared to meet her tomorrow dressed in one of my old sweaters and carrot pants, and not wearing makeup, I would witness Jacqueline's face twisting in a grimace. She would grant me a pity hug, and an hour later she would find some excuse to leave. Once I shuffled back to the station, I would throw myself in front of the train, so I wouldn't have to suffer the flashbacks that would harken me back to that moment when Jacqueline realized she should have never agreed to a date with me.

At about four o'clock I leave my apartment and I walk down the stairs to the street level. The sky is overcast with chunky clouds that are gliding by fast, carrying dirty water along with trash and human remains. Those cloud butts have darkened to spruce blue, the cloud equivalent of blood pooling at the lowest points of a corpse. The cold breeze, which makes me huddle under my coat, smells like rain mixed with rotten cabbage. I should have grabbed my umbrella, because I may end up getting caught in a storm, but I don't want to bother walking back into my apartment building.

As I march with my head down towards the Mendibil mall, the breath thickening in my throat and the pressure in my chest remind me of why my routine has been pared down to trekking to work and then returning straight home. All streets leading from my apartment building lead nowhere good, and all roads point toward death. This city is like a sewer drain clogged by shit from every angle, a fetid hole with rotting excrement staining all available ground.

I have reached the closest square, which contains a playground with only a plastic tower and swing, a coffee shop and a few business, one of them the hairdressing salon that I frequent whenever I need to get rid of my excess hair, the one that grows in my head. The sight of the working-class apartments that surround me, their rows of windows like empty eye sockets, along with the cars driving by along the narrow road and the random humans with whom I share the pavement, make me feel as if I'm venturing into safari country. Emaciated dogs pace at the roadside begging at passersby, gross men walk around with bloated bellies as they drag their guts through mud, starving rats feast on the carcasses left on gutters, the dead bodies of drug addicts hang from lampposts, and all the residents who can fill their bellies with fresh food instead of roadkill appear ready for war as they glare threateningly at everyone who crosses paths with them. Those who remain sane, or who have gone crazy enough to see clearly, prefer to hide within their fortified compounds, because the monsters come knocking after dark. But I have to admit that, while there are several dozen species sharing our planet with the vermin known as humankind, none can match the strength of these jerks in performing miracles of manual labor with their small minds.

Everybody talks so loud, and the car engines cause such a racket, that I wish I could turn off my hearing at will. I walk enough zebra crossings to reach the more populous Fuenterrabía street, with its rows of decades-old businesses in front of which meanders a hodgepodge of people that the French police regularly push back into this border town's boundaries for failing to show residency papers. I anticipate the next time I'll find myself followed by strange men who speak in unintelligible languages and snicker towards me, as if they were planning to ambush me in an alley, rape me while screaming insults because I dared be female, strangle me and throw my corpse in the river. There isn't much difference between this place and a wildlife reserve, except that predators roam free while prey hides within cages. Most humans are too busy looking at their phones and talking about trivial nonsense to realize what kind of disaster is happening around them, so at least they can continue feeding upon one another until everybody dies. I wish I could just run back to my cave, sit in front of a fire and hide from the rest of this species except for the very few of its members that I like, and whose name starts with a J.

There must be another world out there beyond this squalid reality: a bright place full of wonder where dreams happen without a hitch and people show affection through hugs and cunnilingus, so everyone smiles at each other and share kind words like 'bonjour'; a land with fewer buildings but plenty of trees growing wild and unkempt, where the air smells like roses instead of sewage mixed with garbage and piss; a peaceful realm where one can always find a partner to play board games, and it doesn't matter if you spend hours gazing at videos of naked women with large breasts.

I suddenly remember that I went out because I intended to buy clothes, razors, shaving cream and lotion, so I force myself to check out the storefronts that I usually hurry up past. A clothing store, its window plastered with sale signs because the aging owner may retire or die soon, sells inexpensive underwear and shirts that are likely stained with vomit, dirt and cum. In another storefront, headless, armless mannequins display the kind of dresses that a New Age lady would wear on a stroll through the countryside. I'm still thinking about underwear. I might buy some silky red panties with lace edges that look like tongues licking naughty places.

Once I walk through the bridge that spans the railroad tracks, I head down the Colón promenade, past the outside tables of coffee shops and restaurants. I'm bothering to observe the storefronts, so I discover clothing stores that I could swear didn't exist until now. However, none of the styles suit me. What would suit me, though? I wear hoodies and sweaters because they are comfortable and they conceal my decaying body. If my usual clothes speak to people, they tell them to look elsewhere. But I need Jacqueline to look at me, to focus on me, to find in my inadequate self someone to like. I swallow the taste of vomit that rises from deep within my stomach. A deformed, castrated, horse-shaped delusion had taken the habit of stalking me recently, and yet now I can tell that I've lost my mind, because I have convinced myself that I have the slightest chance to be accepted as a human being.

Past a panhandler, a homeless guy sleeping on a bench, a row of phone shops, and one of those shady stores that buy whatever gold you bring, no questions asked, I freeze next to a storefront in which elegant mannequins, oriented to gaze blankly in different directions, are bedecked with sun, apron or babydoll dresses, fern green or rose red, with floral or polka dot patterns. An array of sparkling jewels hang from silvery chains. I approach the glass. As the breeze chills my face and makes me sniffle, I bow my head slowly until my forehead rests on the cold glass. My vision is blurring while an uncomfortable warmth spreads in my chest. A few tears roll down my cheeks, but I don't bother wiping them although I hear the footsteps of many pedestrians as they walk by me. They keep their distance because they can smell in me the rotting flesh that has long since been drained dry by parasites and maggots crawling inside, feeding off my decay. The few passersby brave enough to sneak glances at my tears must be wondering why I have chosen to remain in this world.

I dry my eyes and cheeks on the sleeve of my coat. I sigh deeply. When I walk into the store, a bell over the front door chimes. The room smells of incense and potpourri. An old bimbo with white hair looks up from behind the counter, and as she notices my expression, that of somebody trying desperately to preserve her sanity, her face transforms from placid to bewildered.

"Please," I beg in a thin voice, "help me dress myself as if I deserved to be loved."

***

At half past five I'm standing at the entrance of the Mendibil mall as I hold on to two bags, one from the clothing store and another one from the cosmetic store. I feel drained and ashamed like I used to after each therapy session, and I'm spacing out as my mind attempts to hide in daydreams. I need to be home, in the darkness of my bedroom, where I would curl up under my sheets and cry myself to sleep. But I have already walked all the way here, so I'll push myself a bit further.

Adults also buy enough groceries to cook proper meals. Some even buy enough to last them days, or a week. Although I have to squint against the fluorescent lights shining overhead, and the presence of many wandering humans is making my skin crawl, I stand on the descending elevator that leads to the depths of this mall, where they built a BM supermarket. The bumblebee yellow they used for their signs hurts my eyes, as well as my sense of harmony.

As I stagger through the aisles, I only glance as necessary at the assault of items on display that threaten to overwhelm my mind. I fill my hand basket with wheat bread, skinless chicken, turkey breasts, pasta, rice, eggs, Frosted Flakes cereal, milk, and a few cans of tuna. When I realize that I have gathered as many groceries as I'm willing to bother checking out today, I take a deep breath of relief, but I find myself staring down a narrow aisle lined with tall, packed shelves of canned goods. Once again, the same silhouette of a man materializes at the end of the aisle, facing straight ahead menacingly. Armed with a black hammer, the man sprints from buyer to buyer as he strikes them in the head with the deadly implement. Although the buyers continue browsing the groceries, their souls slip out of their frames and collapse on the floor, and from under them spread puddles of black blood.

When I open my eyes again, the murderous silhouette has disappeared, although I'm still surrounded by wandering monsters. My hand that holds the basket trembles, so I change the weight to my other hand. It's been years since I learned that a guy that the news only identified as mentally ill rampaged through these aisles and cracked some skulls open, which killed a few of his victims. I had come to buy groceries just a few days before the assault happened. Ever since, an echo of that nonsense plays out again in these aisles so I can witness it once more. I prefer my kind of mentally ill, those people who'd rather stick forks into their own necks, and who daydream about jumping off a window for relief. I'm better off staying home and watching porn until the demons stop invading and devouring my thoughts.

***

By the time I hurry up the stairs to my apartment and I close the door behind me, I'm sweating, my muscles are tense, my hands and feet are tingling. I place my groceries on the kitchen table, and then I shuffle to my bedroom and I take out the folded clothes I bought. I drape the dress over the wrinkled sheets. I take out the brass medallion necklace and I lower it so it rests on the delicate fabric. I chose a high-waist, tiered dress with a square neckline, puffed sleeves and a floral pattern that from a distance looks like green noise. I pick up the necklace by the brass medallion, and I run the fingertip of my thumb over the words engraved on the metal: 'mon coeur'.

I'd never wear such a daring dress of my own volition, but I had also never attempted to pursue a woman that I have no chance of seducing. Or any woman, for that matter. I guess that tomorrow I'll cosplay as a regular girl who is getting too old and who hasn't been loved in a long time. In reality, I've felt ancient ever since I was born, and nobody has ever shown me what love is supposed to feel like.

I'm frying an egg and the remaining slices of serrano ham on a pan when a pitter-patter distracts me. Night has fallen, and those threatening clouds are peeing on my window, as well as on the entire city. I avoid staring at the rain falling outside; sometimes my imagination makes me see snakes crawling around naked underneath the wet night skies. After this afternoon's adventure, I have to steel myself to sit on a crowded train to Donostia, and huddle under my umbrella as I march to the Buen Pastor plaza, where I will wait in the cold and rain for my beloved to arrive, if she shows up at all.

I go to sleep at ten, partly because I'm exhausted and I was dozing off, but my brain won't shut up. I move away my sheets and blanket, I pull my pajama trousers and panties down, and I soak the index and middle fingers of my right hand with a coat of saliva. Nothing has ever calmed down my frenzied thoughts like abusing my clit, as if I was trying to claw through this rotting body of mine in search of salvation, until I come violently, panting while drooling copious amounts of saliva onto the pillow. And I need all the relief I'm able to muster so I can distract myself from the disaster I'm heading towards.

Revised and expanded: 'This Is Not a Good Story'

Back when I was revising my latest full novel, 'My Own Desert Places', I rearranged all my free verse poems into three distinct books, so in the future I could upload them as ebooks to online retailers. Whenever I feel like it, I've been going through the poems contained in the first of those books, to update their punctuation, revise them and expand them if possible.

This time I had to handle my free verse poem slash short story 'This Is Not a Good Story', about a guy who meets a sad girl. As I was rereading it, my impression was something like, "What the hell is this? Why did I think this was good enough to upload?"

My standards have grown, so stuff I wrote just a few months ago doesn't satisfy me anymore. Apart from that, I think I derived significant satisfaction from starting a poem soon after I got to the office and managing to "finish" it just as I was about to leave, which infused the otherwise pointless workday with meaning. Nowadays I'd rather continue improving the piece after I get home.

In any case, I removed around 600 words of the original version of 'This Is Not a Good Story', then I added like 800 new ones. I'm quite proud of the current version.

If you, stranger reading these words right now (can you hear my voice echoing in your head?), read the original version of this poem back in July and enjoyed it, I think you should read it again, because it's like a whole new thing.

Link to the updated poem: This Is Not a Good Story

We're Fucked, Pt. 21 (Fiction)

Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better

---

At midday, I pull down my pajama trousers, lie down on my wrinkled sheets and wet my fingers with saliva to combat my despair, which worsens when exposed to bright light and sounds of life and civilization, and that by now it feels like a spreading rot from a necrotic limb. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. With my damp fingers, I stroke myself gently around my clit as I paint a portrait of Jacqueline on the dark canvas of my mind. Those cobalt blue irises acknowledge me from her narrowed eyes. She brandishes a pink smile that deepens her dimples, displays the slight gap between her lateral incisors and her canines, tightens the skin around her prominent chin, and wrinkles the bridge of her nose. I yearn to induce thousands of such smiles, if only because they may lead to Jacqueline wanting to embrace me and keep me pressed against her motherly breasts.

My vagina has discharged enough gooey lubrication, and I spread it over my labia. My body temperature is rising rapidly, my heart is jumping on my chest, I'm breathing faster, and I feel the warm flow of blood rallying round to enlarge my clit, that I keep massaging with circular movements while I gaze into the void.

Ever since Jacqueline wrapped me in her arms and convinced me that a home awaits me in this world, I've hoped to strengthen the lingering echo that my bones have preserved, but I can't synthetize at will how safe and loved that Frenchie made me feel. Such inability might be a built-in defense mechanism; if I could spark that feeling the same way I can make myself cum, I likely would never leave my bed. In any case, I ache to touch Jacqueline's warm skin again. As long as she remains close by, she will ease away the darkness that threatens to swallow whole the hopeless human wreck that I've become.

As I caress myself, I reach towards the nightstand to grab my phone, but I nearly push the vibrator to the floor, which would have made me stop abusing my genitals to pick it up if I end up requiring its services. I thumb the phone's screen until I pull up the entry for Jacqueline on the contacts list. I would only have to press the green button and wait a few seconds for her mellifluous voice to flow down my ear hole. I'm assuming that she'd like to hear from me, but... why wouldn't she? While I'm fondling my genitals, Jacqueline goes as far as staring at me so intimately and whispering consoling words that echo throughout the theatre of my mind, just so she can help bring me to a climax. Surely she'll welcome my call.

While I hold the phone to my left ear and wait for the call to connect, I close my eyes and I stare at Jacqueline's rosy, moist lips as they part, inviting me to dive headfirst into her darkened, warm pool of saliva.

"Hey, Leire," says the voice on the other end. "So nice to hear from you."

I hesitate to answer. That voice belonged to a much younger woman. I picture a college student with twinkling eyes and who holds against her chest the unjustifiably expensive textbooks she was forced to buy. Did Jacqueline give me a wrong number originally, maybe to avoid a confrontation? That doesn't make sense, because we sent a few messages back and forth, and this young voice has called me by my name. Whatever. I guess we all sound different over the phone. I suspect that if I heard my voice back, I'd sound like a madwoman who should be locked in an attic.

I ease the abuse upon my throbbing clit so I can speak without panting.

"I think you told me," I mumble, then I swallow to clear my voice, "unless I have made it up, that you'd be there for me, that I could rely on you."

Jacqueline remains silent. I make out a faint conversation in the background. I press on.

"M-maybe you just blurted that out because seeing me cry made your maternal instincts kick in, but if you were serious, I'd... I'd like for us to meet and hang out, if that's fine with you."

After a silence long enough to make me want to kill myself, Jacqueline smacks her lips, but a man's voice approaches her. Jacqueline muffles the mic. When she uncovers it, I understand the words 'from the office'. A door closes.

A cold feeling spreads in my chest, and my heart would have sunk to my feet if I wasn't lying on my back. I have interrupted Jacqueline either before or after one of her tennis players fucked her. Now, even receiving a call from her relatives would have annoyed her. Why did I ever think that such a divine woman would want to bother interacting with a loser like me, especially one with such terrible social skills and a taste for masochism?

"You are this naughty, huh?" Jacqueline's giggly voice first disarms me, then it seeps down my ear canal like honey dripping from between her warm thighs.

"W-what do you mean?" I croak. My throat is dry, and my body is taut as the wires of a harp.

"You are lying in bed and touching yourself, aren't you, sweetie?"

I shudder from head to toe, but I must have developed an alien hand syndrome, because listening to Jacqueline's voice has convinced my right hand to polish my clit harder while the available fingers dig deeper into my cunt's fleshy folds. I feel that if I were to look over my shoulder, instead of staring at my headboard, I would hold Jacqueline's mischievous gaze.

I gasp at a sudden realization.

"Were you the one filming me all along?" I ask, flabbergasted.

Jacqueline chuckles.

"Filming you? Strange of you to say that. But no, I haven't filmed you so far. What I meant was, don't you understand who you are talking to?" she asks in her melodious French accent. "I recognize that labored breathing and the tiny breaks in your voice, which you distort with the effort to avoid gargling your saliva."

Sweat beads on my forehead and temples, my clit throbs against my soaked fingers, the muscles around my vaginal opening contract violently. Jacqueline is lying beside me. Her moist lips are brushing my left ear as her honeyed voice reverberates in the concha.

"W-what kind of depraved fiend would call a coworker while she masturbates?" I ask in a panic. "No way I--"

As I scramble for any excuse, I picture myself dressed in a hoodie and running leggings as I fly through my city's moldering streets, trying perhaps to escape the demons that haunt my thoughts and memories, but even that healthy version of myself would stop to make a call. Besides, any excuse that involves exercising feels more demeaning that the truth.

I suck in a deep breath to quell my growing terror.

"Alright, I'm masturbating. B-but that's unrelated to my sudden urge to call you!"

Once the words I chose hastily escape my mouth, I clench my teeth and hold my breath. The blood is pulsing sluggishly inside my head.

I was about to apologize when a muffled giggle makes me imagine Jacqueline covering her mouth with her hand as her shoulders tremble.

"You want us to get together, huh? Alright, it'll be fun. Today I'm a bit busy, but how about tomorrow afternoon, around six?"

I want to cheer and scream with joy, but I fear that Jacqueline will find my enthusiasm repulsive, so I clear my throat. Am I truly going to hang out with Jacqueline, just the two of us? The thought alone keeps my sanity intact.

"That sounds great. I have nothing going on."

"Can we meet in Donostia? I'd rather not visit Irún if I can avoid it."

"Of course. I want to spend as little time in this cesspit as possible!"

"Great." I can picture her smile by how it distorts her voice. "Let's meet in front of the Buen Pastor cathedral. From there we'll walk to this pub I like. How about that?"

"I wish I was there already," I say hoarsely, but there's a slight tremor in my hands, and tears are starting to stream down my temples at the notion of being close to her again.

"Don't play with yourself too hard, huh?" Jacqueline suggests, then hangs up.

My heart is trying to dig its way out of my chest, and it wouldn't surprise me if the next moment a torrent of hot vomit came spewing forth from my esophagus. The air remains still, permeated with my musky, sweaty scent. My stomach calms down as my wet fingers continue to stroke my aching clit.

Did Jacqueline agree to a date, or does she just want to spend some free time with a coworker that amuses her? Maybe she feared that if she rebuffed me, I would have leaped from the nearest window to my demise. I may have. But who cares? Tomorrow at six in the afternoon I'll stand in front of the Buen Pastor cathedral and gaze upon my goddess. Maybe she wants to cum all over my face while making sure I keep gazing directly into her sparkling eyes until they burn my soul, leaving permanent scarring with their luminous blue hue.

I would have never dared to call Jacqueline and propose that we meet if my pleasure-induced delirium hadn't convinced me. I only have masturbation to thank for the few blessings in my life.

Sorry, Jacqueline, but this warrants a more diligent self-diddling. As I knead my breasts with a needy intensity, I reach towards my nightstand with my left arm and close that hand around the sticky plastic of my vibrator. I turn it on, then I ram it into my pussy. The plastic shaft vibrates wildly as its buzzing song reverberates throughout my body like a swarm of bees trapped in a jar and banging violently against the glass enclosure, trying desperately to fly unfettered to pollinate flowers and plants and shrubs and trees so they may bloom and flourish in abundance, becoming a source of sustenance for any creature too lazy to suck nectar directly from flowers, slurping sweet dew off blooming rose petals with the tongues of hummingbirds. Sorry, birdies, but my fantasy doesn't include the need to feed you with my fluids. Sorry sweet insects of the forest that I'll only explode in an orgasm if your tiny mandibles dig deep into my clit's hooded entrance so my blood starts pumping rapidly through my throbbing cunt and lubricating your hungry mouths.

My body twitches as waves of bliss radiate from between my spread thighs and up my spine. I'm panting like an excited dog, drooling profusely and emitting moans of relief mixed with animalistic noises. My eyes roll back, my mouth gapes open. As the spasms in my loins continue to shake my frame, a warm gush flows from my vagina, leaving a damp stain on the sheets and the air with a sickening odor of discharge, a stink of putrefaction mixed with excrement, as if my entire nether half had voided itself and marred my home's decor with its vile output. I am a disgusting mess and will remain as such until my body can rid itself of the revolting stench that suffocates every one of its cells.

We're Fucked, Pt. 20 (Fiction)

Link to this part on my personal page, where it looks better

---

I kneel on the floor, behind the coffee table, to prepare our gaming area. I lift the lid of the game's box and take out the honeycomb-like server tiles. They are colored red, green, blue, yellow or purple, and the partitions are numbered from one to six. The tiles incorporate a neon motif that brings up faded memories of playing early 3D games on my Pentium computer.

Spike clomps closer, likely denting the hardwood with every step of his uneven hooves. His black, bulging eyes stare as though hypnotized by some treasure, maybe his long-awaited reward for proving himself a loyal servant to his creator. An odd hint of mustiness about his dewy mane of coarse hair, as well as about his fetid coat, reminds me of mildew and rot combined with some putrid essence of mold and fungi from an infested attic crawlspace.

"Here's the plan for the next couple of hours," I say. "You'll play one of the available cyberpunk runners and help me defeat an evil supercomputer that I usually refer to as Shadowcluster."

During my first playthrough of this board game, back when I bothered to open the games I bought, I named my opponent Shadowcluster because it allowed me to imagine myself facing an AI fiend who intended to shut down my ability to reconnoitre the cyberspace. To discover what nasty secrets this supercomputer harbored deep inside its digital heart, I had to avoid getting caught in the machine's endless labyrinths filled with traps, including robots that kill with laser beams, acid spray and poison gas if they detect intruders. As a boss fight, I clashed with a pair of mutant cats that emitted radiation fields from their paws and that could spit acidic foam if cornered.

Spike's eyeballs roll around, which reveals an offensive lack of enthusiasm for my proposal.

"W-well, I..."

"Don't 'w-well, I' me. Every time you intrude upon my life, I'm forced to inhale your fetid body odor, but you can't do this little thing for me? I thought we were friends, Spike. If two pals can't play a board game together, why would we even bother existing anymore?"

Spike sucks in air then releases it in a single breath of foul fumes. He lowers his gaze and shuffles his thick rump to the sofa, into which he awkwardly flumps down. I'm allowing this horse's dirty haunches to rest on my cushions, but I suspect I'll end up regretting it when I find myself washing skid marks.

My horse stalker remains silent as I arrange the server tiles into a configuration that provides an advantage to both players in the race against the supercomputer Shadowcluster. I assemble the circle and square tokens into distinct piles, then I build our starter decks. Five minutes later, the red avatar I chose, and the blue one I picked for Spike, are standing on the assigned partitions of our corresponding, multicolored server tiles, ready for action and looking dumb.

A red token accompanies my avatar, who specializes in overwhelming the server partitions with viruses to destroy their countermeasures. I forced Spike to choose a blue avatar, because their playstyle is centered around teleporting from partition to partition, which suits my stalker. Besides, this horse is too dumb to handle the sophisticated techniques of the green avatars, that shift tokens around, or the yellow ones, that turn server defenses into useful contaminants.

I shake Spike's starter deck in front of his drooling muzzle.

"You'll draw from this initial set of weak command cards, but don't worry: this is a deckbuilding game. You like deckbuilders, right? You can spend these command points to buy stronger cards from the marketplace over here. And the new cards go directly to your hand!"

"This is one weird-ass game," Spike mutters through his long lips.

"What, you don't like it?! Top-notch board game design right here. A seven point eight on the BGG, high for that competitive ranking. Don't tell me you are a Gloomhaven fanboy. Its exhaustion mechanic doesn't make any sense!"

"M-maybe I'll wrap my head around the rules as we play..."

Spike's spaced out expression suggests he wouldn't be qualified now to clomp across the living room without faceplanting, but I haven't enjoyed a board game in ages. After I draw my five initial cards and I'm considering their combined strengths, I regain the fleeting feeling that I can affect something in the world through the power of my luck-based assets, as if I had been born into an affluent family. I look over the cards available in the marketplace, and I gasp.

"Holy shit! I can buy the Microbionix card with my starter hand! Check this out, Spike. This card offers either three leadership command points, which you can use in place of any regular command point, or else it lets you delete one spark in my partition and every adjacent one! That's two sparks gone in one go, baby!" I hunch over to pick up the two spark tokens, then I drop them in the corresponding pile of white, round tokens. "Too bad I can't upload a virus contaminant in this round, but this was a good start."

After I replenish my hand of cards, I fill the empty slot in the marketplace. I reread the supercomputer's countermeasures card to figure out if it reacts at the end of my turn, but I'm safe. I pick up both the server and the partition dice.

"Spike, pay attention. The rules order us to add an enemy defense token, called a spark, whenever each of us finishes his or her turn. That means we can't fuck around, because before we know it we'll face a losing battle!"

I roll the dice. I get a blue circle on the server die, meaning the blue server, and a two on the partition die, so I place a spark token on the second partition of Spike's home server.

"Back luck," I say. "That previous spark on the first partition of your server may slide towards the second one, and whenever you find yourself about to gather three sparks on the same partition, a guardian token gets generated!"

Spike's thick tongue lolls out while his mouth gapes open, showing off his large, buttery teeth. He rocks forward as if he were about to collapse onto the board and its numerous tokens, but he catches himself and shuffles back into position. He slurps the thread of saliva that has been moistening the cushion between his hind legs. I thought that Spike was going to apologize for his apathy, but he remains quiet as he stares through the mosaic of server tiles into the distance.

"Hey, what's the matter with you?" I complain. "Pay attention, damn it!"

The only answer from Spike is a wet gulp and a shudder of drool. If he fails to snap out of it, Shadowcluster may spawn a giant robotic horse that will charge at Spike's flank, or even fire its deadly laser directly at my poor, doomed horseman's chest, where the armor is merely skin stretched over an unimpressive muscle mass. A successful hit would cause my friend to disappear in a flash of flame.

I take a deep breath and consider how best to break through Spike's fugue. The supercomputer must be getting impatient, and eventually will send drones into my apartment that will kill us both if they detect our presence in the living room.

"This is a cooperative game in which we must join forces against an evil AI, and I won't let you drag me down. Shadowcluster is a serious threat to all servers connected to the network of my mind. I know that you lack enough of a brain to realize how many advantages are present during your turn, but I will patiently point out the obvious options. Along the way, you might even learn how to interact properly with human beings. So, your turn has begun! Draw five cards."

Spike blinks, then tilts his long head to look down at his retracted forelegs. His hooves click together.

I sigh.

"Sorry, I forgot you are useless and might be developing dementia. I'll draw the cards for you, since we are friends and everything. Alright, this isn't a bad hand for the playstyle of the blue player. I think that your role should consist in easing movement for me as I solve problems across the board. You waddling all the way to my server would take too long and many cards, so let's install a teleport token, shall we? Now for an exam question, how would you spawn the blue installation with your current hand? Spike!"

Silence reigns as I wait for an answer from an idiot horse who probably can't count higher than three digits. The wiry muscles of his neck tremble as he swallows.

"I-I'm not sure..."

"I might as well be playing with a toddler." I hold up two cards with blue command points near Spike's right eye. "What would happen if you spent three blues at the same time?"

"You create a teleport thing...?"

I discard the two cards, then reach towards the jumble of square tokens to grab a blue one. I place it next to Spike's avatar.

"Now you can jump from this partition to anywhere on the network just by spending an additional blue command point." I discard the spent card, then I pick up his avatar and displace it to my server tile. As I straighten my back, the irritation makes me shake my head and grunt. "You know, this is suboptimal, in the same way you are subhuman. The best thing about playing board games with someone else should be the freedom of worrying solely about your own options, but instead I have to deal with a half-baked mule that gets distracted by his stinky self and useless appendages. This serves as a reminder of why horses are considered dumb animals rather than intelligent beings as some of us believe them to be."

Spike mumbles and fidgets while he studies his front hooves as if they were foreign objects. His grotesque head keeps swaying while beads of sweat bedew his coarse coat.

"Are you alright, buddy?" I ask, softening my voice as if addressing an ill child.

"I... don't feel good. It's hard to focus."

"Well, make an effort. You offered to play board games with me, remember?"

I order him to roll the server and partition dice by pinching them between his front hooves, but the thick keratin coverings slide and the dice fly off. One of them flicks me on the forehead, the other clatters on the hardwood floor. I can't even complain; my forehead wouldn't sting if I had thrown the dice myself.

I don't bother commentating on how a new spark spawned on the fourth partition of the purple server. The gleaming surface of Spike's black eyeballs is moistening, and his head remains tilted as if he can't be bothered raising it anymore. The horse lets out a wet snort that echoes throughout the living room, that has become a sterile laboratory devoted entirely to research into insanity.

"Am I witnessing the start of a cycle of depression, my friend?" I ask with sympathy. "It's okay. Horses are lovable idiots, and being gay is not a crime if one is an ungulate."

Spike turns on his haunches towards me, likely smearing an arc of shit on the cushion under him. He's nearly wheezing through the dilated black holes of his nostrils, and his vacant eyes, dull and glazed over like worn coins, could bore holes into mine and penetrate my soul.

"L-Leire, I shouldn't spend so much time in this dimension at once, and I've already... C-could you please listen to what I've been trying to tell you all along?"

I rub my eyes. I've gone through the trouble of setting up the game only for our enthusiasm to fade this quickly. When I hold Spike's teary gaze again, my tone hardens.

"Don't you understand, my friend? We were blessed that the maddening complexity of our world had been condensed to the mechanics of this cyberpunk game. Whatever worries you would have waited until after we won the battle of wits against this digital entity that intended to trumpet its victory over us. You need to learn how to relax, make a dash for freedom from your horsehide prison. This society was made to wear us to the bone, and whoever gazes upon your grotesque visage can tell that you need as many wins as you can get. Besides, we are insignificant compared to the governments and corporations that make their billions off our misery. Even if horses could participate in the electoral system, do you truly believe that anyone's vote determines who wins? You have no clue who has access to the computers where they process the results. The world will continue along on the road to ruin regardless of whether or not we defeat Shadowcluster today, or tomorrow, or in ten years. We could have sustained an illusion for the length of this playthrough, but the mirage has shattered. We have reunited with our fates as living machines that will keep grinding away in a never ending cycle of debt slavery through wage theft. I know that you need to believe that just because you were born, the universe had special plans for you, but the only plan written in the genes of sentient beings is for them to count the remaining days until they die."

Spike has hung his head. His drool dribbles onto his chest and rolls down to his navel. Although I take a deep breath then pick up my hand of cards, the horse has already infected me with his gloominess.

"I'm going to play my next turn, Spike," I mutter. "That's what I've always told myself to get out of bed in the mornings. I'm strong enough to play through another fucking turn."

I've just exchanged one of my cards with an advanced command card from the Hack Shack, but I realize that the miasma that had suffused the living room is dwindling fast. Before I turn my head, I already know that Spike has vanished without saying goodbye.

I force myself to finish the rest of my turn. I even replenish my hand with cards I won't play. I lean back onto the cushions, and as I listen to the flow of nearby traffic, someone's loud phone conversation in a foreign language, and the neighbor's muffled and lazily dubbed TV show, I slide down the sofa so much that I fall off.