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in
116: Viewing The
Island
 Post: 04.07.2004
Date:
Unknown
Time: Unknown
Viewing The Island
I see
this:
SORRY, KEETCHA.
I HAD TO DO IT.
The words are written in bold red
letters on the wall opposite me. My back's against the other wall, and it's a
good thing, because those words would've laid me flat on my face if I didn't
have something to lean on. There's such sadness within me at those words, such
loss. It's overwhelming, and the tears which come sting my eyes, blister my
cheeks. Feels like I'm crying acid, trenches forming in my cheeks as the tears
melt away skin.
At some point, it begins to rain.
Slumping, crying, I barely notice. Acid rain. Acid tears. It's all the same. It
all wounds. I stare at the words for another hour. Filtered through this
moistened atmosphere, they grow indistinct, begin to drip down the wall.
I've been betrayed.
He/she/it/they arranged to meet me here. He/she/it/they didn't. Or rather, he/she/it/they got here before me. Wrote
the message for me in blood--or some other goopy crimson liquid--on the wall. Doesn't seem
his/her/its/their style, but I guess I just don't know her/him/it/them anymore. Guess I never did. I
was a fool. To let myself get that close. To let her/him/it/them get to me. We were...
What were we?
Nothing. We were nothing. That's
glitched obvious. Can't even get a fix on who he/she/it/they was/were. Female?
Male? Robot? One? Many? All I know is that I've never felt this betrayed before,
never felt this much sorrow, this much emotional agony. Since I can't determine
a specific person/machine to blame for the pain, I'm left with raw emotions
tearing into me--just bullets into a cold corpse. I'm collateral damage. A
random passerby struck down by an unseen assassin.
More rain. More tears. Another
hour passes, sounds of pattering rain on my head and the slickness of oily
atmosphere hang about like unwelcome guests. Get away, go away, leave me the
glitch alone. I'm in hell. I'm in Eiech. I'm in pain.
Kill
me.
A wave of homesickness crashes
into me. I want shea. She would know what to do. She'd forgive me, no matter
what. She'd lecture me for half a day, but then she'd give me a hug and a kiss
on the cheek and all this would fade. God, I want to be near her again, but I
can't go back. Can't help but want her friendship though. And I want...
Oh, I want him.
Can't explain that, it's so
stupid, so juvenile, so weak. I left him, and now that I'm at my lowest
point since I arrived here, in this glitched city, on this glitched island, I have
this pathetic yearning for his arms to crush around me. I haven't thought
about him for a month, but now he's in my thoughts as strong as if
I'd seen him a few minutes ago. His hair, his face, his
body--all in my mind. Instead of the stinging odor of acid rain and the stink of my own sweat, I can smell him, the way I could back when I'd let him hold
me in his arms. Rain sticks my long sleeves to my skin, but my mind feeds me
data, arms hairs bristling wetly, telling me that his hands are sliding
up my arms. I shiver, from the cold, from the wet, from the imagined touch--I'm
not sure which. Glitch, I'm hurting. Why did I let him/her/it/them get this close?
That was my second mistake. My first was letting myself leave him.
Thinking of him again.
Can't help it. If I see him again, I won't turn him away--I
realize that now, even as the sky tries to drown me, or perhaps dissolve me. I
won't seek him out, but if he finds me...
No, I know he'll find me. Or,
if anybody can, it'll be him.
Hours later, I find strength to
stand. I exit onto the main street, manage to wave a hovercab into stopping,
fingers slipping on the door, falling into it, having to pay extra because I'm
drenching the seat with the toxic rain. I get out, rush inside the housing
complex. Eighty-three stories in a lift has its effect--the urge to vomit is
strong when I step off. Straight shot from there to a door with a glowing
designation: 331C8750D5. Scanners have been tracking me since I entered the
building, sniffing my DNA. Door slides back and I step through, ducking low.
Synthetic bedding in one corner
is rolled, shoved close against the wall. A tan cloak sprawls on top of it all.
Beside the bedding, a small pile of clothes, and a glittery jacket. A cheap
neoplastic shelving unit is stuffed with undergarments of various colors and
hygiene items. Beside it, a white sink with a short water tube. Folded up,
attached to the meter-and-a-half-high ceiling is a cycle, an older model, silver
and clean. A circular glow tube provides sterile yellow light. On the floor,
resting on a small stand, is my wrap-around matrix interface unit. Also an older
model. Looks new, or
perhaps simply seldom used.
Stripping off wet clothes,
shoving them into a bag pulled from the shelving unit, drying myself with a
white towel that comes away gray from the pollution on my skin, unrolling the
bedding, laying down naked next to a small heater, shivering till my muscles
burn, getting drowsy from the heat, finally falling asleep to the pleasure of
warmed skin and the ache of a brutalized heart, dreaming of a dent in the world
and what lies beneath.
Waking, unsure of how long I've
been asleep, I stretch, not willing to rise and disturb the serenity of my
space. The cycle, suspended with crude hooks, looms, affixed to the wall like
some robotic parasite. I lie there, waiting for it to leap onto me, sink into
me, become a part of me.
Kill
me.
When I do sit up, I'm wearing
thin night clothing.
This isn't the correct
morning after. What happened last night didn't happen last night--it
happened...awhile ago. I try to get a fix on when, but there's nothing there.
Data's missing. On
some level, I'm just an observer, watching this happen as if I'm merely jacked in,
viewing a flik. If somebody didn't program the data, it's not there...
Changing into my daywear, into
that glittery jacket, I grab my MIU and vacate, aimless wanderer. I'm numb to
the world, but unfortunately, not to the memory of what was done to me. The
island wants to swallow me, with its towering constructs, and I let it. Several
days later, it spits me back out. I return to my space. My own personal Haven.
My cell.
Then, I jack into cyberspace and
don't come out for a week. What I do in there...I don't know, but I send the
endless stream of information entities from my employer into a digital
singularity. No sense in answering them; I'm not going back there. I manage to
keep my body alive somehow. Eating. Urinating, defecating--all in the proper
wall tubes--but not bothering to cleanse myself. Eventually, the software
safeguard I left turned on forcibly ejects me from the matrix. The transition is
abrupt,
knocking me unconscious. When my universe fades back from black, I rip the MIU
from my head, throwing it against the wall. Blue in my eyes. I push it away;
feels gritty. Lips are dry and my cheeks feel like I've slobbered all over them.
I wipe with the back of my hand, noticing two torn fingernails. Around me are
empty food substitute packages. My shirt is torn from the neck down, exposing a
deep breast-valley and the severed undergarment there. Looking down, my pants
are askew, riding low. At the V of my legs, a dark stain--the evidence of my
bleeding week crusting on the glossy material there. Foulness permeates my
space. The odors of sweat, blood, and waste cling to me. My mouth is a festering
land of decay. Muscles don't like moving, but I force myself to crawl over to
the sink. When I spit, it comes out yellow and brown with little black flecks. I
gag and heave, but nothing comes up except for a trickle of stomach acid that pools
on my tongue. I spit again and rinse with a little water from the tube.
What have I done to myself?
How did it come to this? Glitch him/her/it/them. I'll kill if I ever seen
him/her/it/them again.
I select new clothes from the
pile, regard myself with revulsion, activate the door, and move into the hallway.
Other people drift about. I don't look any of them in the eye. Seeing my state of
dress, they either avoid me or offer to fill one of my orifices with one of
their appendages. I don't respond. A few floors down are the sonic shower booths. Discarding my
ruined clothes, I step into an unoccupied one and let the invisible waves beat
at me till I'm bruised, but clean. Fresh clothes hug my body once again. Neck to
ankle in photon-absorbing black synthetics, I wad the clothes I soiled into a
chute where they'll drop down into the waiting maw of the basement atomizer.
Back in my space, a few spoken
words to the ceiling and a disinfecting agent is pumped in. They claim it's not
harmful, but I step outside anyway, eyes watering. Lingering too long in the
hall is guaranteed to invite renewed sexual advances from the regulars, so I
only stay out for a few minutes. Within again, the air is thick with chemicals.
Not wanting to leave, I speak more words to the wall. Blowers spin up. At least
the air will circulate now. I pick up the used food substitute packages and
place them into the wall chute. Mind still buzzes from my foray into cyberspace,
craving the data stream of artificial light. I've never been jacked in that long
before, and my body isn't coping well with reality yet. Body, mind, and
soul--they all want back in.
Maybe I'll go to work today.
Wonder if I still have a job.
Glittery jacket goes on. Cycle
comes off the ceiling. It's light enough to carry in one hand. I look around my
space, feeling better. Door slides as I near. And suddenly, I don't feel so good
anymore.
He's standing there,
looking exactly how my dreams remember him.
I drop the cycle. It clangs
loudly, and something springs free, shoots across the room. That'll cost me.
"Hello, syl," he says.
It all catches up with me in an
instant. My departure from him, from the others. My journey here, to this
island. The first meeting with him/her/it/them, and our partnership which
followed. Then my betrayal. All the feelings, all the pains, hit me, sending me
into his arms in an explosion of tears and a pathetic sobbing. So weak, I
crumble there. He supports me, holding me against him with his arms around the
small of my back, practically lifting me from my feet. "How did you--?"
"Find you?" he finishes. "Oh, an
alien told me."
"What?"
He laughs. "When you left, we
never really looked in the right places. I just looked in the one place we never
thought you'd be."
"Cyberspace," I whisper. "You got
lucky. I don't jack in often."
"It wasn't luck. It was
persistence. I've missed you."
"I missed you too." I hug him
tighter.
"Come back with me," he says.
Against him, I shake my head.
"No, stay here with me awhile."
"Okay," he says and lets me pull
him inside. There, I don't give him specifics, but I tell him as much as I can.
I don't go to work. Later, in the
evening, he
sleeps on the other side of my space. I know what he wants--what he always has--but he won't ever
ask. He's waiting for me to give him permission.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. After
that...I just don't know.
Through him, with him, and over
time, I'm able to channel some of my pain away. In a sense, I'm using him, but
we have history between us, so maybe my actions aren't entirely selfish. I
think he knows what I'm doing, how I feel, but he doesn't say anything. Instead,
he takes it, soaks it up, let's me use him.. He's helping me heal, and I feel myself begin to love
him for it.
Can't sort everything out, but
maybe I always have.
Later. Perhaps weeks, perhaps a
month--two I think, I bring him to the place where I discovered I'd been betrayed.
He pressed me. Convinced me. Before his insistence won me over, I didn't think I could come back here. Now that I'm here, I know
differently. And yet, it hurts, the
ache centering somewhere between my heart and my stomach.
The sky is abnormally
clear for the city, and I can see stars above. Looking up, I get dizzy. The
words on the wall now read:
SO___, KEETCHA.
_ ___ __ DO IT.
Underneath, some modern poet has
scrawled a continuation, this time in excrement:
GRINNING DEVIL
SUGGESTED RAPE AND
SHADOW GOD WANTS ME TO KILL HER:
THE ANGEL
GONNA GET UP
INSIDE HER
WITH MY GUN AND BLADE
And below that, carved into the
wall:
HARK! TICK TOCK
TWO YEARS
TILL THE WOULD DIES. AMEN.
[dg] [2195]
"Come back with me," he says,
jerking away from the writing, grabbing me by the shoulder, his other hand
hanging as if useless.
"I can't go back there," I say,
distracted, the words on the wall strong and foul in my eyes and nose.
"I love you, syl."
I believe him, but he says the
words as if they're new evidence, as if some varied inflection will finally sway
me. I feel a stab of anger at him. I shrug his hands off, immediately wish I
hadn't. I have to say something back so I spew, "I love you too."
Stunned that those words came from
me, I cover my mouth with my hand and suck in a breath. Why did I say that?
Did I...mean that?
He grabs me, backs me up against
the opposite wall. Over his shoulder the words
RAPE AND
KILL HER:
are visible. I close my eyes, but
the afterimage still taunts me.
"What did you say?" he demands,
arm so tense he's shaking me. Years under the sun have darkened his skin to
a rich brown. My skin was never that dark, and it's even less so now that I've
been living in this glitched city for almost two years. His eyes are deep-scanning me,
searching for an inaudible answer.
So I tell him again. I'm not as
shocked this time; the words feeling more natural. And I realize, with delirious
confusion, that I meant them.
He's bending down now. A kiss
given. A kiss received. In this dark alley. Burying my hands in the tangle of
his hair, I take refuge in the contact of our mouths and my body curved against
his. I'm pliable, his single hand molding me to his body like clay. I've never
really done this before, not like this, never gone where this is going to take
me, so I let him lead, following the glide of his lips and tongue. It makes me lightheaded, and I pull away, content with my progress so
far, willing to be patient. His mouth follows mine, not content to let me
escape. He tastes good--better than I can describe. He gives. I take--much more
than I give. I'm content. I sigh.
I lose track of time, and I can't
be sure if we're there for minutes, or hours, kissing, talking, touching. At
some point, he whispers a plea in my ear. I'm scared to answer him back, to heed
the insistent beat of my heart. I know it's what he expects, what he desires,
but I find myself hesitating, unsure if it's because of my inexperience, or if I
just don't know if this is what I truly want. Not waiting for an answer, he moves me, guiding
me from the confines of the alley. In a bit of a daze, bewildered as to whether my
actions are really my own, or if I'm dangling at the end of a puppeteer's
strings, I allow myself to be led, but it isn't long before our roles are reversed,
and I'm yanking on his arm, trailing him behind. I can't explain why the role
reversal happens, but I'm giddy at the thrill which births inside me when I take
control.
Back in the complex, in the lift, the
kissing resumes and continues for eighty floors. When the doors slide open,
there's a young boy waiting to enter. When I turn away from the liplock I'm in,
the boy makes a series of complicated hand gestures, all of them graphic and
grotesque. They're not directed at me though. I stalk toward the boy, realize that I've got
spit leaking off my chin. Equal parts disgusted, curious, and excited, I wipe
it off with two fingers.
"Move," I say, staring down at
the boy.
He doesn't move, and when he
speaks it's with a high-pitched whine. "He's not real." He points, finger
indicating the back of the lift.
I push the boy away and move
past. Further down the hall, I look back. The lift doors are closing, and they
cut off the brief image of the boy I get. Just more rude gestures that'll
persist in my memory for far too long.
The door to my space opens. I
stop, perched on a precipice, the situational gravity holding a knife to my
throat. He's behind me now, pushing me within. I face him, passive, losing the
sense of command I had only seconds before. It was the boy. He took it from
me. He guides me
to me knees, then down onto my back. I lie there, aware of the sudden trembling
that takes me. Adrenaline or fear--I can't tell which. He undresses. With the complexity of his clothing, it's a lengthy and deliberate process. I lie
back, watching. His chest, bare now, is dark and muscular, tight from years of
hardship on the mainland. There are scars there too. Some I know, some I don't.
I speak a command to the ceiling. The glow tube dims, turning him into a
silhouette topped with neon, his hair glowing bright, picking up light
frequencies I don't normally see, reminding me of the city
lights outside, of glimmering advertisements for implants and flesh fliks.
Topless, he comes down on his
hands, over me. He gives me a kiss. His bare chest touches my clothed one, an
electric spark jumping into me. I squeak. My hands spring to his sides, finding
heated flesh. Then they're clawing at him without my command, wondering at the
texture of him, tracing the patterns drawn there.
What is this I'm doing?
What is this I feel?
His fingers are wiggling at the
hem of my shirt. I find my back arched and my arms lifted, making it easier for
him. When I'm free of it, I set my hands back to him, cradling his head, waiting
for him to unclasp the undergarment binding my chest. Instead, he kisses his way
down my body, from the hollow of my neck to the tips of my breasts to the flat
of my stomach. Down there, his hands are busy, taking my boots from me first,
then my pants. He kisses and caresses his way back up, from the curve of my heel
to the meat of my thighs, to the joining of my legs, where he lingers for a
moment, touching me through my undergarment, where I've never been touched
before, kissing me where I've never been kissed before.
I can't help it. I moan. And
writhe.
It's too much too soon, too
glitched intense, too glitched intimate, but my arousal has been launched into
the stratosphere, and my mind right along with it. I cling to the top of
his head, and to the last vestiges of coherent thought.
If I'm not sure, I'd better tell
him now.
But all I find myself uttering is
a breathy oath, his hand cupping my breast. "Wait," I say through gritted
teeth, trying to bring him back into focus, the world having just gone blurry.
"What is it?" he asks, not
waiting, but twisting fingers, unlatching the undergarment clasp, freeing my
breasts. Till now, I've never let a man see me like this. What does he think
of me?
"We aren't..." I trail
off because his lips are on me, and the suck of his mouth is shooting spikes of
unbearable pleasure straight down to between my legs.
"...joined in blood," he
finishes. "Not yet, but soon. When you come back with me."
Eyes rolling back in my head, I
try to nod, hissing, "Yesss," not knowing what I'm wanting, just knowing what I
don't want to stop. Did I ever realize there was this much pleasure in the
world? In the back of my mind, something tells me I'm just saying what he
wants to hear. Another part tells
me that I do love him and that this act between us flows naturally from
that love.
I have this bad feeling that both
are true. And all that means is that I'm glitched up, in a cosmic way.
His hands move, inciting new
pleasures. Is my whole body sensitive? He's held me before, and it never felt
like this! Even kisses in the palm of my hand feel like they're applied
directly to nerve endings. I can't hold still under his touch. The thoughts of
my being betrayed swirl somewhere in there, jumbled with my curiosity as to what
he'll do to me next. Briefly, I can't help but wonder if I'm caught up in a
betrayal of my own, here, lying with him. Would he/she/it/they perceive it like that?
Not the act itself, but the closeness? Do his/her/its/their opinions even matter
any more?
Distracted by his tongue in my
mouth, his hair intertwining with mine, I push all that from my mind, as unsure
of myself as ever, but too caught up to stop and dwell.
He pushes up, hooking a finger in
the hem of my final undergarment. Gooseflesh breaks across my skin. He notices,
smiles. I shiver at the look on his face. The power there. The desire. He pulls
the garment toward him. It gets caught on one of my heels. While he's freeing
it, he uses the opportunity to kiss all five toes there. It tickles, makes me go
liquid. Then he's working at his legs, removing the rest of his clothes. I want
to help him, but my inexperience makes me timid, so I just watch as he reveals
his body, muscle by muscle, inch by inch. By the time he's fully naked, it feels
like every molecule on the surface of my skin is crying out for contact with his
body. The feeling is without direction, unable to articulate the specifics of what it wants. I know
the mechanics of what we're doing, but not the actuality--not what's behind this
fervor that's taken me, or what I'm supposed to do about it.
I think he needs to get inside me
and let me find out.
When he reclines beside me, the
length of his body is full against me. I turn my head. He brushes hair out of my
face, kissing me. His hand comes against me...down there, fingers
spreading my legs. His first intimate touch stokes the fire already burning out
of control and drives my hips upward, a small whimper of frustration leaving my lips when he
lessens the contact. His eyes catch the light. He nips my ear. Then his hand
between my legs moves in earnest.
Spiraling away, it's then that I
know that there's no stopping this. If it's betrayal, then so be it. I want it
too much. I need it too much. If he were to try to stop now, I think I'd break his
arm. I tell myself: I do love him, and I'm going back with him. He's
taking me to a place I've never been, urging me onward with whistlewisp touches and
flitterwasp kisses. I don't know exactly where it leads, but I think it's a
cliff; I'm getting closer to the edge with every twitch.
As with many things, I lose track
of time. He whispers in my ear, urging me closer to the edge, but holding me back at the same time.
This goes on for some time, till I'm clawing at his body, raw with lust for him to let me
go, to let me fall. I need to be released. At that point, I whisper some command to him, but
I can't hear the words over my own groaning. He only smiles and rolls on top of
me. He tries to trap my hands above my head, but I'm too fast for him. I'm not
willing to lie passive anymore. I spread my legs wider, letting him kneel
between them. I've got a hand on his back and I press him toward me. At the same
time, a thread of fear invades my lust.
I want him, but I'm scared of
what this means. Will this hurt?
The thought spins into oblivion
as the roar of my lust drowns it out. I can feel him, probing at my entrance.
He hesitates there. Hovering above me, his breathing is labored, his face taut,
as if he's trying to control himself. His eyes question me.
What's this? A moment of
doubt? Is he asking me permission? Now?!?
I pull his head to mine, kissing
him as hard as I can. With my other hand, I reach down and grab him, guide him
deeper. My body's gate opens, accepting him, my first, my only. It's a brand new
sensation, this intrusion, like nothing I could even imagine, like nothing I can
describe. There's a spot
there, and he's hard up against it, putting an exquisite amount of pressure on it.
Suddenly, I can't catch
breath, forced to suck air, heaving and hard. I'm going to break if he continues
like this. It feels so good.
But then it goes bad.
"syl, you're--" he grunts.
At first, there's blessed
friction as he slides in. Then, the tip of him hits my virginity.
I see it in his eyes, and I should know what's gonna happen next, glitch it, but I
miss it, too caught up in my own pleasure. It's too much for him, and he breaks.
Without me. His pupils dilate and he shudders. The length of him still in my
hand, I can feel every pulse. Warmth and wetness flow into me, out onto me. He
pulls out, but I don't let go, stunned by the violence of it all, by the mess.
The tremors which take him resonate up my arm. For the second time today, I'm disgusted and excited, and achingly, the excitement is already beginning to fade,
leaving only a lingering distaste.
He's shaking, muscles rebelling
against his normal control. I release him with slickened hand, and he collapses on top of me. The weight of him takes
my breath, but it feels good to have him there. Curious. "I'm sorry," he says. "I
couldn't..."
"It doesn't matter," I say. I let
myself cry because his head's buried in my neck and he can't see. And because it
does matter. Not that he released before me, without me--somewhere in my
lust-madness, I wanted that for him--but that I'm here with him at
all, willingly participating in this illegitimate mating, believing I love him,
propagating it by telling him I do. Lying here under him, the
essence of him leaking out of me, drying on my hand, I realize my mistake. I should never have let
him back into my life. It may have been a mistake to leave him originally, but a
second mistake on my part was never gonna correct the first one. Glitch me. Even
now, I can feel the love I have for him, but with the tingling sensation of
fluids cooling on inner thighs, I know that my impatience got the best of me. I
gave in. To him. Myself.
I feel unclean, and that's not
how it's supposed to be. I know that much.
He rolls off of me. I turn on my
side, away from him. He tries to pull me back toward him, but I resist. I block
his hand from returning to caress me. I know what he's trying to do, but I'm not
gonna let him. There's been enough betrayal. I'm not going to lead him down a
false path anymore. I love him, I think, so I can't lie to him anymore. He cups his body to mine, behind me, holding my shoulders,
the feel of his hand there is foreign, but I don't push him away.
"I want to make it better for
you," he says. "Let me."
"That's not necessary," I say.
"I need to."
"Not right now." I pull a foil
sheet over my body. He takes the edge, draws it over him too.
Hours later, he's a asleep. I
manage to rise without waking him. Looking at him, sleeping, I wonder how grave
of a mistake I've made. It only takes a look at the dried crust on my inner thigh to
answer that though. Gathering my last pair of clean clothes, curiously, I feel
closer to him than before. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, considering the
intimacy--incomplete as it was--between us. Still, the emotion disturbs me.
How can I feel closer after that? It was a mistake, and I can't take it back. I
shouldn't feel closer to him. Glitch, I'm confused.
Wearing the minimum amount of
clothing necessary, I slip out the door, down a few floors, and into a sonic
shower, where I blast the smell and texture of copulation--and of him--from my
body. I dress, exit, and vacate the housing complex. I don't want to be there
when he wakes up. He'll be waiting for me when I get back. That's fine. I'll be
able to handle that. Then. But not right now.
cyndar...after this, I don't know if we
can ever be (blod) mat. I may have ruined that for us.
Wandering, I find myself back in
the familiar alley, staring at the words again, not knowing why I'm here, or
even how my feet carried me here. I sit against the opposite wall, oddly at peace, even
though the writings on the wall aren't. Looking down one side of the alley, a
holographic timekeeper attached to the top of a tall building broadcasts the
passing seconds.
Only a few minutes till midnight.
This day will pass into history. Will anybody even remember what happened
today?
Oh. Right. I will. Forever.
Glitch.
Movement at one side of the
alley. Two figures. Walking toward. One male. One female. Maybe. Mind tells me I
should go back home. Back to him. Work this out, or at least talk to him.
Glitch, that isn't gonna be comfortable.
Can hear the two of them talking.
"It's her," one says, the male, I
think. "She's not ready."
"You like her too much," the
other--the female possibly--says. "Anyway, time's up. This is the way the world
ends. Not with a whisper, but with a BANG!"
"His will be done. Amen."
In the distance, the timekeeper
clicks to:
00:00:00
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