Read by Keleigh Wolf
Casper was always trying to fix me. He left flyers for divination therapy and female-only fasting retreats tucked inside my boxes of sugary cereal. My inbox was clogged with emails from him linking me to articles with titles like; “How I Overcame My Rage with The Help of Rose Quartz.” Casper had a well-paid job at an architecture firm, wore Japanese knitwear and owned a kitchen appliance for every eventuality. I was five stone overweight and had recently been fired.
For the past week I had been pretending to get ready for work, waiting for Casper to leave, then ordering takeaway falafel and masturbating on his Egyptian cotton bed sheets. I watched so much porn that the people on screen became irrelevant; reduced to a series of plucked and greasy orifices positioned in increasingly ridiculous poses. I spent my days with numb fingers, chasing those fleeting seconds that gave me an escape from the tightness in my chest.
I slept with the pillow over my face and when I woke up there was a lump above my eye. ‘Your late-night shopping is making me break out,’ I said, watching as Casper packed slices of lean turkey into my lunchbox. I went to the bathroom and ran the shower until I was sure Casper had left for work, then I set myself up on the sofa with a bowl of microwaved custard, flicking between porn and reality shows on my laptop.
At lunchtime, I heard the jingle of keys outside the front door. I ran to the kitchen and held my face under the hot tap until my cheeks were bright red.
‘Work sent me home, I think it’s flu,’ I said, ‘or maybe allergies.’ I pointed at the tender swelling on my forehead. Casper didn’t notice, he was too busy fussing with a plastic carry case with a grille in one end. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Our new baby, aren’t you our new baby?’ he cooed, as he lifted a gnarled, pinky-grey creature out of the box.
‘It looks like a dinosaur.’
‘It’s a hairless cat. They’re really fashionable right now, Lena Dunham has one.’ Casper lowered the animal onto the sofa, where it hunched, motionless. I touched a hand to its exposed spine,
‘It feels greasy.’ Casper went out into the hall and returned with a 1kilo bag of Ayurvedic cat food. I poked absently at the lump: it seemed to be growing by the minute and the skin around it felt hot.
‘Does my head look weird to you?’
‘It’s probably a build-up of bad energy, you should try my crystal yoga class.’ Casper pulled on a pair of running shoes and started jogging on the spot. ‘I need to get back to the office, can you keep an eye on her?’ I looked down at the cat; its hairless paws were like old lady’s hands. ‘Her name’s Wee-Wee Walnut, Wee-Wee for short,’ Casper shouted, slamming the front door behind him. Wee-Wee took a few tentative steps across the table and vomited into the keyboard of my laptop.
*
Six months previously, Casper had persuaded his friend, Jono, to give me a job at his digital marketing agency; Rogue Animal. One of my few responsibilities had been maintaining the office mobile phones; making sure employees didn’t go over their call allowances and sending them for repair. All the devices were synced to a drop box on the office servers. So, with, nothing else to do with my time, I spent my days spying on Jono’s phone, which contained evidence of his mundane infidelities, and far less mundane tastes in pornography. The day I got fired, I’d been out all day shopping for a birthday present for Jono’s daughter. I was wearing a mini-skirt and my thighs were chafing because I’d left my knickers in the sink soaking in period blood and office-issue handwash. Jono was driving past as just I was getting back to the office.
‘Leanna, can I have a word?’ Jono rolled down the window of his smart car and motioned for me to get in. I climbed into the passenger seat. My thigh swallowed half the gear stick, on which Jono was resting his hand.
‘You’ve been spying on my phone.’ He slid his seat back a few notches and spread his legs; he was wearing very tight trousers. ‘Kind of a turn on to be honest.’ He put his hand on the back of my headrest. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to fuck a fat girl.’ I stared at the carpet in the footwell; there were strings of used dental floss trapped in the black fibres of the rug. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller, until I was a tiny kernel, rattling around inside a flesh shell. The heat from my face had started to steam up the windows. Jono laughed and told me to get the fuck out his car. I came up with the plan as I was clearing out my desk. I downloaded the dropbox folder onto my personal laptop. All I had to do was wait until the dust settled, then tweet a few pictures from the Rogue Animal account that would let the world know about Jono’s taste for breast milk.
*
By Friday afternoon, the lump on my head was getting steadily more painful, I lay on the sofa with my eyes half closed, watching Loose Women with the sound down. Wee-Wee had spent most of the day shredding Casper’s knitwear collection. Occasionally I’d catch her shrunken face looking up at me: she reminded me of one of those sad toys you see abandoned on the street. By early evening, she had softened and curled up next to me on the sofa. Although I had to arrange the throw cushions exactly to her liking, otherwise she would stalk off and piss in the reading nook.
Casper got home at six and immediately began cleaning the cat sick from my laptop; he loved a project. I flicked my phone to selfie mode and examined the lump, it had grown a distinctive white head. I heard the chime of my laptop coming back to life, then Casper’s voice from across the room,
‘You masturbate more than is normal for a woman.’ He had clearly discovered my search history. I picked up a turquoise business card from the coffee table.
‘I’m going to yoga.’ I said, putting on my coat.
‘And stop wanking on the kitchen surfaces, my parents are coming over for steak tomorrow.’
*
When I arrived at the yoga studio, the class was filled with glossy-haired women who looked like they were about to shoot a music video. I realised that underneath my coat, I was still wearing my pyjamas. I turned to leave but the teacher spotted me and waved me over: she wore a sports bra with the words Namaste bitches printed on it.
‘My name is Meridian, I’ll be your guide for this evening.’ Meridian said, and directed me to a free mat at the front. I glanced at myself in the mirrored wall; the lump on my head had grown to the size of an apricot. Meridian began to direct the class through the poses. My tit fell out in the first downward dog. Ten minutes in and my hands were so sweaty that it was impossible to get any purchase on the mat. I could feel the blood pulsing inside the lump. I gave up and adopted the “rest position,” lying on my stomach with my face turned to the right so as not to put pressure on my forehead. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket; it was a message from Casper;
Was fixing your laptop and found the filth you were trying to pin on Jono. Why do you hate everyone who is more successful than you? I’ve deleted everything.
At that moment, Meridian padded over. ‘Mobile signals cause energetic discharge.’ She pulled the phone from my hand and switched it off. Then she took a crystal in each hand and pushed them into my shoulders, forcing me into a kneeling position. ‘Repeat after me, ohhhhhmm.’ She said, sitting down opposite me, her delicate mouth open, eyes closed. I felt something rush up from deep in my guts; gathering momentum as it moved through my body. When it reached my chest, instead of a gentle ‘ohm,’ a scream ripped from my throat, and I felt something release. I opened my eyes and Meridian was staring back at me, body frozen, lumps of pus dripping from her glossy hair.
*
When I got back to the flat Casper was lying on the sofa, the remains of dinner congealing on the table. I looked around for the cat, but she was nowhere to be found. ‘Where’s Wee Wee?’ I asked.
‘I returned her.’ Casper replied stonily. ‘She scratched up the seat of my Eames chair.’ I pressed the sleeve of my jumper to my forehead, which had almost returned to normal.
‘Returned her to the breeders?’ I was surprised at volume of my voice.
‘The breeders don’t do refunds, so I left her outside the cat shelter.’ Casper said, getting up off the sofa.
‘It’s Friday night, the shelter doesn’t open again until Monday morning.’
‘She’ll be fine, I left her favourite cashmere jumper.’ I listened to the sound of his sheepskin moccasins schlep across the floor to the bedroom.
*
It was late by the time I got to the cat shelter. When I rounded the corner, I could see Wee-Wee’s carry case sitting outside the front door. The grille in the front of her carrier was open; I imagined her small body being passed around by drunken students. Breaking into a run, I reached the box and peered inside. It smelled strongly of sick. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw Wee-Wee crouching at the back, shivering. I lifted her out and she hissed, gouging at my arms with her claws. I tucked her underneath my coat and held her against my chest. She looked up at me angrily as though a lifetime of insults were held in each fold of her puckered skin.
I took a deep breath, for the first time in years, there was no tightness in my chest. I wasn’t angry. I was tired. Tired of being a broken thing that needed to be fixed. Tired of eating nicely in small bites, tired of talking quietly in public, tired of having to hold my breath, suck in my stomach, bite my tongue so that everyone else would have an easier time ignoring my existence.
I sat on the pavement outside the cat shelter, resting my head against the glass door. Wee-Wee began to purr against my chest like a tiny engine. I noticed a handwritten sign inside the window of the shelter, Volunteers wanted, must like cats. I took down the number, smiling to myself. Namaste bitches.
(c) Ana Soria, 2019
Ana Soria is a student of Literary Kitchen; she has previously been shortlisted for the TSS Publishing winter fiction prize.
Keleigh Wolf is an American poet, performer, journalist & activist. She performs as Coco Millay with London Poetry Brothel & she also founded The Little Versed Poetry Collective, produces and hosts the Propaganda Poetry radio series, and is Poet in Residence at Kabaret @ Karamel where she curates monthly events.
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