Size Matters Part 2

‘Enough,’ she said aloud, tears streaking her face, misery her master now as, overcome, she hauled herself from the plastic seat, barging out of the shower altogether, slamming the door shut behind her. Panting, she stood on the shower mat, stark naked, having to stoop, resting her hands on her knees, the effort it had taken to extricate herself from the shower cubicle almost too much. For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out. White dots swam before her eyes and her legs felt weak; jellied. Slowly, she regained composure, found her strength again, her breath too. Back at the bathroom cabinet, now, this time she did not bother wiping the moisture away, knowing all too well the sight that would greet her were she to do so, choosing to spare herself that particular sadness. Instead, she opened the cabinet door, groped within, found what she sought.
A plastic safety razor.
Bic.
Orange and white.
She brought it up to her face.
Studied it for a moment, as if she were a Great Ape trying to figure out exactly how it worked.
She knew its function, of course, but today she would set it to use on a slightly different task for, if the blade were capable of cutting away hair, surely it would be sufficiently sharp to cut away other stuff, too.
‘Let’s find out,’ she thought, placing the angle of the neck and blade against the edge of the sink and pressing down, hard, snapping the casing. Carefully, she plucked at the blade, which wiggled in its housing, unwilling quite yet to be liberated from its plastic prison. Another tug or two at the plastic surround finished the job, and she was able to remove the blade altogether, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger of her right hand, her good hand. Dropping the plastic wreckage into the sink, she looked at the blade for one second, two, then took it to herself, slicing at the first ridge of flesh at the top of her gut, the metal implement slicing through cleanly, the skin either side of the blade peeling apart as easily as that of a banana, the gaping rent formed filling quickly with blood.
She felt pain.
Exquisite pain.
Thought nothing of it, noting only the excitement it brought, the warm sensations spreading through chest and loins.
Working quickly, aware that blood loss was a danger, she sliced down a few inches, then back, then up, forming a six inch by six inch incision. Digging in now, she used the blade to slice beneath until, with a liquid slurp, the whole surface area came away and she was left holding a dripping, squared section of her own matter.
She dropped it into the sink with the plastic casing.
‘Personal weight loss programme,’ she thought, and laughed aloud dementedly.
She carved some more.

Josh sat at the table, places set appropriately, food served.
Upstairs, he cold hear the shower still running but no movement.
‘What’s taking her?’ he wondered, moving back to the foot of the stairs.
‘Emily?’ he called.
No reply.
He mounted three stairs and called again.
Still nothing.
Just the sound of water cascading.
Than a crash, something heavy, falling.
He raced to the top, made his way to the bathroom door, knocked loudly.
‘Emily.’
No response.
He was getting worried.
Tried the door.
Locked.
She never locked the door.
‘Emily, answer me right now or I’m gonna smash my way in.’
A pause of two seconds.
‘I mean it.’
Five more seconds, and he stepped back, barged his shoulder against the door, shaking it in its frame, but not quite dislodging it Again he tried unsuccessfully but on the third time the door yielded and Josh burst into an abattoir.
Emily lay on the floor, the blade still in her hands. Her eyelids fluttered, on the point of passing out, yet still her hand worked the blade into her own flesh, cutting herself, trying to rid herself of her own meat.
Josh collapsed to his knees. Slid to her, through the blood and muck.
Looked her up and down.
Her entire stomach region was a bloodied ruin and, in places, she had punctured the abdominal wall so that thick worms of intestines squirmed to be free of their fleshy cage. Down one flank, large portions of skin and other fibres had been removed and she had started to work on her breasts when, it seemed, she had been overcome.
Her eyes snapped open.
Found Josh’s.
Stared at him.
Hard.
‘Why, Emily?’ he asked.
‘I wanted you to love me,’ she said.
Tears filled his eyes.
‘I love you just the way you are.’
She died.
© Ian Stevens (2012 - 2017)

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