A kind of Horror

Another man would have devoured her, torn her clothes off and surged through her flesh, but not Mr. Nadi. On a Thursday night, he takes her out to buy the newspaper. Before they leave, he spends a minute to check if his hair and mustache look good, they don’t, they are crimes against humanity, think the matte black hair and moustache of a plastic doll, he doesn’t notice though, he likes them. Nadi works for a data entry department in one of the Egyptian government’s many administrations. He makes sure names, numbers, and signatures are entered correctly five hours everyday for three thousand pounds a month, enough for ordinary clothes and food with a nice meal every now and then. His hopes and fantasies are relegated to the afterlife.

 

Mrs. Nadi put a shawl over her shoulders and covered her hair, yet her curves screamed underneath the black satin gown. She is told, now that she is forty-two, that her sex drive is gone, but there is this tickling between her legs, the French would bring wine to this place. He’s asking if they have enough eggs for breakfast and she’s thinking about her next bath, her time alone, “yes, we do,” she answers anyway. This was his idea of a conversation to kill time and be a good husband, do we have enough eggs? Did you see the tiger attack at the zoo yesterday? What are you cooking today? She played the part. They arrive at the newsstand and he decides to crack a joke, “should we get New Meal Everyday? I bet we would need ingredients from a sorceress to prepare one of their dishes, ha ha ha.” She smiles, attempts to laugh, but stops at showing her teeth, he doesn’t mind, he takes whatever response he can get, deep underneath the barrier of communicating with language they both acknowledged and were at peace with the roles they have decided to play, or rather parody, until they no longer have to. On the way back they stop at the supermarket and he buys eggs anyway, she doesn’t break her silence, she’s thinking about her bath, she still waxes her blood rose clean.

 

Why hadn’t her father mutilated her sexuality? Why bring a living girl, genitally unmutilated, to a dead world? She often thought. She saw women her age dressed in weird, eye-stabbing costumes without taste content with watching Turkish mind-killing dramas where women have complete intact sexualities and men with erect swords venture forward, and she wondered, why does life have to be behind a screen? She wondered and wondered, until the bathroom door closed and she was finally naked, she then wondered no more.

Nola (explicit)

Nola got back from work to her father and brother watching a game and her mother cooking.

-How was your day honey.

Her father asked.
-Great, dad.
-Mastered Excel yet?
-No, dad I left that job 4 months ago.

Nola hurried to the bathroom and took off her clothes, her head scarf, her tight long-sleeve t-shirt, her bra, and her pants, quivering. In the bathtub, under warm shower water, she slid her hand between her legs. In her mind, her boyfriend is advancing on her, she’s blushing but too hungry to gesture any resistance. His strong muscular hand rubs her blood rose hard and electricity surges through her body. She moans, quietly. He grabs her breast and she just leans back, his now. He turns her around and fucks her ass, two lubed fingers for that, she uses hair cream. And she orgasms, blissfully, like a normal human being. Outside this bathroom she’s the short chubby unattractive girl, but in it, she’s the mistress of a thousand men, even if it’s for moments. She’s satisfied.

In the evening, her friend Sally called.

-So, I have been looking online for stones that have effects on people, turns out there are many, nothing like scientifically proven of course, but people have always believed some stones have powers.

-I’m not even sure it’s a stone, it feels like slippery metal, but it’s not wet, and it didn’t give me powers, just made me bold, I’ve been doing things I never thought I could.

-Like what?

-Have you ever, masturbated?
-………………. sometimes I fantasize about stuff, and, you know, touch myself down there.

-I insert things in both holes.

-WHAT?

-Whatever I desire I experience, my imagination has become so vivid, my fantasies become realities, I have never been happier.

-That black cube gave you that?

-Yes.

-I want it.

-No, I want you.

Felicia

On my desk sits the skull of a woman no longer present. Another nameless body desecrated for medicine, for the better lives of others. A lifeless bone witness to countless stories soon to be completely forgotten, eliminated. If anything, I gave her a name, Felicia. We have spent a lot of nights together, me studying and writing, she watching over me. Sometimes, when I’m high on pot listening to Vivaldi’s cello and violin concertos, I would put a little flash light inside Felicia and turn my room lights off, Felicia comes to life and talks to me through Vivaldi’s music. I never understand what she says, it gets scary, but we’re friends.

The worst thing about afterlife is that there is no evidence whatsoever in its favor. I will probably never get to know Felicia, that’s how far apart we are.

I never pictured Felicia an old lady on her death bed, in my daydreams she appears vigorous with the spirit of a little girl in her summer holiday, excited to explore life, curious about places to go; a spirit bound only by her imagination. I think she loved, or would have loved, Vivaldi.

A girl I had over last weekend danced jokingly with Felicia, she shared a joint with her. Stoned, I sat watching them with fascination while some psychedelic trance blared through my speakers. As I made love to the girl, Felicia haunted her body, with the help of pot and dim lights I came extremely close to feeling her flesh on my skin, her breath on my face.

Reconstructing facial features from the skull is no easy work, it took me, three fellow doctors, and a computer 3D modeler two solid days of work. The result is not fully accurate of course, the lady in the printout is not necessarily the dead woman, it’s Felicia. She’s in her mid-thirties, caucasian, of average beauty. We gave her black eyes and black hair.

I began asking people everywhere I go, whenever possible, if they have seen the woman in the picture, I don’t know what I was expecting, some said she looked familiar and some gave me names, but stalking random women in pursuit of a ghost didn’t seem like a good idea.

Out of desperation I called on god, of course he didn’t answer, neither did the devil. It’s funny how when you question the presence of god in your life his existence dissipates into nothingness, he has never been there, never helping nor harming, he always gets credit from the actions of others, an identified being haunting the reality of others. I will look for Felicia in every woman I meet, I will give her my sleepless nights and lucid dreams, she will live in my mind’s silence. Like the gods we create and the prophets we revere, friends in our weird worlds.