Broken Lauren

When one evokes fantasy to fulfill reality and thus smooth the absurdity of everyday life, there is a degree of tolerable acceptance; although humans, mostly when lacking of proper mental tools, hold a general tendency to do so, these fragile creatures do not have solely physical ways to bear their inner pain, for they may, likewise, create imaginable relief. And in the same sense nonetheless, they can deeply disorder themselves. 

Eyes were all around as flies in a fish market bewildered between satisfaction and indecision, and, in the middle of the small restaurant, was Lauren with her long black hair, in her long red dress and, consequently, providing a contrast with everything in such a mighty and silent manner that any distraction in order to pretend her absence was the only choice left to those inside the place – or at least so she thought.

She ate fast and in fast steps left the place. The sun was about to sleep and a red atmosphere was painting the faces, houses and moods with such delicacy that Lauren began to consider the sunset the end of her life. Of course, not peacefully. Insider her mind, this dreaded thought walked amidst her other thoughts, became stronger and suddenly it was the whole reality, something twinkling in her delusion, and her heart thus was beaten under the immutable decision – somehow, she was going to die in a red sunset.  

It was Sunday and barely no one was walking in the streets, cars were seldom being seen, and every noise sounded like the last bell of her ultimate sentence. She thought for a moment that her spine was moving, trying to come out her body, but she realized that it was something in her own skin; from her back, quickly, all her skin was agitated, vibrating according to the wind and synchronized with the pumping of her veins.  Faster she walked but then even the birds were observing her, quietly, as if the species, including the smallest ones, were vultures waiting patiently for her death. One car passed in considerable speed, coming from behind, she did not look at; until it had been seen in front of her, every subtle variation of its sound meant that it would go directly to her to finally smash her small body against some wall. At last, it passed peacefully, not caring about her by any means. Veins in her fists were in the last beats of despair; she tried to keep her walking unchangeable. Not more than one minute had passed until the second car had emerged from an absurd nothingness about two squares behind - or so she thought - and accelerated as a fresh and excited lad towards his lover, tending to a furious state, having in this moment the decision of his life, or, better assumed, having in this moment the most proper chance to let his genes into the big game he is in, so-called survival.

At length, she reached her house on the fourth floor of an old, grey/yellow building which seemed like a geometric block within her imagination, surrounded by an awkward dusk that should not be there in a sunset, and fairly illuminated by the red eye of the fading sun. She took more than 5 minutes to perceive she was shaking in front of her door, holding the keys, narrowly looking at the numbers and, fascinated by their sounds, repeating voiceless 3-0-7 unaccountably. She could not recall the last time that the living room from the doorway had been seen by her, and yet afraid of every wall, she walked up to the sofa which was facing an unused television. There she sat and, abstracted by her anxiety, Lauren slid her hands over her thighs, pressing them as if it was the exact action necessary to cease everything in all times, in all ways and then, while her eyes were trapped in a horizontal line going from a big window - leftwards – to the kitchen, she started to touch herself imagining being observed, rationalizing that, when done, all things would also be done. Still dressed, almost in the right point of pleasure and feeling her hand rigid with a sort of pain, she lay prone, having her waist slightly lifted and the right arm going under her body to euphorically touch her nether regions. It was then that she noticed a dead cat on the carpet; fat, paws up but retracted, tongue out, one eye half open and the other closed and she started to fancy that sexuality could indeed emerge from that fluffy carcass too. She stared at the cat, hasted as fast as she could, and in that position, half-open mouth, pale, glazed eyes, the orgasm was finally achieved and her reverie broken. For a few seconds, Lauren trembled a bit and, bearing a somewhat malicious smile, kept her position until a sudden sensation of uselessness appears, and, then, her being was gradually absorbed by it till she was nothing but remains of her existence.

Undressing herself, she walked over to a large window in the living room and sat already disrobed while lightning a red cigarette. There, she rested, looking at the outside, smoking slowly and watched the night covers the city, still alive.   

                                                                              Cesar Domity