Bodies Are Disgusting

by S. Gates

  "How can it be old enough to be senile? Ori looks like they're fourteen."

  "They take forms they think you'll like. Alena has the face of an angel. She looks just like a girl I knew in high school who died in a wreck junior year." The stream of text pauses. "You could just be a pedophile in denial."

  "Oh my fucking god," you growl aloud as you type the same into your chat window. "I am not a fucking pedo."

  "Like I said, Ori is old and senile."

  "Must be," you respond. After you press enter and send the message, your cursor blinks in the chat window. Your fingers are still, your mind devoid of anything else to say. Predawn light filters through the blinds because you never bothered to close your curtains. Everything is so still that you wonder if maybe you can't hear the sound of Simon's heart beating in the other bedroom across the hall.

  SilentHarper sends another message. "You're not the first person to message me, you know. I've heard from a few others. People who've been chosen, I mean. If we all die, they lose. If we get ourselves killed, the god that chose us is done this round. They can't choose another."

  "You're talking about that kid from Virginia." It's not a question you type, but a stated fact.

  "I'm talking about all of us. Don't you wonder why all of these weird things are happening? The tsunami, the earthquakes in India, fish kills and hive collapses everywhere, the freak snowstorm in Australia?"

  You dash off another quick, "yeah," followed by, "And I guess you're going to tell me?"

  "It's demonstrations of power. Probably not ALL of them, I mean we've still gone a long way toward totally fucking up the environment and all that, but a lot of them... Someone doesn't believe the godhead that's visiting them, and they just sort of knock all the birds outta the sky. Or drown some coastal burghs that happen to include L-fucking-A. It's just piddling parlor tricks to these things."

  "Parlor tricks?" you scoff. "What are you, 80?"

  "Not quite, but I'm probably older than you," SilentHarper replies. "Had a wife. Got a kid. Kid spends most of her time with the ex, and I can't blame her. I'm not exactly in the running for any father-of-the-year or perfect-husband competitions, here. But you're missing the point. It's literally nothing for these things to just reach out and destroy whatever they want. It's like swatting flies to them. They don't care about us, or this planet, and they never will."

  Struck by a sudden thought, "Why does Alena still talk to you if you've already decided that you're not going to do whatever it is she wants?"

  "Who can tell what an eldritch horror is thinking at any given time? I'd guess that she's hoping I change my mind. And at the very least, each person I convince to refuse the offer is one less competitor she has to worry about. Which gives her more time to convince me."

  "Everyone's got their price," you type.

  "Like I said, I have a little girl to worry about. I want her to grow up, have kids of her own. Alena can't give me that. What about you, what's your price? What would Ori have to do or let you do to get your consent?"

  "I don't want what Ori's selling. It's too creepy. I woke up in the shower with a fucking SPLEEN in my hand."

  "Well, that's encouraging." A pause, followed by, "I mean, that's a shit way to wake up, but it means Ori's probably too out of touch with reality to really put together an enticing offer. Like we said, it's old and probably senile." Another pause. "You might want to keep an eye on Simon, though. Alena says Lucien is a pretty vicious and motivated player."

  Your fingers tremble over the keys, and something cold knots up in the pit of your stomach. "What's Simon got to do with any of this?"

  "Simon's been chosen, just like you and me. You didn't think it was weird that, after all this time that you've been living together with him keeping celibate, he just suddenly happens to have found someone to fall ass-over-teakettle for NOW?"

  Of course you'd noticed. You'd pointed it out to Simon himself, not a few days ago, but you don't say so. "He's a grown-ass man and can do what he wants, when he wants. If he hasn't found anything worth sticking his dick in until recently, that isn't any of my goddamn business. Or yours."

  "Gonna be your business when that thing he sticks his dick in devours our goddamn planet. Talk to him. Talk him out of it. Slit his throat for all I care."

  "I'm not going to kill my roommate because your hallucination tells you that he's wanting to bone an elder terror. Fuck you and good night." You shut the lid of your laptop and shove it to the far corner of your bed. The cold feeling in your stomach and the sensation that you might be able to hear your housemate's heartbeat if you try hard enough haven't gone away.

  The beat of your own heart is so heavy in your chest that you can't stand it any longer. Feeling disgusted, you roll off your bed and slip downstairs to the living room. The TV remote is exactly where you left it, and it takes no effort to find a channel playing mindless infomercials at this hour.

  After the sun rises, when you hear Simon rattling around in the bathroom, you creep back up to your room and climb into your bed to make it seem like you'd always been there. Like you'd actually slept. He shuffles past your door, grunts a hazy "mornin'" at you when he sees that it's cracked, and returns to his room.

  Your laptop is where you left it, the fan whirring softly and the power light blinking to indicate that it still had battery life. After a few moments of staring, you pull it back into your lap and open it.

  The chat window with SilentHarper is still open, but SilentHarper himself is listed as offline. When you check your inbox, you find an email, neatly formatted with proper indentation and impeccably spelled. The sender's name is Gavin Michaels.

  "Douglas," it reads, "I'm very sorry about last night. I was tired. A little drunk. Alena sometimes whispers things that sound very reasonable at the time, but are, in hindsight, horrible ideas. I think she's getting to me. But chatting with you helped me ground myself. If you ever want to talk, and I mean REALLY talk, I've attached my contact information. Any time, day or night. Like I said, I don't sleep anymore. Regards, Gavin (AKA SilentHarper17)"

  * * *

  Simon sits perched on the edge of the kitchen counter next to the microwave when you finally decide to make your way downstairs. He balances a plate of toaster pastry on one knee while he struggles to open a jar of raspberry jam. Feigning bleariness, you rub absently at one eye as you walk in. "Mornin'," you grunt.

  He doesn't look up. "Morning. Watch your step, I just mopped." His knuckles are white where he grips the jar lid. "Fuck! Did they use a goddamn pneumatic drill to put this lid on? Christ."

  You ignore his outburst. "Why'd you mop? We weren't due for a kitchen deep clean for another week, dude."

  "Gonna have company this evening," Simon hisses through gritted teeth. The lid of the jar comes free with a pop. "Got a date."

  Bile rises in your throat, a combination of memories of the last time you saw Lucien and the words SilentHarper (or rather, Gavin now) had left on your screen. "When's Luke coming over?" you ask. A part of you hopes against hope that he'll correct you, tell you that you've got the wrong name, but your stomach churns because you're certain that you don't.

  Simon has the good grace to look sheepish. "Is it that obvious? Hah. Yeah, guess it is. He'll be over around seven to pick me up. We're going to a movie, but I figured I'd have the place half-clean just in case. You work tonight?"

  "Nah. JD says tonight's gonna be thin, so he'll just run it himself. Same with tomorrow." You lean against the door frame and scowl, trying not to feel nauseated. "Listen, I don't know if you should be jumping into this thing with Luke. You told me you wanted my opinion of him before you took me to meet him, and now I'm giving it to you: I think he's a creep."

  Simon rolls his eyes. "Don't think I don't see how you're trying to throw my own words back in my face, asshole," he says. "There's a key difference here, though: you're totally wrong about Luke, and I was totally right about Amanda. She's no good for you and you've gotta just let her go."

&
nbsp; You bristle, both at the jab at Amanda and the way he dismisses your warning so casually. "She's my friend," you say. As if you haven't had this argument before. As if it would change his mind. "If we're going to play this game, I'm not convinced Luke isn't an axe-murderer looking to add another notch in his handle, and I don't think you should be alone with him." Arms crossed over your chest, your face bunches up in a scowl.

  "Yeah, sure," he says after a moment. "Anyway, you mind tackling the bathroom this afternoon? I got a quick shift down at the bookstore, so I probably won't be able to get to it."

  A handful of conflicting responses jump to mind. Your first instinct is to tell him to fuck off, followed by begging him not to do this. Neither of them seem helpful or likely to change the situation. Instead, you sigh. "Just promise me you'll be careful," you say. "Don't do anything stupid, don't let him corner you alone, nothing like that."

  "All right, Mom," he replies, drawing out the last vowel sound to emphasize his reluctance to agree. "I'll be home by midnight and I swear I will call you if anything happens, all right?"

  Knowing that it's the best you're going to get for now, you sigh and push yourself away from the door frame. "Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna go get dressed. Probably going to go grab lunch somewhere, maybe meet up with Amanda. You want anything, or are you good with your jam-and-strudel sandwich?"

  Simon shakes his head, turning his attention back to the snack in his lap. He reaches into the drawer just below him and pulls out a butter knife, which he uses to spread the jam on one of the toaster strudels. "I'm good, man. Breakfast of motherfucking champions." He mushes the other toaster strudel against the first and licks the escaping jam off his thumb.

  "Gross," you say, and then head back to your room before you have to witness him devour his cloyingly sweet pseudo-sandwich. Instead, you get dressed. You eschew your binder and piercings, and pull on a comfortable pair of jeans and two different sweaters over a threadbare band t-shirt. That done, you grab your phone and the keys to your rental and make your way back downstairs.

  Without a clear goal in mind, you end up sitting behind the wheel, tapping listlessly at your phone's screen. You could ask Amanda out for lunch. Barring any deadlines, she'd probably go, and then follow you home and keep you company while you clean. You could rent a movie; you'd make popcorn over at her place. She has a gas range and keeps a stash of the kind you pop over a fire.

  It's easier to just tap in her number (you've had it memorized practically since you first met) than it is to scroll down to the entry for "Ebonlee, Amanda" in your contact list. The fingers of your right hand drum against the steering wheel absently while you wait for her to pick up, the silver band catching sunlight every so often and scattering it across the dashboard.

  After three rings, you hear a muzzy, "Hullo?"

  Your heart catches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it down. The last time you'd heard her voice so ragged, you'd spent all night exploring the finer points of cunnilingus with her. "Hey, 'Manda, it's Doug. I was just thinking, now that I'm ambulatory, maybe I could pay you back for the food you brought me when I got outta the hospital?"

  There are a few muffled rustling sounds on the other end of the phone, followed by a low, "Shit. S'it really almost eleven?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Dammit," she hisses. "Listen, I'll call you back." The phone beeps once in your ear when the connection drops.

  You don't wait for her to call back. After a moment's consideration, you put Gavin's number in your phone and shoot him a text so he has yours, then dump the phone in the cup-holder under the radio. You decide to just take a drive.

  * * *

  Two hours, a voicemail from Amanda with a time and a place, and three texts from Gavin ("You need to stop him;" "Tell your friend not to do this;" "Stop him when you get home") later, you've pulled into the parking lot of an upscale pub on Amanda's end of town. The walls are covered in pseudo-Irish paraphernalia, and the beer menu is larger than the food menu, but the prices of everything almost make you wince.

  Amanda slides into the seat across from you, shoving her handbag, coat, and scarf in the corner of the booth next to her. Her hair is less curly and more frazzled, and she has bags under her eyes so large that you'd wonder if she's ever slept a wink in her life if you hadn't obviously just woken her up with your phone call. And yet, with her cheeks reddened from walking in the cold, you still think she's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.

  "Sorry," she mutters, grabbing one of the menus and letting it fall open to a random page. "Work's been kind of crazy. I almost slept through a client's conference call. Thanks."

  "That's not like you," you say. The waiter brings glasses of water for both of you, which you sip at gratefully. "You're usually pretty devoted to your clients." It's a distant echo of an argument, one of the last you had while still a couple, but you don't realize it until Amanda's gone still across the table.

  "You know what, I'm sorry. I don't think I should be here." She reaches for her things.

  "No, please stay. I didn't mean it like that." You take a deep breath, but Amanda makes no further motion to leave. "I just meant that you've got a strong work ethic, so it's not like you to miss a call like that. That's all."

  A lock of hair falls over her right eye, and she pushes it back behind her ear with a trembling fingers. Her cheeks are still reddened and blotchy, and her brows are drawn low as she stares at you. But you can see the suspicion cross and leave her face like a skittish deer. "Okay."

  You pick up your menu, glance over it. "Hey, wanna split some of these 'Irish nachos?'"

  "I guess I'm glad to see the accident didn't ruin your awful taste in food," Amanda says with a scowl. "It makes me sick how you can eat whatever you want like it's nothing." Her eyes skate over the menu in front of her. "Sure. Why the fuck not? Let's do the nachos and I want a meatloaf sandwich."

  "Sounds good," you reply. "So what's new with you? Last time I saw you, I was kind of tripping balls on codeine."

  Before Amanda responds, the waiter comes back through and takes your orders and your menus. With nothing left to hold on to, Amanda starts to fidget with the wrapper of her straw. It's adorable. She twists it between two fingers, ties it in a knot, snaps it in half. "Nightmare job. I haven't slept a lot since your accident." As she talks, she abandons the torn paper and brings her hands together to fiddle with the plain silver band on her left index finger, the one from Ori that you'd passed to her. "I heard..."

  Her eyes meet yours, dark and suddenly very sad. They search your face for something, perhaps some sort of sign, but you have no idea what. Her fingers still. "Never mind. How about you? What's new in your life?"

  Unsure whether Amanda found what she sought or not, you shrug. "Not much. After this, I promised I would go home and clean. Simon's got a date and he doesn't want the place to be shit-wrecked if he's getting lucky tonight. Though, I kind of think his date might be homicidal."

  The short bark of laughter startles you both, and Amanda tries to hide her mouth behind the hand with the gleaming silver ring as if that would somehow make it less obvious that she was its source. It's followed by a snort. "Hah, sorry. That–that was mean."

  "I'm... not sure I follow here." You cross your arms over your chest as if to prepare for some sort of body blow.

  Another giggle slips through Amanda's fingers. She tries to drown it with a gulp of ice water. "Okay, Doug, I don't know how you haven't noticed this before, but your roommate is both kind of in love with you and seriously in denial about it," she says. Her words are light, but her tone is desolate, bitter.

  "Whoa there, pardner," you say, holding up both hands in a "slow down" motion. "I don't know if you know this, but my roommate is pretty fucking gay. You know, like you? Remember the whole 'sorry, you're not a lady so we can't be together' thing? Pretty sure Simon knows I'm not a dude."

  Amanda's face twists up in an unflattering sneer. "You sure about that, Doug? Because I can tell you that every
time he saw us, he was trying to kill me with a death glare. He never thought I was good enough for you, which usually implies that he thinks he could do better. I bet he doesn't even know we're both here, or, if he does, he gave you shit before you left." She notices your flinch and gestures helplessly across the table at you in response. "See? He hates me but it's not because we can't get along. He hates me because I have–had what he wants, even if he can't admit it. He wants you. And I'm willing to bet that whoever the hell he's bringing home looks kind of like he could be your long-lost relative."

  Silence reels out between the both of you, Amanda still glaring and you trying in vain to keep your jaw from hanging open. "Where the actual fuck did that come from?" you ask.

  "It came from the fact that your roommate thinks he's in love with you but he's too confused to know his dick from a hole in the ground, and he's been taking it out on me since the beginning," she snarls. "Go home. Ask him. Ask him why he never went out with anyone when he met you. See what he's got to say for himself."

  "Wow. That's... kind of a lot of vitriol toward someone you don't really interact with on a regular basis. He's my friend." The similarity to the conversation you'd just had with Simon makes your head throb. It's the second conversation you've completely lost control of today, and you're so very tired. "And so are you. I love you–both of you–and this is pretty ridiculous. I mean, listening to you right now, it makes it sound like you're projecting onto him."

  Color floods Amanda's face, turning her complexion almost plum with her anger. "Oh my god. Do you just not listen to anything that comes out of my mouth?" Her hands shake as she reaches for her water. The ice clinks against the glass. "First, to project on him would mean I'd still have to have romantic feelings for you. Which I don't. Second, for you to think I am projecting on him would seem to indicate there's some part of you that's hoping."

  Your stomach cramps in your abdomen, caught in the vice-like grip of dread. "I never said that," you respond softly. "You made it clear that you think it's over between us."