In the Skin

mouths of reluctant farm animals against their grubby private parts. The last file I look at is a sepia image showing a number of deceased children lying in state, dressed in miniature suits. White hands crossed over shallow breasts in a row of tiny coffins.

When I log onto the Internet the homepage I am automatically directed to features downloadable atrocity videos: beheadings in Iraq, massacres in Rwanda, inner-city CCTV murder footage…

I shut down the laptop and stare at the keyboard, aware that I might be losing my mind. The keys possess no recognisable characters; the letters and numbers have become a sequence of gibberish.

I close the lid and stare at the childish stickers Adi and I put there months ago, laughing at the inappropriate nature of small tabs of paper illustrated with skulls and breasts and peace signs. A Yin Yang symbol is a pair of eyes staring up at me. My brain begins to ache and I draw away, heading across the room towards the doorway. My mind is filled with pictures of puckered animal rectums. The bloated teats of milking cows. The thin, wet dicks of domestic dogs…

Adi is lying on her back on top of the bedclothes when I go back upstairs. Her slim legs are open; she is wearing no underwear. I swallow hard, my throat dry, the sensitive tissue inside my mouth throbbing and swelling so much that it constricts my throat.

“Come on, baby,” she says in a faux American drawl. For a moment I think she knows about my New York tryst, but then she flutters her eyelids and I realise it is an act, a tacky seduction technique gleaned from some lowbrow newsstand magazine.

Adi watches as I undress and I wish she would avert her gaze. Her eyes are cold, hard, and she begins to strum the fingers of one hand against the taut mattress. I take off my clothes as slowly as I possibly can but it is not slow enough. She believes I am teasing her and laughs accordingly, licking her pale lips for effect.

“Fuck me now.” Her request is obscene rather than erotic. I swallow down bile. Adi’s mouth is slick with saliva.

(…puckered animal rectums…)

She grabs me as soon as I climb into bed, as if wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Her moans and groans are carefully orchestrated and as she digs her fingernails into my side I feel only an echo of pain.

“FuckmeIwantyourcockinme.” It’s a nonsense rhyme, a silly singsong verse devoid of all meaning. She slides down my body and eventually teases me erect, her long, dry tongue lapping, coarse hands flapping. When she finally mounts me I feel her hot slime slithering down the shaft of my penis; her vagina convulses, gripping me tight, imprisoning me in a carnal pose.

(…the bloated teats of milking cows…)

Her hands feel different, as if they belong to a stranger, and they seem to multiply so that a crowd is caressing me, coaxing me towards a reluctant climax. Their faces swarm over me, tasting my flesh. All I see when I close my eyes is the erased features of the dead bird. Dry, twisted claws. The absence of its beak. The alien marking on its belly matching the one cut into the doorframe.

It is over in seconds. Despite the dull orgasm, I feel no satisfaction, and Adi must feel even less.

“Mmm…”

These sounds she is making. I feel no connection to them.

“Niiice…”

Lies, all lies. I wish I knew what she was up to.

(…the thin, wet dicks of domestic dogs…)

Adi reaches into a drawer and takes out a jar full of pills, screws off the lid and pops one of the long orange capsules into her mouth. Her teeth look serrated in the darkness and her eyes are vapid, devoid of light and life.

I feel as if I have been raped.

3

Much later — later than I can even imagine — I awake in blackness. Staring into the room, I see phantoms dancing before me, gossamer figures moving with slow precision through thick, dark treacle. I blink my eyes and climb out of bed. My feet feel like dead weights attached to the ends of my legs. The figures are no longer there; despite feeling groggy, the dream has scattered like a swarm of flies.

For some reason I am drawn to the window. I part the curtains and look down into the huge unkempt garden, allowing my gaze to follow the line of the narrow crazy-paved pathway bisecting the shaggy lawn. Soft moonlight illuminates the scene; it looks like a matte painting on a film set.

There is something down there — a twisted shape struggling through the long grass at the side of the path, inching its way towards the sagging wooden fence marking the boundary of my property. At first glance, it looks like a wounded animal — perhaps a cat or a dog — squirming along on its belly, heading for cover. But then I begin to make out further disquieting details. Stubby arms reach forward, short white fingers digging into the dirt to drag the rest of the bulky little form along some predetermined route. Limp legs hang below a squat torso, barely moving other than to trail through the muck after the main body as the thing makes its way towards the fence at the bottom of the garden.

If it were not so small, so pitifully worn and crumpled, I would assume the shape is a man.

I watch in fascination as the thing crawls forward another few feet, stopping to rest after it has reached a large mound of earth rising up from the ground like a hillock. It rolls over onto its side, rudimentary limbs stiff and unmoving, and in the darkness its face — I call it that, but there are no visible features — is jet-black and glistening, like the shell of a beetle.

Soon I begin to feel awkward, like a pervert watching an elderly neighbour undress through an unguarded window. Or a person who studies with interest a cripple who has fallen down on the floor, rather than offering to help.

I close the curtains to block out the view. Open them again. The struggling shape has vanished, but the sense of agonised motion remains in the air, rippling the darkness.

4

Morning can’t come quick enough.

I have trouble sleeping after that weird dream, especially with Adi’s legs wrapped around my thighs. They feel like snakes slithering under the bedclothes, and I imagine them moving of their own volition, not truly part of her body. I shift my weight on the mattress, moving away from Adi, reclaiming my right arm from under her bony elbow. She stirs; mutters; slaps her lips. Her breath smells of old rooms and empty hallways. It tastes of the dark.

“Where are you going?” Her voice is a blade; it cuts deep and true.

“Toilet. I have a bad stomach.”

There is a pause; I do not want to move in case I cause a fuss. She is still taking her pills, but their numbing effect rarely lasts.

“Did you miss me?”

I slide back onto the bed, realising my ablutions must wait. This is more important than my desire to take a shit. “Of course I did. You’re my wife.” The words are hollow; there is nothing inside them but dust.

“You could probably tell I missed you, too. Lots.” She giggles, and the sound sends spiders scuttling across the flesh of my scalp. For a second, I cannot breathe…

“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Things will be different here. I’m not so afraid anymore. Maybe I can even come off the medication.”

“We’ll see. Let’s just take things slowly, live each day as it comes.” I reach out a hand towards her but she doesn’t notice…or chooses not to. My fingers flail on the bedding like dying worms, but still she does not