Ashen gum trees rise from either side of the road, twisted and warped where they stretch across the expanse. I stand in the middle, the road long and winding before me. The world is dark.
In front of me is a dead animal. Hawks circle the body like a ravenous funeral procession. They peck at its eyes like they’re made of jelly and tear away strips of fatty flesh between their beaks. I draw closer, disturbingly intrigued by the way blood pools, swirling as it runs through the asphalt.
The toes of my shoes nudge against the still-warm body, its pulse ebbing as it is desecrated by the feast. At my feet lies my own body. Ripped to shreds by feral desire, covered in greedy flies. My own eye sockets, bare and gaping, stare back at me, unable to blink. I am entranced by the emptiness I find there.
Headlights in the distance blind me. The jolt of sudden company heightens the feeling of loneliness that has gripped my hand, cold and made of smoke. I lose my footing. And I am falling-
…
At the bottom of the pit, my bones reform and crack and slide back into place. Eyelids stuck together, gluey as they blink up at the gap of moonlight. The night is still, and time sits in suspense. In this liminal space, I am nothing. I am every version of myself I could be, stretched out infinitely like the pull of bubblegum, waiting anxiously to be snapped back to an unrelenting mouth.
From the shadows lingering at the mouth of the pit, a figure tilts its head at me invitingly. I pull myself up to a mostly standing position, my limbs jerking, uncoordinated, as if attached to marionette strings. I half walk, half drag myself to the edge, muscles aching and in the beginning stages of atrophication. An uncomfortable tingling replaces the numbness. Collapsing on disproportionately gangly legs that trip over themselves as if only just learning how to walk. In the darkness, its face hidden and blurred, I could almost believe I was watching my reflection come to life before me.
The figure spreads her arms, or what I assume are arms, as much as shadows can be limbs. Two paths before me. I imagine myself remaining here, in this pit, slowly eroding as the soil absorbs me and I am forgotten, nothing more than worm food. Fertiliser. I take her hand, and she pulls me out.
…
I come back to myself under the flickering streetlights, entranced by the electrical hum, loud like imitation cicadas. My skin begins to warm under the LED bulb, and my nerves buzz and come back to life.
The hard casing of my skin begins to crack like forks of lightning fracturing the sky. Fragments flake away until my gooey centre is revealed, oozing from spilled guts like yolk. I scratch and pick at the pieces like dried scabs, digging impatient fingers beneath each one before discarding them in the gutter by the side of the road with the soggy cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, and weeds that struggle through the tar. Covered in amniotic fluid, I shiver against the cool breeze. I slip out from the slimy skin and bury my skeleton in the soft mud, dirt gathering beneath torn fingernails, caressing the molted discards once before filling the hole and moving on.
Beneath the shell lies a fleshy, formless shape, exposed and soft like clay, ready to be moulded.
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