- A thick gray cord, infinitely long. I pulled and pulled and there was no end. My girlfriend told me it was hopeless, and still I kept pulling, and after an hour I had to accept she was right. It was an exercise in futility. I considered strangling myself with the cord but instead I went outside onto the balcony, hands dripping, and threw myself off. I splattered on the pavement below. When I returned to our apartment, the cord was gone. My girlfriend was asleep.
- A rabid bat. It bit me, and I did nothing, because I thought rabies was hot. I had been addicted to porn once, specifically rabies porn, where girls are fucked and bitten by men dressed as animals. The fucking wasn’t the main focus. What I was really into was the girls themselves, foaming at the mouth. A few weeks after being bitten, I fell gravely ill. I was thrashing and screaming and hallucinating — the walls were bleeding and wouldn’t stop, get a fucking doctor or just someone, anyone, who can stop it — and I was burning up and couldn’t swallow anything. The whole time I was so fucking wet. My girlfriend ate me out, licking my clit, and I came harder than I ever had before.
- Radioactive sludge. I was lying on the bottom of the bathtub with my girlfriend standing over me, pissing on me. Her piss had a brownish tinge and came down in a steady stream; she’d been holding it for a long time. I drank it eagerly, and it was sour. It burned my tongue. I reached into my girlfriend’s black hole pussy — I’ve never been able to find the end of it, even with my entire arm inserted up to my shoulder — and found the sludge. It was black and stuck to my hand. I spread it all over my body. My skin absorbed it. The next day, as a natural consequence, my hair fell out. I puked so much — bright orange with large chunks — and my girlfriend ate it. Her hair fell out too, so that made us even.
- My own severed head. My girlfriend, who’s always had a high tolerance for pain, told me she felt like there was something coming out of her. Maybe it was a baby, or maybe it was a stone. Whatever it was, it hurt. She sat in front of me, legs spread, and asked if I could see anything. I saw what looked like a clump of hair, sticking out from between her lips. I grabbed the hair — it was so slimy — and pulled. My girlfriend kept grimacing, until I completely extricated it from her. I held the severed head in my lap, gazing into its — my — cloudy eyes. Before I could say anything my girlfriend grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back. She took a knife and sawed it back and forth across my throat, severing the veins and my vocal cords. I could not speak; I gurgled. There was so much blood. When my head was almost fully detached, my girlfriend lapped furiously at the gash, sending shivers through me. I clenched my fists, arched my back, and came. Then she twisted my head off and shoved it inside her. Her pink walls were tight around me, wet from blood and lubricant and spit, ridged, and she pushed me deeper, deeper, deeper, and what I saw — I saw —
- Darkness at first. Something brushed against my cheek. I was not alone, but that was not a comfort.
- Something like an atomic bomb, like watching it from a distance, knowing you are within its radius and it’s too late to run away.
- Searing, blinding pain. Somehow I screamed, but it was like screaming in space, where the vacuum swallows it up and you hear nothing, it reaches no one, you’re using up your air and hurting your throat for nothing, and that was all I was, all I’ll ever be: nothing.
- And after? What came after? Once the pain lessened, once I could see again?
- I don’t remember.
- Teeth. I planted them in a pot of soil. When I woke up in the morning they had sprouted into flowers with teeth as petals. I went for a walk and when I returned our walls were made of thousands if not millions of teeth, packed close together. My girlfriend sat naked on our bed, which had turned into a giant tongue. I cut her with a razor, and instead of red I saw black, black like a dead body that’s been baking in the sun. Saliva came out instead of blood. I was struck by the unmistakable stench of decay, and it turned me on. She pulled me down and fucked me as the bed twitched underneath us. When we were done her entire body was hard and shiny and white, with the slightest yellowish tint. She said, “I don’t need you anymore,” and left. I never saw her again.
Luz Rosales is a fiction writer living in Los Angeles. They can be found on Twitter @TERRORCORES.