Fiction, Short fiction, Short story


Oindrila Gupta, December 7, 2022

What accompanies the act of calling myself obsessional is the image of a throbbing eye, trembling in the rearview mirror but all the while hard-boiled. I am obsessed and yet am also preoccupied with this trait. I am concerned about the lick lick licks in my head, that which stamps a clot of hair onto the side of my head. The things that live in my head.

I am fixated and preoccupied with the reason for my fixation with the following image. That of a corner and a tongue in a mouth in delirium. Like a fevered fly on the floor, stroked from heat and fried into a self-chase. The slap and swallow of a tongue gone awry; in combat with itself, unable to be.

The line around Klimt’s thoughts traced art. The only line that concerns me is the pencil outline of despair come to life, bending and contorting around a neck – my neck turning across the surface of the wall, over it, wrapped, held there.

I am estranged yet a voyeur. I am dissociated, an unsubject. I think – no, I agonise over the issue of sex and my refusal. Cumming happens like a seizure, the writhing of a body gone beyond. Pushed to the limit of a possession yet repulsed by itself.

Am I not? I I I am the girl. I I I I am the woman made from the girl. I I I I I I am the possessive and possessed pronoun in reference to the self-violent and destructive daughters and mothers in my stories – the/her/their. Who ends? Who begins?

There are spurts of blood on the wall and a room coloured by a high-pitched voice. The shriek does not accommodate any preparation. It is not incoming. It is the entry. What do you hear? What do you see? What do you write? What messages have you received? Abandon all conceivable convention. That self-violent impulse has long been known.

Are you afraid, still?



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