by Charlotte Heidel

Nobody knows; I don’t want their fucking pity for my failure. The party upstairs continues, laughter blistering though the floor, and I’m hiding my sad little secret in the basement shitter. My fist pushes my lip into my teeth as a fresh rip peels through my lower back and tingles into my knees. My other hand reaches for the toilet paper. It crosses my mind that there might be spiders behind the roll. Fresh red blood. Finally.

Tucking my chin to my chest, my intestines are a putrid mix of skunk spray and bad coffee. I poop, only poop is supposed to come out of your asshole. There it is, a red sac, sunk to the bottom like shit. I can’t help it; I plunge my hand in to retrieve it. It fits in my palm. Gelatinous, it wobbles and oozes.  A gray, veiny rope pokes out from a torn spot and begs me to tug it. Blood is running through my fingers and down my wrist. I stare at it, mesmerized by the glory of its strange ugliness, and yet I can’t pull the rope to see what might have been, but wasn’t.

My cheeks are black and salty, my thighs streaked in viscera. The blob slips into the water with a glug, followed by a quick flush. I wipe the blood from my crotch, then the floor, wash my hands, affix a saucy smile, and head upstairs to find the sangria.


Charlotte Heidel is conniving. She wears her sunglasses in all kinds of weather.

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