Placebo, a story by Anna Marcelli Palmer

~Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

-3-

She is trailing her fingers down my back and I am on fire.

We are on fire.

With the unimpeachable enthusiasm of a child eating ice cream for the first time, we are willingly drowning in a creek of senses; skin upon skin, a breath for a breath, a heart for a heart. Reality is just a bowl of chocolate chip cookies, as well as the shards of broken glass scattered all over the carpet.

I am tasting her, exploring her, feeling every function of her body as it synchronizes itself with mine. Adrenaline, a heavy drug pumping through the veins. Perspiration. Liquid. Contractions of the muscular system. Unintentional movements, caused by the overdrive of the nervous system -fingers clutching flesh, a mechanical arch of the back. Heat that scorches the skin, the painful bliss of friction.

A volcano erruption that occurs in total silence.

I am making love to her with the shyness of a palm that slips under a shirt, leaving a sweaty stain on the breast of its owner, fathoming the heartbeat underneath.

I am making love to her with the sorrow of a tear that tumbles down a cheek, of a face that contracts to a mask of pain against a pair of lips.

I am making love to her with the anger of two people violently slamming against a kitchen table, and falling on the floor, upon a sea of broken glass.

I am making love to her with my love and with my hate; love because she is the only thing I want to live for and-

-hate because she won't let me die.

Something has gone dead wrong with our lives, and we are having sex on my breakfast.

Well, if this isn't fighting madness with madness.

Thud.
Breath.
Thud.
Breath
Thud.
Breath.

Thud breath thud breath thud breath th-

...

...

...

Time freezes.

I sense, I know it's the perfect time to panic, but my arms remain pressed against Amy's back, my feet pinned to the ground; I know it's the perfect time to panic, and yet my heart has stopped beating.

Literally.

Limbs won't move, retinae won't falter. This is radically different from the previous cases of akinaesthesia I've faced (In my dreams? In a parallel life? Am I going schizophrenic? I cannot know anymore) .

Why are we stuck in this uncomfortable position? Is it because we changed the recurrent sequence of events in our messed lives? Is it because we-

-is it because we made a decision?

The only thing I can do anymore -and this only because of the lack of alternative choices- is look deep into her eyes. They don't move, just like mine, but there is a small, yet firm, gleam of hope within them.

Suddenly we both understand.

And I curse within my mind, for I cannot smile to her.

Suddenly we know this is absolution.

Lover on lover, senses forever frozen in overdrive, bodies forever interwined in a shared, much longed for freedom; the erotic image of a woman arching her back against the man she loves projected again and again, dancing its tango towards infinity.

Just as though someone pressed PAUSE.

REWIND.

PLAY.

Darkness.

Light.

Dawn.

Fuck. Fuck by all means.

I can move.
I am alive.
In my bedroom.
It's morning, I can hear sounds of traffic, my stomach is empty and I. Am. In. My. Bedroom.

The smell of chocolate chip cookies feels the air.

And it all gets clear.

I cannot die.
I cannot change.
I don't remember my childhood.

I don't remember aging.

I cannot tell her how I feel.
Because the screen fails exactly at that point.

She is downstairs. She has to be.
I run faster than ever, almost tumbling my way to her.

Trembling behind the table. Eyes red. Yellow dress.

Lover.

Amy.
I won't let anything else happen to you.
I won't let anything like that happen to us ever again.

I love you.
But I won't tell.

I run over to her, grab her violently by the shoulders. She looks at me with sorrow and understanding at the same time. Even tries to muster a smile of gratitude when my fingers clench around her neck, pressing against the main artery.

When the fingers that a moment, or an eternity ago, made love to her are now murdering her.

The calmness in those emerald eyes almost tames the burning anger within mine. She tries to utter something, and by the movement of the lips, I can tell she is thinking, thanks.

Amy digs her nails in my flesh for a second, making me flinch in pain.

Blood drips on the carpet.

A stain that can't get off.

Muffled throaty sounds. The desperate contraction of the blood vessels. The morbid symptoms of choking.

Then, her arms fall lifeless to the side.

Dead.

She is dead.

I plant a quick kiss upon her cold lips, and before the scenery resets itself yet again, I rush to the bathroom. I am not carrying her; hopefully, we will be together soon.

Fear overcomes the senses in the mere perspective of what I am going to do. Distractedly watching the tub get filled with water, the only thought I allow in my nonsensical soup of a mind is, If the only freedom left is the freedom of dying, then I shall die a memorably painful death and live every second of it.

Then I enter it and lie down.

The process proves itself hypnotising; drip after drip after drip, my wet grave gets filled up, and the recurrent plopping sound reaches my ears aloof, and deep, as though coming from the other side of a tunnel.

The water has reached my nostrils.

It covers them.

Then, something strange happens; all external sources of noise are automatically eliminated. My mind can only process the sounds of my organism, as it slows down to an untimely halt.

My heart beats, loud and chaotical like a gunshot, punching my ribcage.

My lungs shrink, burn, and I feel as though they are bursting in their own emptiness.

My mind feels hazy, intoxicated.

My vision is blurry.

My limbs feel a thousand kilos each, should I try to move them.

Contractions. Unintentional movements. Asphyxiation. Pain.

It's excruciating.

And I am smiling.

Smiling as the room goes peaceful, and a last glimpse at the ceiling as it twirls and dances through the water surface, waves my preoccupations goodnight.

A/N: Chocolate chip cookies=bad.