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Rated: 13+ · Sample · Emotional · #1175510
Beginning of an abstract fiction. Main plot is about a brothel run by women.
The girl, aged 20, comes out of the tiny room, eyes sparkling with a sheen of silver in the dim light, nose painted black, whiskers attached just above her full lips. She is smiling and ready, swaying her hips seductively as she walks through the hallway. The others are standing around me in a bunched half-circle. It is their ritual--- their initiation into the cult of the brothel they’re a part of. In drunken, dazed stupor I walk towards her and grab hold of her midriff. Pushing her into the wall, I thrust my tongue inside her open, smirking mouth. She pulls me into her dazed world as she puts her hands around my neck and twists my head to better adjust it for the violent kiss. The haze which surrounds the environment blurs out everyone watching. She pushes her tiny frame into me, dissolving our bodies and liquefying them into one.

A stunning silence.

I force my eyes open as colossal hands pick me up off the icy hardwood floor of the buzzing surrounding. My left eye burns and the hands divulge to me that it has been scratched on the surface. I inquire as to why. Because of the violence of sex and the ferocious feline.

I attend the fluorescent lighted halls of an unknown sanatorium. The moment is quick and fleeting so I have to soak in everything around me rapidly. I am here for the damaged eye, but I wander into the maternity unit instead. It is a tour of the world. Dead bodies are spread out on a large 11 by 14 foot platform. A white, soft cashmere duvet covers the podium. The tiny humans, ranging from 2 inches long and 3 inches wide to 1 foot long and 1.5 feet wide, are bandaged to an extreme. Their limbs are missing- human outcasts. Bandages are wrapped around the shoulders and the hips. Ribs are ripping through the thin layer of skin. Their heads occupy half of their bodies. Their frames are skeletal. Tiny babies. A metal breastplate covers a botched plan of saving an outside heart on one of them—the biggest tiny frame. He lies in the middle of the others. The tour guide asks me if such an atrocity can be captured on a photograph. I have no answer as I avert my eyes from the half rotten bodies. The spectacle is a monstrosity in its own right. Emotions run rapid. This abstract world spins out of control and fades out as I try to face my own hindrances.

The flying jet powered dwelling which I’m currently in passes above murky, tumultuous ocean waters. The waves crash against half-sunk battleships below. White Persian cats are seen scrambling for life in the deathly liquid, trying desperately to swim. Thousands are drowned, their limp bodies seen bobbing up and down as the waves crash against the morbid walls of the ships. Intense screeching of the meows can be heard distinctly, despite them being so far away from the safety of the apartment. I cry out, “Kill them. Stop their suffering!”

The haunting noises follow me into the isolated streets. Passing the bright red “Best Thai Restaurant” sign and dreadfully seeking the Queen’s apartment building. She owns me against my will. I’m late to the meeting she holds with her subjects. In a frantic effort, I go through my black leather-bound notebook looking for the number of the building. I was there yesterday, taking part in the ceremony. I remember the red sign. It was dark. It stood out. I remember the storefronts. It’s the same block. It’s evening and it all looks the same. I remember the apartment number “4D”.

My phone rings and “Ag” is on the other end. She tells me she is not androgynous, she is not bisexual. I ask her for the location and she tells me it’s building number “381”. I never ask her how she knows my number. She danced a waltz with one of the visitors last night. The woman she danced with was on her knee, dressed in a gray suit, holding Ag’s hand with her long slender fingers. Ag was dressed in shiny latex, with bunny ears attached to her head. The room was gray like the woman on her knee. A dark halo surrounded the room, tiny tables occupying that halo. It was an upside down world in a perfect 10 by 10 square, accessed by a conservative wooden door. My ferocious feline is a part of that pack which entertains the miserable- the gray-suited woman.

The subliminal psyche is a thing to be dissected. I am in Alice’s world. A subliminal world accessing the darkest parts of the being. I am part of something that people lust for.

The Queen is very benevolent towards me. She knows I am taken away from my sane world against my will. I don’t want to be subjected to her perverse actions. She sits in a chair along with the other girls in a circle as I enter.

I found the apartment building “381” next to the red “Thai” sign. The entrance was squeezed between two storefronts. The entrance was a maze. I proceeded through a flickering yellow hallway to the end. There stood a couple, eyeing me suspiciously, almost as if they knew I was heading toward a sinful paradise. I pushed the button for the elevator. Taking steps seemed heavy. I couldn’t possibly climb to the fourth floor. The elevator button was alone in the middle of an orange tinged wall. It took 10 minutes to arrive.

As I stood waiting, I remembered the dusty streets I came from. My house was on an elevated surface in the middle of a rural street. On both sides there stood small cottage houses. Dirt pavement, no cars in sight. The front lawn was an absurd mess of various length grass growths. I had 2 kittens, 2 flies, and 2 chicks which were growing up. I remembered coming back to my small cottage house in the middle of the rural growth. I pet one of the chicks in the middle of the grass lawn. It lay peacefully as if asleep. I discovered it was in fact dead since I did not feed it in 5 months. Malnourished and starved to death, its beak half developed. Flashbacks from the tiny bodies in the hospitals ran through. The elevator bell dinged, bringing me back to the ruined hallway of the Queen’s apartment building.

Maneuvering to the right and then to the left, descending the small step of stairs, I entered through the doors. I pressed four, my heart beating faster. Before I knew it I was at the doorstep. The doors flung open, as if they knew I was coming.

There was a boy in the midst of this ravenous Amazonian jungle. There I saw my ferocious feline who initiated me into the cult.
© Copyright 2006 Nataliya (altruistcomedy at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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