Draining Confessions: short-story
by Fernanda Cortes

‘If I hear you talk anymore, I will explode,’  I think to myself, a smile spreading across my face, at least the half of it, trying to avoid eye contact. Maybe if I just nod you’ll feel heard and you’ll soon stop. I have mastered this skill since childhood, as we all have.

But I’m on the verge of exploding. If I hear one more of your twisted questions or facts like, ‘Would you let someone record you having anal sex?’ or ‘do you know zoophilia is more common in females?’, then your stupid face has the audacity to say, ‘I was just wondering’ after the awkward silence between us.

However , when it starts to feel wrong, when the boundaries of tolerance and patience are pushed beyond limits, normal people would say, ‘Stop!’ But not me, not us. We have been toxic since day one, you pouring your entire life out, at least the short one you had, in one afternoon, recounting the scars that have marked your existence. Like how your dad would slap your mum from time to time and she’d react as if it was a normal activity, like brushing her teeth. After the beating, she just carried on doing whatever she was doing, then you realised hid in the corners of the house to drink booze. Poor her, a punchbag. And I, empathic to your pain, reciprocate by sharing my own, as if we were brothers in suffering. I told you about my older brother and the ways he tortured me, about my dad who decided to disappear after my birth and my mum who worked double shifts to send us to school, which is the reason why my uncle took care of us time to time during the week, my uncle who always made us play strange games between us.

‘I can’t take it anymore!’ I shout directly in your face, and you exclaim, ‘Jesus!’ You act so cool, and I feel an overwhelming discomfort. My attempt to stop you comes across as rude, making me question my own behaviour. So, reluctantly, I give up and allow you to continue your speech. I lose focus on your words and instead let myself follow the sound, the disturbing movement of your lips, which seem to be in a rush, revealing your twisted teeth. Occasionally a drop of saliva escapes. I can’t help but notice your eyes closing when you begin to share how you had seen your younger sister taking a shower, and that somehow it had aroused you.

You always describe everything in excruciating detail, dissecting with all sorts of questions, even the ones that are painfully obvious. You’re shamelessly brazen, even asking questions when you know already the answers. You scrutinise all my memories, my belongings, relentlessly seeking out every tiny detail you can extract. As the source of your pleasure and sense of control, I find myself shrinking. I can feel my body losing balance and leaning towards yours.

How will I escape from you? We have been glued together since we were 13, and even after a decade , I’m still stuck with you. No other friends, no damn girls are interested in me, and if they ever show the slightest interest, you have a way of scaring them off real quick. You always seem to appear at the precise moment when I’m desperately trying to avoid you. How did you predict that I’d stay longer after class? How did you know I was at my grandma’s house?

So I just drop the ball, I tell you everything, I tell you what I really think of you, about all the reasons why people are avoiding you, why even your parents are a disgrace to this world and how unlucky I have been since I met you.

I’m drained, but pleased, like the same relief I have felt when my body expels the bile poison out. Then I turn to look at you, and I think ‘I am doomed.’ I look at you, you don’t look so good, you look like you’re going to cry or worse, you’re going to open your mouth again. Suddenly my greatness vanishes. We come back to the same point. We complete the circle. I hold you tight within my arms.

Essay written by Miscelanea del Arte