(TW: spider, eating spiders) My cat had a new obsession. A spot in the bathroom that she started to guard like Cerberus. I wasn’t entirely sure why she became so obsessed, but it seemed like just another cat thing. After a long day at work, I was in need of a bath. Of course, when I went to the bathroom and turned on the light, there she was. In full loaf glory, staring at a spot in the corner. As soon as I turned the tap on, she bolted, because nothing is scarier than a few drops of water on her precious fur. I sat down on the floor while waiting for the tub to fill, and my eyes were drawn to the corner. What is so intriguing about it? Why is this corner magical? Then I saw it. A tiny spider, crawling on unsteady legs from behind the laundry basket. It was just a tiny speck. Almost mistaken for dust. I suppose it sensed that the predator had left, or perhaps the sound of the rumbling water scared it out of its hole. Who knows. All I know is I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and plucked it up with my fingers. And crunch. I felt it under my teeth. Grinding away on the speck creature. And I’m not sure what would have happened if the water hadn’t spilled over the tub edge.

(TW: sexual content, self harm, smoking, suicide) She stood in front of the floor mirror, wearing only black tights and colourful bangles on her arms. She put her arms up in the air, touching her fingertips together above her head. ‘My hair is so long, it feels like I am wearing a wig.’ She gathered the waist long, curly black hair and piled it atop her head with one sweep move. ‘Don’t you think it looks like a wig?’ – she asked, turning around. ‘Even if it were a wig, it suits you. But I am glad it isn’t one.’ The man was baritone, sitting in a decorated Victorian style chair, legs apart, wrapped in skinny jeans, shirt open. ‘And why is that? What would be the problem with a wig?’ – she walked towards him, turned again and knelt down with her back against his knees. ‘Because I couldn’t do this’ – he grabbed her hair gently and pulled her head backwards. She arched her back and spread herself onto his knees, her breasts gently flowing to her side. He let go of her hair, leant forward and spread his hands out on her chest, grasping with lust. She moaned and moved her chest around like a snake swimming through sand. ‘But you said it’s time to go for you again.’ she slowly arched forward and stood up with a gently flowing motion. He also stood, slowly walked around the hazy room as he buttoned his shirt up and lit a cigarette. ‘It is time. But I won’t be long. Stay.’ She took a cigarette from the silver case in his hand, took it between her lips, leaned closer and lit it with his cigarette. ‘Stay. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll stay forever.’ He walked to the corner of the room, and knelt on a colourful rug, surrounded by knick-knacks, junk and beauty stuff. He brushed his shoulder-length black hair slowly. ‘Perhaps you want me to bring something?’ She walked in front of him, spun around and dropped herself in his lap. Slowly, excruciatingly, she started to grind her hips. He dropped the hairbrush and firmly grasped her hips with both hands, pulling her closer, leaning into her hair, breathing in her scent. Their cigarettes burning up on the floor next to them. They moved like so, swirling together like dancing snakes, until he pushed her away and stood up abruptly. ‘I really need to go now. Stay. Please.’ He picked up the silver cigarette case, and walked out. She listened to his hurried footsteps on the creaking wooden stairs. She stood up, picked up the remains of her cigarette, inhaled and exhaled sharply. She turned towards the mirror again, staring at her reflection. As if she were trying to make sure she is still herself. She grabbed a small stool, dragged it to the inner edge of the balcony, climbed atop and pulled down the rope, which was waiting for her prepared. She inhaled a last drag of her cigarette. She put the rope around her neck. And as she watched him get on the bus across the street, she said: ‘Perhaps I’ll stay.’ With that, she kicked the stool out from under herself.

(TW: self harm, emotional distress, adult language, blood) There is an annoying pimple on my arm. It’s a huge, angry, red mountain, full of pus wanting to burst out. I try to do my work, but the pimple annoys me, angers me too much. It cannot be so, I must do something about it. I get up from my desk and realise how late it is. The only light in the apartment is coming from the laptop screen. White light from the empty page I’ve been staring at for hours. I make my way towards the bathroom, slowly putting one foot after another, arms stretched out in front of me. And still – obviously – I shriek and swear with all the language of Babel and the ferocity of a Central European grandmother, when I kick my shin on the corner of the bed. Finally, as I jump, holding my shin with my hand, I reach the bathroom, fingers crawling on the wall and I flick the light on. The sharpness of it seems to my brain like a flash bang – and still holding my shin with one hand, I must once again steady myself. But not steady enough, I sink to the floor, back rigid against the door frame, I can feel my vertebrae scrape one by one as I arrive with a thunk slap of my thighs against the cold tile. Back to the pimple in question. As pathetic as I am, here I go, shimmying myself on the floor to the cupboard to take out a pimple patch. Could get up, but at least here I can be sure that there is nowhere lower. Where the fuck is the patch? I swear it was next to the huge bag of “absolutely sanitary” band-aids. Which might do just as perfect as the extremely expensive Korean skincare bull crap pimple patches I got on TikTok Shop. Why do I even keep buying crap from there, honestly, it is probably full of asbestos or some shit. Surprised my face hasn’t melted off yet. After I fat finger the whole band-aid bag and now the floor is covered in definitely not sanitary any more bandages, I pick one at random. Stick it on the fucker, with the reassurance of a five-year-old, out of sight out of mind. But the band-aid is too big, it snags my skin, and I am already more annoyed than I was when the pimple was left alone. From this moment, I believe I was dead. I ceased to exist, my soul left my body, and I was not controlled by myself. There is no other explanation. And there was nothing left of me after what happened, so this must have been the moment. I died. I always kept scissors with the bandages, in case of a never happening medical emergency, where I have to bandage up my friend bleeding out from a cut, they self-inflicted with the dull end of a bottle opener. Or something similar, anyhow. It is a quite ordinary object, red plastic handle, can be used by both left and right-handed, sharp metallic edge, ready for life-saving necessities. But I thought – or didn’t think because I was dead – that the best spot for cutting off the excess of this bandage is on myself. I must not remove this emergency sticker and waste it because of my inability to think ahead; no, I must cut it off myself, on myself. So, there I was, I took the ordinary scissor and started carving away at my own flesh. Nothing deep, just enough to cut the band-aid, but not myself. Or that is what went through my head, before I’ve seen fresh blood trickle down my arm, dripping, disappearing between my legs and down onto the tile, seeping into the cracks. From here on, what happened is absolutely out of any normal existence, or of any rational, reasonable ideology of any human. And I’m still shocked, astonished, marvelling, because my hand did not stop there, it continued, with this blade, cutting swirls, patterns, lines and crossovers into flesh. My own skin, bursting open, with the sharpness of a thousand suns, sending a million volts of acute pain in the way only cutting skin can hurt. Though the pain doesn’t register as I keep carving and splitting, the tiles under me forever stained with blood. It doesn’t stop on my arm, I continue, carving at my legs and hips and hands, all the way around, wherever I can reach. I am carving a human Fabergé egg of myself. The original reason for my being here is already so faded in the background of the dripping reverberating in the bathroom, that I am not sure I ever even was.- Envi K.