Boy-Rot Remover

Dear Diary,

They couldn’t even terminate me correctly. C-section instead of an abortion — I mean, really. The nerve. The sheer unmitigated nerve. And yet here I am, as one tends to be. Unbothered. Thriving. Diary, I am thriving.

There’s a fruit fly infestation in my house. I started greeting everyone, naturally — one must — but I wasn’t aware the infestation had spread quite so extensively. Frankly, the audacity. So I told everyone to gather and I started talking about you. Questions, mostly. Dating advice of the highest urgency. Does he love me. Is he thinking about me. Should I spend every last waking hour I have thinking about a man who molests my nervous system and calls it courtship. Oh, and you, Susan! Do you mind terribly flying over there to see if there’s a girl at his place. Susan was so pissed at me she started buzzing and bopping at my face, trying to fly into my wine and then directly into my mouth. Murder-suicide, Susan! I simply will not have it at this time.

The more I asked about you the more disruptive the flies became. They started eating at my rotting flesh. Buzzing into every hole. Flies are the cleaners of the world, Diary. The great putrefaction-eaters. Every warm decomposing thing this world produces, they take it, no questions. Most loyal companions we have and we repay them with bleach. Naturally.

They started gathering between my nails. Made their way up my body. I have to find the source. I simply must. It’s him isn’t it. It’s always him. I checked everywhere. Under the bed. Behind the mirror. Inside the wine glass. It was the inner child, Diary. Of course it was. One should have known. Rosin, hairspray, sweat, wooden floor. Piss running down her leg into her ballet flat. Chin up. Not moving. Surrounded by mirrors. Every mirror showing the same girl doing Swan Lake on her own. Her mother’s crown on her head but crooked. Her mother’s hunger in her tummy. Her mother’s performance in her spine. First born. Attached at the hip. Still dreaming about the importance of her arrival to things. The utter bleakness people felt without her. She’s been in there for years. One really ought to have checked sooner.

Susan never came back from his place. One can only assume. He has form. My confidant. My soldier. Dispatched on active duty to investigate a man who couldn’t even text back. She died as she lived — buzzing into wine glasses for a woman in crisis. We shall not see her like again.

I noted the location. I went to the pharmacy. The pharmacy had bleach, fruit-fly remover, and — oh! — a boy-rot remover. I considered it briefly. I bought the fruit-fly remover. One must have priorities.

I feel them eating parts of my brain. His blue lying eyes. Going. His cock. Going. The way he pulled my hair and I forgot my own name. Going. Leave me the fuck alone I’m trying to OD. One does what one must.

I have to get rid of this infestation before they get to my cunt. Do you know who I am.

— Klara

P.S. In loving memory of my most devoted fly-in-waiting, Susan.

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—Love, Klara