DAY 26

Viv’s paternity-leave never really ended. The company fell into receivership and despite the reasonable pay-out, it only really set the family up for two months. In an effort to cheer him up, during a 4am baby meltdown, his wife, Flora takes a photograph of the baby monitor, on which sways Viv’s arse in night-vision. With little Layla settled, before they go back to sleep, Flora jokes how sexy it looked, dominating ¾ of the screen. As sleep takes him, Viv wonders what his life has become.

***

Rocky signs into his Onlyfans account. There’s a lot of content on here, but it’s unspoken that a large number of users come here to buy premium porn from their objects of affection; celebrities and such. Rocky is one of these punters. He doesn’t want to see sex anymore. Not in numbers, not straight, not gay, not solo. He wants something different. He wants niche. That’s when he finds V.I.V.X.X.X. It’s the almost Roman numerals style name that lures him in. It’s the brutal simplicity that traps him. The bollock naked lower half of a man going about his daily chores. Here, he’s unloading a washing machine into a basket. The detail is beautiful; sighs, yawns, humming of a tune. Rocky pays up for the full experience. It’s easy to see why this guy is trending, racking up the fans, that arse is a featured deal. It rocks back and forth, showing only a glimpse of cot to sell the illusion that he is settling a baby. Now he’s bent over, mopping up spilled dog water. At one point, nothing happens for almost an hour. Then, he turns in bed and the sheet inches up. Oh God. There’s barely any sexual aspect to this; Rocky does not masturbate. He just watches, feeling a strange affinity with the man who never reveals anything from the navel up. His fans know so little about him; only the things on his domestic to-do list. And yet…  has he put the wash on the correct cycle? How is his wife? Does she really love him? Will his raw plugs arrive in time to hang the framed artwork we know he’s bought her? Did the coat fit? There are long threads and arguments about this in the comments, arguments fought by people paying premium prices for practical pornography of a different kind.

(Day 20 continued) Bits of dry cocoa swirl around on top of the tepid hot chocolate. Bilhah could have walked out into the street and left Awadil behind, guaranteeing her safety, but this person is not well and the last thing he needs is the sight of another turned back. He picks at the chipped edge of the cup and for a while, the only sounds aside from car horns outside are Bonbon licking his paws and the birds jostling for the tiny pockets of space.

“So what do you want from me… what is your name?” Almost a minute goes by, Awadil staring at his shoes, before he finally mumbles his name like a mischievous child caught out, now in the furnace of the headteacher’s office.

“I don’t know…what I want. Not anymore. I’m empty. I shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m trying to retrain, Awadil. By this time next year, I hope not to be here, not to have to do this. But this is not about me, is it? It’s something bigger, I feel.”

“Some days I don’t care. I can go to work, talk with friends, get excited about sport, about the movie I’d like to see. But it does not last. It’s always there, bubbling like lava inside a volcano. I see a sponsored appeal advertisement on social media; a sad orangutan, its family gone, no trees left to climb, no habitat to forage thanks to some shampoo or chocolate manufacturer and the hole which opens up in my soul is absolute. The darkness which swallows my thoughts is infinite and unfathomable. I want to kill the next thing I see, even myself, some days.”

Awadil falls silent. “The only reason I’m still here is because… if those of us who feel this way are gone, then only those who do not think, do not care, remain and the end comes even quicker.”

The two talk at length about this, about the burden of knowing, about empathy and what the capitalist system does to the minds of those who care about more than the status quo. At times, Awadil grows angry, agitated again. Sometimes he cries. He says he’s worried about how he allowed himself to be so weak, to snatch up Bonbon like that and come in here this way.

“What if Bonbon was a gun, Bilhah?”

Bilhah thinks about this, but it’s no use worrying about what might have been. Even now, there’s a warmth pumping out of Awadil, despite the heavy clouds rolling across his skies. He says the virus hasn’t helped. Too much time to think. To Bilhah’s surprise, he falls asleep, so she puts a sheet over him and turns up the heating before going about her work. She steps into the corridor and calls her boss, explaining everything is fine, that the intruder will be gone soon, to trust her.