A book plopped to the floor unexpectedly and released me. It seemed someone had pulled it off the shelf and hurled it down. Vaiva gave a start and scowled to the side, momentarily releasing me from the grip of her stare. A cold wave of sobriety washed over my head. I was still alive. I had met a disgusting octopus in the shape of a girl. Straining, she stood opposite me and attempted to injure me with a sharp, biting glance. I saw her unevenly lit pale face quite well. An unnatural face — there wasn’t even the tiniest wrinkle on it. The gray skin was smooth, dull, and lifeless. She moved her completely narrowed, bloodless lips convulsively, as if she wanted to suck in all of the air in the library and thereby suffocate me. She rolled her eyes hopelessly, trying to stab me with her glance’s barbs. She was powerless and revolting; she had finally and irrevocably given herself away. I had sidestepped her kanukish tricks; I was saved by the book falling to the floor with a crash.
Now I stand, trapping her in the dead-end corridor, and attentively follow her barbed eyes. Now the lamp with the colorless shade slowly sways, the lines of the shadows intertwine, crossing over and shoving one another aside. I feel horror rising inside me; I feel how my legs and arms slowly come back to life. By now I know what I will shortly do; by now I know why I slowly snuck over here and what must be uncovered. Now I am her ruler; I have triumphed. She stabs me with her barbed pupils, futilely seeks extra support for her feet, but her spectral efforts are in vain. I feel the strength in every tiny muscle, and most importantly — I feel how my brain has freed and focused itself. I see every wrinkle in her short skirt, her knees pressed together: she curls up her left leg, as if trying to hold up some thing falling from her crotch. I could crush her with a single look, reckon with her for this evening’s nightmare, for the hideous change. It was she who oppressed me from afar, who wanted to turn me into a bat, a jellyfish, a cockroach. Now she turns her eyes away, now she’s afraid; she knows there’s no help coming.
I have the urge to tear her into pieces, to pull off her arms and legs, to fling the bloody pieces in all directions. She intruded on my world, broke into it by deceit, at a time when I particularly hungered for help. But she fell into her own trap. No punishment would be enough for her. My hands reach for her throat of their own accord, sweat beads up on my forehead, and below my belly a hard lump writhes. I have pressed her shoulders; I didn’t press them hard, I was just trying it out. She finally raises her eyes, which are brimming with horror, but immediately cowers again — now she’s the one who is cowering! Her body goes limp and surrenders. She doesn’t dare to oppose me; she doesn’t defend herself with either words or movements. I can no longer stop my hands; they let go of the stiffened shoulder blades and slide heavily down the sloping shoulders. I see the sweater’s buttons fly to the floor, I see the smooth skin uncovered to the breasts. Only then do I understand what I must do.
Calmly, I pull off the camisole and bra straps; she tries to get away, but my hands are firm, she is in my power. With gusto I clean her body of its layer of deceitful clothes, she struggles and writhes, red indentations remain on her back from the shelves, and there are blue circles from my fingers on her shoulders, but the more pleadingly she looks at me, the more my fury boils. I know what I’ll shortly see: withered breasts with multiple layers of disgusting folds and lumps on a deformed belly, those familiar abominations with which Their bodies are marked. I’ve already seen the body of a woman like that, I came to know it very well; soon I’ll be disgusted again by one just like it. I’ve torn the last scraps off her torso, she’s still curling her left foot up, the skirt writhes as if it’s alive, but at the moment I’m more concerned by what’s above it.
I pull back to see better, because she covers herself with her chin and shoulders, now I see it — I don’t believe my eyes, but I see — she stands in front of me naked to the waist, breathing hard through her mouth with her arms lowered helplessly. But I search in vain with my eyes for what I expected, in vain I widen my pupils, blink and want to wipe my tearing eyes. I don’t see the slightest sign of abominations; her skin is smooth and soft, the firm young breasts tremble in agitation, the small dark nipples stick out to the sides, and the smooth, slender stomach heaves heavily. Unable to restrain myself, I touch it: I don’t believe my other senses. It can’t be: I stroke and squeeze the soft breasts, still naïvely hoping they’re artificial, buttoned on, stuffed. She winces terribly at every touch; I finger the skin under the breasts, I search for scars, the marks of an operation or something similar. It’s hopeless, it’s all hopeless; I audibly release a breath, it’s gone musty in my lungs during that long moment. Everything was so clear, so absolutely clear — but suddenly everything fell apart. What have I done?
Now I stand in front of her like I’ve been struck by lightning. I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, it can’t be! I look at her, my eyes widened; I look at what she’s hiding with her curled-up left leg. I remember the globs of flesh between Irena’s thighs, I remember the wrinkles and the stinking abscesses, that image crashes mercilessly into my brain — I no longer control my hands; they grab her again, tear the short skirt aside, pull and rip off the stockings, losing all reason, all patience. I must hurry, because a horrible doubt keeps escalating, and I don’t want to go there. She writhes and struggles like a fury, squeezing my hand with her knees, it seems I hear breaking bones. I must hurry, because the doubt keeps growing, by now it’s bigger than I am, the stronger it is, the more furiously I tear at her clothes and skin, she defends herself like mad, I brutally twist her arms and push her knees apart. And the hideous doubt keeps getting closer, it’s no longer doubt, but reality: of all her clothes, only pale blue lacy underpants remain, and I see, I feel with my hand, nothing but turned, polished thighs with a soft nap, they’re long and graceful, I have nowhere to hide anymore, I see, ever more plainly, that I have done something insane. Her nearly naked body thrashes, squirms out of my hands, my eyes are covered in a red veil, because I have done something insane, I don’t even dare to think of what will happen next. I cannot stop, because I cannot admit I’ve done something insane, the triangle of blue lacy underpants still remains, under it I’ll find the answer, surely I will find the answer of all answers. It’s there! I lift her from the ground, bend her in half, but she still presses her knees together, I can’t tear off the blue barrier guarding the bottom of her belly, but I must do it, I want to do it, I want to find, to take her vagina, she’s entirely in my power, all that’s left is to enter her, I want that, I want it, no one will get in my way. Totally insane, I rip off the underpants, sling the remnants aside and wait, totally at a loss: something has gone wrong here, something has fallen apart. There is no vagina; there is nothing there! The body in my hands suddenly goes limp, turns slack, I pull out my convulsively curled fingers, then, not believing it, stick them into her crotch again. That is where the answer is. I let go of that doll-like body, set it on the floor; it stands there like a statue, even though just now it struggled and raged.