Bodies Are Disgusting Read Online Free Page A

yourself that, surely, you must be asleep, but the silver ring
on your index finger burns like a brand at that thought, causing
you to hiss and twitch in such a way that you nearly slip off the
sofa.
    The walls of the house you share with Simon
look melted, like they were rendered by a drunken Salvador Dali. A
film of slime covers the one nearest you, and it pulses slowly as
if it were breathing. The wall behind the television looks clean
and static, but it reminds you of one time Amanda had been working
on a photo-manipulation and had taken the smudge tool and scribbled
over the image in frustration. The ceiling, you realize, is the
source of the sound that had drawn you back from Memory Lane. It
bows ponderously under the weight of... something slick and dark
and wet. Something like moss droops in ropes from the edges,
creeping closer to sockets that once were light
fixtures.
    You put your feet on the carpet in front of
the sofa, wincing when you feel not synthetic fibers, but something
warm, moist, and leathery. The floor looks to be covered in a rug
that is stitched together out of hides of varying shades of pink
and brown, but they ripple as though still somehow alive under your
soles. Squeezing your eyes shut, you dash for the kitchen,
navigating by touch and memory alone. Your footfalls sound like
dull thuds to your ears, almost indistinguishable from the lazy way
your heart beats in your chest, until you cross the threshold into
the tiny kitchenette. You open your eyes.
    Other than the mess Simon left in the sink,
everything is normal. Even the fact that your roommate is a little
bit of a slob when it comes to dishes is par for the course, a
battle that you long since decided to let slide in favor of
training him not to hoard used dishes in his room. Steadying
yourself on the door frame, you turn back to face the living room
and find it to be exactly as it had been when Simon had left you to
go to work: the TV is on, with the volume low, the lamp in the
corner casts a pool of incandescent light that doesn't quite fill
the room, the carpet is freshly-vacuumed and a little stained, but
clean.
    There's a knock on your door.
    The carpet feels fine between your toes as you
pad slowly toward the door; your visitor knocks again before you
make it there. You don't bother with the peephole, instead
unlocking the deadbolt and throwing it open wide.
    Amanda shifts uneasily from one foot to the
other, holding a generic plastic bag in her hands. "Hey. Thought
I'd stop by on my way home to bring you some food and make sure
Simon didn't accidentally strangle you with a blanket or
something." She tries to smile, but it doesn't make it to her eyes.
"Can I come in?"
    You nod dumbly and step aside. As she brushes
past you, you smell the familiar scent of her hair products
combined with the aroma of cheap Chinese food, and you can feel
some of your tension drain away. When you finally manage to get
your voice working, you say, "Sorry. Simon gave me one of the
painkillers before he left, and it kinda went to my
head."
    "Do you need to sleep it off? I can go..." You
can't tell if there's relief in her words or disappointment. It
doesn't matter, though: you're grateful for her company, and you
can't bring yourself to send her away.
    "Nah, stay." You check the clock on the cable
box; it's after ten. "S'been a while since I had food. Let's
eat."
    She gets forks from the kitchen (which means
she only brought solid foods), and you both sit on the couch to
eat. She brought vegetable lo mein for you–which you eat with wild
abandon–and shrimp fried rice for herself. After you've eaten half
of what's in the Styrofoam, you set your fork down and lean back
into the couch cushions, the eerie not-panic of earlier almost
entirely forgotten.
    "So, tell me what I missed while I was
concussed to hell and back?" you say, finally tired of the silence
now that you aren't shoveling food into your mouth.
    Amanda sets her fork in the rice and purses
her lips.