The Transmutation of Cheese

Adam Jordan

He turned. The features on his face metamorphosed as the light played on his facial features, sinking into the crevices and rising over the peaks of his face. His image transcended the pure construction of reality and became at one with the room. As he lowered himself into the bathtub the warm, frothy water permeated his skin and was absorbed into his body and he became as a water bomb, and the water inside of him pushed at his skin, crying out to be released in a furious, vengeful explosion of hatred and lust. Finally he became so consumed by the desire that he could not constrain himself any longer and suddenly and viciously he liberated himself from the bath. The soapy water dribbled down the walls, coursing through the cracks in the paintwork in rivulets of desire, released from oppression after an eternity of surface tension. The froth dripped and plopped from the ceiling to the floor, and he was free, released from his skin and capable of reaching new pinnacles of freedom. He stood, naked and dripping all over, spilling all over the floor. His mind reverted and lulled itself into a hypnagogic state and his mental meanderings eventually carried himself away from this place, away from this dank, dark chasm of a bathroom and towards a better place. Reinvigorated and having experienced for once the light of day (at least in his mind), he reached out a hand. The hand forced itself through the air, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife through cheese. The hand was liberated from his body and became as itself, feeling and sensing on behalf of itself. The hand returned to its position of submission and servitude and the man toweled himself dry, transmutating from wet to dry and, in return, moving the water from himself and thus translating the towel. The towel returned and so did he, and curled up in a foetal position that recalled inter-uterine memories suppressed and locked up in the back of his mind, he lowered his eyelids and gradually allowed his subconscious to take control.

He was in a room. There were people there with him. They were touching him, prodding him, fucking him around. He had no control and he was experiencing a wide spectrum of thoughts, emotions and ideas. He took off gradually; he was not in any hurry. He circled, experiencing the exhilaration of independent flight for the first time. He was liberated as a bird. He had no wings. He plummeted towards the ground, falling faster and faster through the cumulonimbus with the premonition of thunderstorms. The lightning crashed and stabbed and the noise was deafening and he found himself flailing wildly, spinning around and around, turning in midair. But this time there was no metamorphosis to seek refuge in, no possible refuge to be found. The choice that faced him was not a favourable one. Faced and confronted with a future as bleak and undesirable as his past, he surrendered himself to transmutation and desire and closed his eyes once more. As he commenced his final, twisted plunge towards conclusion, he imagined the friends that he did not have. As he left everything behind, the voluntary muscles in his face flexed and contracted and his mouth became frozen in a concave arc.

The water had long since become cold but still continued its dripping, collecting in a small, dirty puddle on the bathroom floor.