A BIzarre Tragedy
I walked around my house looking for something to do. I reviewed my television channels as though it was cereal, and when I confirmed no interesting daytime show would appear in these two minutes I went to my computer to write. After I confirmed no great ideas would come into my head these two minutes I went back to the television giving it time to find a good show, but the choices for what was on didn’t change.
I decided to take my notebook and sit on a bench outside. I went to a bakery to get a brioche to eat. I sat on a bench and ate my brioche. Crumbs were getting on my lap, and I was scared just in case a woman came up to me who wanted to make love, she’d deny me because I was some jerk with brioche crumbs on his lap. But the more I wiped them off my lap; the crumbs seemed to melt into my brown corduroy pants. I stood up and wiped off the crumbs that were coincidentally in the groin area.
Suddenly I heard a scream, it sounded like a woman’s scream. Quickly, the singular scream became a multiple multi-gender scream. A woman ran across the street and she was half undressed. I looked down and saw huge holes in my pants. They were getting bigger and turning my skin underneath bright red and burnt. I didn’t scream but immediately took of my pants, and once I noticed that all articles of my clothing were disintegrating I took everything else off. The melting of my skin was not painful surprisingly. While running home naked, I was in no mood for an erection, but that would have been good considering I passed by every woman in town I knew. But they were in no mood to think about penis sizes at this moment.
I finally got home and walked around for a while. My heart was beating over and over, with the exact same amount of force and pressure each individual beat. It was as though it was a dog in a cage of an identical size of the dog. The dog is hitting his head and body desperately to escape the caged lifestyle. Every time he forgets that the last attempt didn’t work so he pushes with the same force again without saving energy. My heart started to slow down.
I looked around and decided to see what was going on with the rest of my clothing. I walked upstairs and my drawers were shriveling and holes were being made in the wood and than growing. For less than a second I stared as though it was an art piece. Then I ran to my drawers and tried to open it. Once my fingers touched the handle of the drawer my fingertips started to swell as well. I immediately removed my fingers. I looked at my room and saw a wool blanket. I used that as a glove. For the first time for a while I was willing to admit I was scared. With the blanket I picked up a large bundle of clothing, which fortunately did not affect the blanket. I ran downstairs and into the streets and I threw my clothing in the middle of the street, amongst the other clothing. I saw people running to the pile of clothing and I saw people running away. The things people used as a glove really varied, but one woman obvious didn’t find anything, and was using her hands. It must have been the third batch by now because her palms were barely protected by flesh and the blood went on her clothing, which really didn’t matter anymore.
I went back and forth with this blanket, which after the third time started to tear apart. I assume this mutated clothing didn’t burn wool as fast. I switched blankets and gathered the rest of my clothing in my arms and ran downstairs and threw it in a pile. The clothes were disintegrating themselves and their fellow clothing. The street wasn’t being disintegrated at all. Some people watched this bizarre tragedy on the streets; others watched it from the window. A man threw in a match and nothing happened. Everyone was willingly nude. They decided to undress. I saw a women throw the last of her clothing. Her face was scared, she was crying silently. She ran back home in a position to hide her breast and vagina, which got to her home slower and less conveniently, and caused more attention because of her position. But her and a few others were being stripped by this bizarre tragedy. They looked like what I imagine a rape victim looks like during the rape. On rule I never cry, but this made me sad.
The clothes fully disintegrated. No one knew what to do. Everyone was separated at this point. We were all the same scared human with nothing to hide with a common enemy. A few women and men looked at the rest of us who were just staring at the black circle in the middle of the street. We were staring at nothing, and we were all utterly and agonizingly confused. After a long minute a few people walked home, and once a few did the rest did rather quickly. I was the last one standing in public, nude, and even though the shock wore off I found interest in watching the versatile reactions of everyone and the empty space of a tragedy. I finally left.
I feel like I’m living someone else’s life drinking this bitter coffee. I don’t want to drink it. I haven’t bathed for a few days. I’m also kind of hungry. And I’m anxious ever since I quit smoking a month ago, the day after the tragedy. The same day of the bizarre tragedy I smoked a cigar and twelve hand rolled cigarettes and eighteen pre-rolled cigarettes. The next morning I had to quite because I smoked the rest of my tobacco and can’t get my hands on more. My legs still jitter but far less than before.
I’m only drinking coffee because that’s all that’s really left in my cabinet; that and a few cans of sardines and other various things. I wish I could contact the town grocery store owner, just to somehow get my hands on a grain as cheap as barley. His grocery store is locked because the store was closed during the tragedy. No one can contact him to at least get the code for the lock. He’s probably like everyone else, locked in his or her home nude. The only people I see in the streets are the previous nudist; which numbers two. But they somehow find a way to get in a possible view from my window, and I assume everyone else’s window. I think the town will do something once our lives will be in risk when our food supply is at a dangerous low.
Around a week after the tragedy I was so uncomfortable of the loneliness I went outside for a second, and went back inside. I noticed my neighbor’s eyes staring at me through their window; they were shocked since I wasn’t known as a nudist. I try to avoid caring about what other people think but since nobody cares about me anymore, or ever, I’d feel awful thinking the only people that know me are just an embarrassed couple mocking me to fill their empty time.
I once saw a car come into town from a distance, the car immediately left. My guess was the passenger’s clothes were starting to burn there skin; painless. My other guess was they were somehow contacted by a town member for help; but that’s just a guess. No one’s really came from the outside to help us yet.
I would think everyone would just agree to live nude. But after all of us seeing each other so unapproachable, all of us scared for our lives, all of us so embarrassed. All of us either loosing faith or praying our fucking hearts potential to God for help. I think all this human contact, so bare and so unasked for; I think all this made us not want to be reminded; not want to advance but fall backwards, maybe in hopes it will somehow fall backwards in time.