I wake up at three in the afternoon with the taste of old makeup stuck to my tongue. Light slips in as thin blades through the cracks in the blackout curtains I bought under the pretense of protecting my skin, but really, it’s so I don’t have to see the world. It’s my favorite time of day: the moment between forgetting and the obligation to exist. In the dark, my body still glows—a little sweaty, a little defeated. The curves, the soft flesh, the hidden bones. My anatomy oscillates between miracle and curse. I’m a doll plasticized by creams, clinics, and injections.
I don’t have a single name. I’m called a muse, a whore, the love of someone’s life who deleted my number the next day. My shrink says I’m in collapse, but he also says it’s hard to stay neutral with me. And I laugh. Because that’s what they expect from me: a slightly hysterical laugh, the mask of a woman who feels nothing.
I dreamed of a stage. I was wearing a dress so sheer it was almost humiliating—sewn directly onto my body, made to be torn off with eyes. All the lights were on me. But there was no sound. The applause was mute. Mouths opened, but no words came out. I woke up as the first tear slid down my perfectly made-up face.
I have pills to sleep, to wake, to fuck, to throw up, to not feel. Zolpidem, Clonazepam, Fluoxetine, Lorazepam, Methylphenidate. Names I know better than my own. My saints. At the pharmacy, the woman behind the counter always hesitates. “Are you the...?” “I am.” Doesn’t matter who. What matters is the prescription, the opaque bag, the red and black warning labels.
I spend hours in front of the mirror. Not out of vanity, but surveillance. I need to make sure I’m whole to keep being her—the woman they want, the one they never really touch. A well-lit hologram. My orgasms, award-winning performances. Every gesture calculated. Every sigh like it came from a script.
For weeks, I don’t leave the house. But I don’t quite disappear either. I still open my messages, only replying with emojis. The TV stays on mute. The cleaning lady still comes, even if I hide in the bedroom. I’m not ready for full disappearance. Not yet.
I don’t need to work anymore. Men pay me to exist. One of them, Teo, calls me sweetheart. He has a daughter who could be my younger sister. He sends me long messages that start with “My angel,” and end with needy teddy bear GIFs. His tenderness disgusts me. Every time someone says they love me, I feel the urge to sleep for weeks.
When Teo says I love you, with that syrupy, almost shy voice, I don’t know what to say. I wish he’d say something that hurt, that would drag me out of the comfort zone of his predictable affection.
I check my phone. Dozens of messages and missed calls. All about a video. What video?, I ask, and get a link. I press play. A close-up of my face. Some guy is fucking me from behind and says my name—the name no one uses anymore. My hair is up in a plastic flower clip. Aesthetic crime. Exposure crime. It’s me, before the last surgery.
I stay still for hours. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I let it all collapse slowly. The video is under three minutes long, but it slices through me like a decade. I get up, take some pills, and leave the house for the first time in twelve days. In the elevator, a woman recognizes me. She smiles like we’re close, you’re that actress, right? I nod. She doesn’t know the name, but she knows the face. That’s enough. No one can handle the name.
On the way to the car, I think about going to the sea. But I remember the sea doesn’t solve anything. In the rearview mirror, I look at my reflection and feel dizzy, my own face betrays me. I buy chocolate and fill up the gas tank. Go back home.
I masturbate with anger and think of Teo to test how long I can stand this fantasy without puking. I picture myself in his room, loud music, naked, sitting at the edge of the bed in child’s pose, fucking myself with a pink dildo. He arrives early from a trip and catches me—what are you doing? I freeze, the dildo buried deep inside me. I can only say daddy, I’m sorry. A vision comes: him carrying me away, like in a bad movie. Holding me in his arms, calling me baby, putting me in a house with beige curtains and fresh coffee. I cum, crying.
I turn on the TV, mute. Let something run. A woman appears by the pool like a ghostly apparition: white robe, milky skin, thighs slightly parted in an unanswered invitation. Wet hair clings to her face like leftover party glitter. There’s something sacred and pornographic in that pose. The narrator says the film was never finished, she kept missing shoots, she no longer knew who she was off-camera. Marilyn. The most seen woman in the world and yet always at the edge of herself. The caption says Something’s Got to Give. I change the channel. I’ve seen this movie.
A few days later, on Saturday, I see the video is gone. Someone deleted it, or it became irrelevant. Doesn’t matter. The damage is done, the performance, compromised. I accept an invitation to a party. Cold champagne, expensive coke, men in tight blazers and fat mouths full of promises. A model asks if I’m sad or just mysterious. I tell her I’m a fraud. She laughs.
Teo shows up. He always shows up. Says he misses me. That he dreamed about me. That he loves me, that he loves me, that he loves me. I let it happen—it’s easier that way. We fuck in my apartment. My eyes fixed on the ceiling. My moans, measured. He falls asleep after. I get up, naked, and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I see her shadow. The dimmed shine in the eyes. The impeccable hair. I could die right now, and the framing would be perfect.
I take all the pills left. I want to sleep for a month. A year. Forever.
The first thing I hear is his voice, far away, muffled. I’m in the hospital. The air conditioning is too cold. The flowers are ugly. Teo is there, sitting, eyes hollow, hand on mine. You scared me, he says. I don’t know if I’m smiling or if my mouth just curves on its own. I don’t know what to say. He keeps talking, says he loves me, that he’s going to take care of me, that now everything will be different.
In the days that follow, everything moves slowly. I go home with him. His daughter visits every weekend. We watch old movies together. I take the pills he gives me. I wear the robe he bought. I start repeating gestures, lines, scenes. I laugh at the right time. I moan at the right time. I say I’m better. I say I love him and smile. Inside, a very old scream, whose origin I no longer remember.
I write. By hand, on the back of receipts, on book margins, on cosmetic packaging. Short phrases, commands: “The flesh doesn’t forget”, “Don’t trust tenderness”, “Pain is a form of control”, “More viscera, more velvet, more poison”. I write and tear them up. One by one. Then, I let two Clonazepam tablets melt under my tongue.