The Subtle Essence

I present myself before that debauched anchorite

Pen and colored pencil on an index card.

The ceaseless hum of monotony had become overwhelming. I escaped human excesses into placid isolation. I am occupying a dilapidated home on the outskirts of society. The material comforts were few, but they offered me succor. The transition was wrought with unmirrored dread and a cascading of self-referential bias.

I am not a hairy man. I have the average amount of hair for any man my age. The hair itself can tend toward the unruly when neglected. I treat it in the usual fashion. I want to avoid unwanted attention and misinterpretation of hygiene as character.

I was alarmed by my initial hair discoveries in the tub drain.

I am afflicted—a malaise—that kind accompanied by psychological ailments. I have had to shift my residency to accommodate the lifestyle choices thrust upon me. When I consider the failing character of landlords, I was not surprised to find my new accommodation in disarray. I began cleaning the remnants of previous occupants. I paid particular attention to the drains, as they often contain foul scraps of flesh and hair. Scalding water is never enough. I remember being fond of my thoroughness. Imagine my dismay upon finding disgusting, strange, unfamiliar hair in my drain.

Mental flagellation, self-loathing, and doubt pummeled me into a profound depression.

Several weeks passed. Eventually, my filth overcame my shame. I slumped down by the side of the tub to examine the drain.

…several long hairs peeking out…

Fantastic paranoia and visions of trespassers.

Was I ever so out of sorts that I would have missed such transgressions? I reached down to that drain and yanked the hairs. What followed this yank caused me to flail out of that room.

There was a shriek when I pulled those hairs. It was Thin, high-pitched, and desperate, but lacked the bestial nature of a trapped animal; It contained humanity.

Although physically impossible—a person was stuck down that drain.

No! A trick played by some devious and previously unnoticed neurosis?

I mustered up the courage to call out meekly,

“Hello!?” I received no answer.

Of course, some daring trickster previously brave enough to insert themselves into my home would not now possess the courage to illuminate their scornful ruse.

I tore around like a whirling dervish. Crashing into the unassembled flat packs. Pulling apart duffel bags and shredding the bare twin mattress that rested on my gritty floor.

I awoke later; nothing had moved. The mess I created remained where I had placed it.

I was very alone.

This isolation is a curious problem. Further inspection was necessary.

I returned to the tub. I proceeded with great caution. I positioned the Tracfone light in a certain way—I could see down the drain.

Resting on the bend in that U-pipe was a tangle of wet brown hair. My eyes began dividing the strands, but they grew watery as the sharpest aroma of levain, hay, and medicated shampoo declared itself to me.

I drew back, pausing to think. I could not conclude anything definitive. I decided to repeat the previous yanking experiment, but this time with more intentionality. I fashioned a wire hanger into a makeshift drain snake. I forced the narrow hook through the drain shield and into the pipe. I began twirling, gathering as much of the hair as possible. I pulled the hook slowly and carefully. This time. I heard a great roar of pain followed by an echoey pleading,

“STOP!”

I fled that room—dashing.

Someone unfortunate has trapped themselves in a perilous situation, and I, their only means of escape.

Damnation, I exclaimed.

A poor soul’s salvation rested solely in the hands of a most impotent, grubby fop.

I was already weary of this entire escapade. I lacked both the capacity for further assistance and the compulsion to endure long periods of interrogation. I shuddered at the idea of involving any authority that might be required to remedy this folly. Several hours passed, and I forced myself to return. The final shreds of my slack humanity would not relent.

I crept slowly into that bathroom and choked out some words,

“Are you still there?”

The response was weak,

“Yes, yes, sir, I am.”

“How did you come to be so confined?”

“I am not quite sure how, but I am sure, sir, I wish to remain.”

“WISH TO REMAIN!?”

“Yes, to remain. I beg you. No longer pull my hair.”

This poor creature has somehow been trapped in my plumbing system. Not only that, but they maintained a resolution to stay. They requested that I acquiesce; that I would leave them unmolested.

Aghast at the pure nerve, all I said was, “Excuse me, I will return shortly.”

The remainder of the day, I would repeatedly muster up the courage to engage. Each time, I was met with more stonewalling responses. I too was trapped. I wished nothing else but to escape these circumstances as quickly as possible.

Time now was variable. Days were muddled.

I became aware that this person had not been unfortunate to have found me. They were, in fact, incredibly fortunate.

If they had stumbled into their predicament in the homes of most other people, these tenants would have simply called in the proper authorities, and this drain person would be receiving mental and physical treatment at the closest institution capable of handling this…type of circumstance...

I was the perfect victim of this strange intrusion. I was too downtrodden. Too confused. Too cordial.

For several more days, as my inquiries were rebuffed, my resentment built. One morning, though, a change began to happen. I began to feel affection—a Soft pity for this person. Our conversations began to last longer. We spoke of the internal conflicts we suffered. Our dual suffering eased formality and helped us discover all the fears we had in common. They were quiet for long periods. They would listen to me. The odor coming from the drain, once rank and yeasty, would now comfort me. I emotionally latched onto our conversations. I would forget that they were intruding on my isolation. I would forget their locus.

And so, at length, I began to dream of them at night.

The dreams started as benevolent delights. I created an image of them. I watched them come. I watched them wriggle out of that drain. Pouring upwards slowly out of that hole. They were frail.

Their body—not human but invertebrate.

They were bleached and would float and entice. They were happy to be free. Happy to be seen by me. In these dreams, they would stop in the doorway of the bathroom—brown hair straight and dry. The ends of their feet met to form a kind of Qinghua tail. We telepathically shared understandings. Their eyes were clear gray. They had the loveliest vertical slit pupils.

Within the cycles of these dreams, I fell in love with this poor creature.

After three such dream cycles, I could no longer keep my affection secret. I confessed my deep love. I laid bare my desire. I began pleading for permission to help. I spoke of how I wished to hold them, and my desire to caress their ivory-blue-speckled tail.

To look in their vertical pupils.

To nestle in their long chestnut hair.

They confirmed that they did, in fact, possess all these traits.

My candor touched them. However, the resolve to remain would not waver.

All further questions were met with a beguiling form of taciturn response. My dismay was replaced with glee when they uttered a puzzling olive branch,

“Sir, you may take some of my hair.”

I, of course, was honored to be offered this gift, but we wavered for some time. My lust and my desire to cause no further harm were at odds. In the end, the drain’s argument to the contrary was as resolute as their desire to remain sealed in my tub. They convinced me that to refuse a gift from one deemed to be my true beloved would inflict more harm than the mere removal of a few scant hairs. With great remorse and weakening pangs of sorrow, I pulled that first clump from the drain. I am now ashamed to admit how dearly I clung to that first stray clump.

When first alone with this relic, I inhaled the fragrance deeply. The residual selenium sulfide, mixed with the earthy tones—it was intoxicating, but what enticed me most was the viscous, yeasty depth. I rubbed their hair against my lips. I lingered on the coarse strands as they revealed themselves to me. The more brazen strings would cling to my mouth. A strange addiction began to infest my mind. If I could not be closer to them bodily—I could now have a small piece close to me.

I could have that piece closer than this frail outer shell.

I could consume that piece. I would guard it inside of myself for as long as I could withstand.

I placed a clump of hair delicately on my tongue.

At first, I sucked, but when the flavor fled, I offered a little chew; A small grind to renew the subtle essences.

I wanted to absorb all it offered. I wanted to allow this romantic transubstantiation—the complex mélange of love. The gross and debased remembrances of past life conditioning were released. I had transcended my previous self. Ecstasy took hold. I desired, and I consumed. Instead of the normal cessation of hunger that follows such an act, a ravenousness roared. This communion would need to be repeated.

The act of consumption became our ritual. The previous scene unfolded with careful courtship, like a great romantic epic. They would run me through the coquettish paces of this sacred dance. Each time we completed this act, it was slightly more elaborate, and the culmination even more sublime.

…then there was that dire inhalation that often follows joy. A deep gasp inwards followed closely by stuttered short ejaculations of airy panic. The joy of joy was slowly robbed of its subtle essence by the slow passage of time. The novelty worn away by the chisel of disordered thinking and unrelenting eventuality…

The grip of happiness broken. A drastic shift careened into my lovelorn waking hours. This plummet began again with their dream form. What was once angelic and welcome now was a more sinister visage. The whiteness grew dingy. The Qinghua tail was now marred with stains of rust. The slender, silken angel’s body drooped, festered, and plopped on the linoleum. A spritely beckoning posture was replaced with craven slouching, lumbering. Clear gray eyes that had filled me with delight peered with sullen reptilian darkness.

All of this was endurable, but they began to reach out to me from that bathroom doorway. Their hands, if they are hands at all, are decrepit.

Hands have fingers—Hands caress and hold.

What this poor creature had at the ends of those veiny, ulcerous limbs was like stalks of wheat.

Wispy and nodular. The stinging barbs of a ravenous anemone.

My fleeting affection prevents me from describing the entire scene, but my restraint is not boundless.

These nightmarish vignettes shatter our rituals. I was deftly coerced into ghastly drudgery. I now go through the motions—compelled to what end? Our conversations decayed into grunts and fearful nods. I grew sickly.

Each time I enter the tub room, I present myself before that debauched anchorite. They dispense permission. I consume joylessly.

The dreams, too, are—a fevered, gruesome event.

Wheat stalk claws fill me with paralyzing dread. They wriggle to free themselves. Violently shaking and pawing at the air.

I have awoken something…

Strange nodules, burns, and scars have appeared on my wrists and back.

My breath is painful and stifled. I wheezed and choked. There is hair between all my teeth. They touch me.

I cannot draw breath. My throat is stuck with follicle briars. I was suffocating. I am suffocating.

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