On the day of his donation, he hunches down in the shower stall after breakfast to take a shit. A thinning blood vessel in his parietal lobe bursts. The spiral hits him like a g-force and for a brief moment he’s flung from his body, far above the concrete panopticon where he lies dying. A memory emerges from the waves that crest like salt on the blue expanse of the lake. His grandfather had taken him there to fish once when he was young. He remembers being tugged along in the canoe when he’d hooked a bass as long as he was tall, and the vivid rush of life inside his loins when the fish refused to yield.
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♡ LIVE EVERY DAY ♡ tts for $1 | 02:01:49
ASMR • 59 days ago
An immaculate void of white kitchen. The light is unusually bright, leaving no shadows against the heavily made-up face of the girl on the screen. A curtain of dark synthetic hair falls over her shoulder. The girl grabs a large silver knife with a thick, black handle. An orb forms in the lens as she lifts it then places the sharp side down on a lump of flesh. The sound of severed muscle echoes wet through the room, dampened when the blade hits bone. The girl saws through the joint, saws through meat, chopping the chicken into bits. She moves toward the lens and reaches for the camera, which swings her out of view.
“There’s a line developing right here under my eye? Because I think I sleep most on this side.”
A stainless steel sink deep enough to drown an adolescent girl. A slew of countertop appliances, a stovetop. Bright red LED reads 03h07. The girl is on screen again and reaches her arm up, graceful like the neck of a swan, toward a glossy white cupboard above the stove. All surface in the room is polyvinyl or glass or marble, sourced from Chinese factories and absent of color and stimulation. Her robe slips open, revealing a black triangle bra and the bare stretch of her torso. She grabs glass bowls, a whisk from a drawer that slides closed seamlessly and the lens moves back to the creamy marbled kitchen island. The kitchen is incomprehensibly organised, a bullet-pointed list in the video description of affiliate links to every item shown on screen.
“My mom never made food for me like this when I was little. In fact, my parents were terrible cooks. My dad always made hot dogs for dinner, slathered the buns with peanut butter and mayo.”
The girl cracks eggs, pours buttermilk, takes the flesh and dips it in both. The girl crumbs the chicken wearing latex gloves.
“I can see it, yeah, the malar split.”
♡ LIVE EVERY DAY ♡ tts for $1 | 07:49:05
ASMR • 56 days ago
The girl on screen wakes for her first class at uni and checks her instant messages from a mid-twenties bass player from a prog-emo band she saw live once. You warned her against speaking with him two weeks ago, decrying that anyone who makes music so inaccessible and overly technical might appear to be someone of depth but would, actually, be a non-person. Shamelessly hollow. The bass player rattles off his dilaudid dreams from the night before, sending her links to his online poetry while she presses cream into her pores, powder, liner, lashes, set. Each time she tilts her chin the mask of gaussian blur fades for half a second, self-correcting when her eyes glance toward the lens. She lets the broadcast burn through the day on starting soon, a static image of her diamond face.
She’s eleven the first time she puts her face online, when the internet is still a contained, menial pet. Only accessible, until she knows better, through a silvery compact disk stamped with a yellow pyramid like a flamboyant rune. Later, it’s torrents of grrrl riot, nu-metal, a file named LaBlueGirl that begets further and further mpegs of sleek animated women enrobed by invertebrate sea creatures. Hollow purple veins glittering the cavities of her skull until she sleeps, the wire of the headphones a garrote around her neck. The World Trade Centers collapse while she takes grainy pics on her webcam and posts them on self-harm blogs under trigger warnings, editing the curves of the JPGs in photoshop to make the cuts sharper, the red more deep. The girl is thirteen, fourteen, and she’s seen a woman fuck a horse and a man split in half in Iraq. At fifteen the girl gets her first digital camera for her birthday. On the carpet of her bedroom floor she places a pencil sharp-side down beside her waist and sucks in as tight as she can, then stretches her arm out to her laptop to catch a shot. She posts the photo, captions it ~ana~, waits for the praise to roll. At ___ pounds, she knows she’s already thin, and to her horror several girls bully her for being big. They use a term: wanarexic. A poser. The attempt to suffer more shameful than the suffering itself. As though being a replica is the worst thing you can be.
You’ve collected all this as she’s shared it over the years, searching the web high and low for old usernames, public posts or reverse image searching photos. After class, she reappears, spends hours writing CSS to make her site look as ethereal and ghostly as the anorexia she still wants to have. Size eight font in Arial, hex colour e7e7e7. The girl plagiarizes the bass player’s poem on one of her blogging sites. Trawling the MPA boards with avatars of Winona and Angie, not much has changed. She creates herself in her image, empties real into the unreal until there is nothing left but apocrypha. The new crop of faithful are left to interpret which version of her she has abandoned. You’re different. Only you know which one is real.
♡ LIVE EVERY DAY ♡ tts for $1 | 01:31:07
ASMR • 53 days ago
Thin fingers with knuckle tattoos and heavy silver rings unwrap the box invariably labeled TISSUE-BASED PRODUCT. The mid-afternoon cloud cover shifts the light in the room, cascading her face into shadow. Her smile reveals a shock of veneers from Eastern Europe, a pair of black plastic frames resting on her already plump cheeks. You tell her you love when she smiles, and send a donation to her crypto wallet. Heavily feathered lashes, textured skin, her eyes travel past the camera to something off-screen and the subtle widening of her pupils suggests she’s looking at someone she loves, or at least, something she likes. You like to imagine it’s you.
Latex gloves snap on and the syringe is readied in her hot-pink hand. She glances at the lens with a starry wonder fueled by hunger, watched by those who just want to touch what is left of the divine. In your home, she arrives perfectly made. Her only request is that you forsake your real to the unreal, too. A ventriloquist’s trick, she throws her voice into the puppet. The girl shifts forward in the hot pink ergonomic chair, whispers, “but can you do this?” and studies her face. Your fingers on the keyboard clack like little knives, lines of text that appear in the dark rectangle among the chat, drowned out by a robotic chorus paid by tips. OF? in the booba? There’s a tremble at the edge of her lips. The needle enters, the plunger depressed, into the triangle of meat against her orbital. Then the puppet’s face relaxes, 1 mL, 2 mL thicker.
♡ LIVE EVERY DAY ♡ tts for $1|
Sleeping | 22:14:09
Just Sleeping • 52 days ago
In bed, the girl on screen sleeps in crumbs. Fat (snow white, butter) draws into the taut muscles near her eyes, cells inspecting then fusing with TISSUE BASED PRODUCT in miasmic enfleurage. Out of this murk, it rises. The body on screen stirs, puppet hands that pull at starchy sheets finding softness near the clavicles, lithe hip bones, strange small ribs, the flush of blood toward a groin not rotted by four decades of wizardry. It registers the shape and sense of a girl-like-object, feminine enmeshment it hasn’t felt since birth. Its appetite eagers her hands to roll and ply the skin around her anus, the smell beneath her shorts earthy and slightly fecal.
Her body shivers beneath the duvet for twenty-six minutes, then it is still. Static crackles in the lossy shadows for hours as you wait. Dawn comes for her before it comes for you. Today she skips class, too tired to go. She brushes her teeth and makes pod coffee in a heavy glass mug, answering questions over breakfast for new subscribers.
“Julia, my first crush, moved away in eighth grade and by ninth we were on internet relay chat then instant messenging every night.”
Intoxicated reams of text become labyrinthine castles in a second life, where the girl role-plays an infiltrator, cyber-sexing her way into the queen’s court during the night of the castle’s annual winter ball. When it’s time for the queen to arrive and take her seat, the girl’s avatar stands up in the middle of the room while she blows out her mic screaming, the queen is a whore!, the text to speech ad replicum: the queen is a whore! the queen is a whore!. The avatar forever doomed to live at the bottom of a well.
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The walls have a smell you can see, rotten loops and curls like Camino Real. Cartoon frogs in blenders had become the gateway for Wahhabist beheadings. Every time she hears a pig squeal she’ll think of Nick Berg. The girl’s under-eyes look sunken and covered in glitter. She puts her hands over her eyes, reveals that her fingers feel short like amputated nubs. The speakers shout Nubs nubs nubs nubs.
She tells the chat she’s been diagnosed BPD, meanwhile the baby fat around her cheeks signify a forever-innocence that can’t be cut or starved away. The safety pin scratches on her wrist have healed within a couple of days.
“I only started taking laxatives because Jules told me to try it, but they never work anymore.”
Someone sent the plagiarised poem to the bass-player and he breaks up with her—though you tell her there wasn’t very much of anything to break in the first place—and blocks the girl from every profile. Her public posts are raided by hoards of pre-teen poetry girls typing in caps in his defense about the copied poem. She closes the chat to lurkers. When you type into the textbox nothing happens, smashing the keys over and over until the E pops off.
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Bright rd mans no intrnal blding.
“My pores look so small.”
If it’s not the color of coff grounds don’t worry.
“My skin looks so dewy.”
Manga webrings give way to comic after comic until she finds the guro. On her illustrator app she draws splurging dicks and silly faces; drags the camera around large, empty rooms doing yoga poses in her shorts, the smell of shit wafting from the tips of her fingers in downward dog. You want her to live and die by the spectacle. She’s in the kitchen again, microwaving bacon and cream cheese inside tortilla wraps and eating until her stomach bloats.
Just Chatting • 23:57:09
Her eyeliner is smudged to perfection and she smiles in a way that looks desperate. The pink gloves slip on and she touches up her cheeks; this time, the tissue also goes into her chin, lengthening the end until it’s sharp. It had once been a body, passed from one set of hands to another, each time smaller, first limbs then organs then abdomen, rump, all packaged tightly and put on ice until the technician was set to work. Meticulous scalpel work unwrapped its haunches into inch by inch squares of fatty tissue. Enzyme rinsing cell from cell until all that remained was a trembling gel of collagen lattice.
Her face becomes a puzzle to the eye: in profile, the proportions jut too far out, deforming her features, but full-frontal she’s elegiac—her features ageless and symmetrical, a light you can’t stop drinking. It looks the same as every other face on the grid, forgettable when you’ve browsed somewhere else but this is the one you’re experiencing now and so it becomes the only one that exists.
She sleeps in half-serenity as time measures in one red line across the screen like a throat slit. Her form glazed by the glowing screen in the pitch black of her room, the two parts of her no longer separate. In a dream she becomes puppet, stuffed with dried black fruit and senna. Her mother’s waxy fingers bend inside her rectum to remove the impaction. The dream dissolves and she wakes with her fist inside her, a collection of prunish nubs in brackish mucous lolling beside her thighs. You realise she never thanked you for the donation.
The bass player doesn’t respond when the girl instant messages him, and she writes long, heartbroken letters on screen addressed to the man without naming him. She consumes hours of photography: high definition images of slutty burgers, or album after album of skinny girls like her, but somehow worse. Girls who would touch their thumb and forefinger around the upper arm, with scars so thick their arms looked covered in pink tar.
She gets paid a dollar when text to speech asks her about the shit on the walls.
Just Chatting • 18:11:19
Brown pulp is pressed into every crevice, the minimalist white now stained with personality and purpose. The filter slips onto her face every time she turns to glance at the lens, but it’s not strong enough to hide the lack of make-up. The wall is now a canvas of shit, layered in some places inches thick. Far away from the lens she squats in a corner. She lifts the back of her red pleated skirt, then shunts the bolus of her fist against the velvet meat of her asshole until it gives. Piss splatters the carpet between her feet. She goes full puppet until her hand emerges like a lollipop sucked from a tight-lipped mouth, holding a bulge indistinguishable from shredded meat. She whips it against the wall in a smack that will become sampled on short form video forty million times.
The girl on the screen runs through the room toward the camera and rips it from her desk. The lens close enough to make out the fibers of her hair, metallic in the daylight. What were you before her? You’re not sure you can even say. It was initially meant as a swerve to the eye, bridging the gap between the intimate and the real to make you believe the glass you were looking through was not an artifact but a window. The view shuffles through hair, fabric, skin, interspersed with bits of darkness, then drops to the floor; the wall of shit is close enough to kiss. Some patches so old they’re ashen white, though the top layers have gotten deeper, redder, darker. She towers above, stepping over you with her new Adidas trainers, which you can buy at the link below for five percent off with her code GHOULIA10. Her hands separate the soft ravine where her asscheeks meet, revealing a blown out cavity as pink as candy roped with septic red. The oily pulse of her insides hovers closer, her quivering knuckles smudging the lens until all that can be seen is the reflection of your face against the colourless hypnotic blur.
The face on the screen considers its life in past tense. This version of her life is the most satisfying moment of your adolescence.
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‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊
In the deadened mask of his middle-aged face, his mother sees only the confused, lonely nineteen year old the man had been on his first day in prison. The victim they never found had been his first. It’d hit like the cleanest, clearest hit of cocaine. Lines of tender white sinew laced around an orgy of red as the victim’s muscles split beneath his boxcutter, the mattress ingurgitating swaying shudders of her plasma and blood. His second try had survived—his hubris, weeks spent watching the light bruise from yellows to purples to blues in the quadrant of her windows. He’d miscalculated the location of her flat and entered the apartment next door. His downfall, hands against the young woman’s throat in the dark as he climbed astride to apply the full force of his weight. The bed had shifted and a hand emerged from the pile of blankets ripping apart the man’s unwashed clothes, terror-husband woken from a dream of seeking the soft inner meat of his woman’s thigh.
The warden offers to take care of the funeral service for the mother, but she rejects it, even the offer of cremation. The bloated corpse of 97B0325 is reborn XXXXV97, ferried by faceless brokers across state lines. He had once been a person, passed from one set of hands to another, each time smaller, first limbs then organs then only the thick upper arms, upper legs, abdomen, ass, all packaged tightly and put on ice until the technician is set to work. Meticulous scalpel work unwraps his thighs into inch by inch squares of fatty tissue. Enzyme rinsing cell from cell until all that remains is a trembling gel of collagen lattice. No longer a rapist, but a matrix registered in sterile codes, stamped with lot numbers and an expiration date. He is now TISSUE-BASED PRODUCT. Inside a gleaming syringe, he slides gently into the soft, wet plane of a young girl’s cheek. 
Elle Nash is the author of four books. Her most recent, Deliver Me, has been described as a “darkly vivid examination of faith, obsession, and alienation” by Kirkus Reviews and was nominated for Fiction Book of the Year by the Saltire Society. Her work has appeared in Guernica, BOMB, Cosmopolitan, The Spectator, Columbia Journal, and more.
Illustration: Jesse Draxler
